Frank, And the Big Day

*Warning: The following story contains profane language.



An aging man wedges his way through the dense crowd of spectators. His eyes demean the sea of skinny jeans and global warming tee’s that fill the streets, interspersed among a smattering of business suits and casual wear from those who didn’t have to work today. It appears as if the entire city has come out of its hole to watch this event. Businesses have closed, schools have emptied, even Wall Street has been temporarily abandoned. Every news crew and amateur journalist scrambles to deliver the story of the century, while every other soul impatiently gazes upwards towards the eye of the storm. Every soul, that is, except for one – Frank VanZant.

           Frank pushes his way across the sidewalk and onto the ramp of his favorite café, which is only a few blocks from his home. He trudges up to the open glass doors where two women stand outside, red-eyed and giggling. Frank recognizes them as the same girls who sometimes work there in the mornings, but as he walks inside, they remain fixed in their spots. He glances between the empty tables and the bar, spotting no one else to help him. He quietly chuckles, letting a few dramatic steps lead him back towards the doors.

“Excuse me ladies, I hate to break up the party, but can one of you help me out?”

One of the girls clicks her tongue, a Frank-favorite that sends of jolt of irritation through his neck. “Um, we’re kind of busy.” She points towards the sky.

“Yeah, so am I. Working. Maybe you’ve heard of the concept?”

“Listen gramps, I don’t like your tone. This is like, never going to happen again, so if you want a coffee, go make it yourself. We really don’t care.”

“Make it myself?” Frank slowly nods. He imagines taking a handful of her hair and introducing her skull to the metal bar she’s leaning against, but he restrains himself, and pivots towards the coffee maker on the counter. As he starts to make a cup, he notices an open box of the fancy European sweetener he likes so much, but which costs more than the most expensive coffee on the menu. His eyes raise to see the girls still standing outside, then shrugs and begins filling his pockets with as many packets as he can fit. When his coffee finishes, he gives himself an extra shot of creamer, puts on the lid, then sets it on the counter. “Here you go, Mr. VanZant. Have a fantastic day.”

He then circles the counter and picks up the cup. “Gee, thanks. The service today’s really been great.”

His feet find a buoyancy as he exits the café, ignoring the girls altogether and finding himself returning to the ring against New York’s wildest. The buzzing of excitement shortly stabs at Franks patience. If there’s one thing he hates more than idiots, it’s idiots he has to come in contact with. No one knows why Frank hates people so much, but it seems to have given a certain advantage to the tragic comedies he’s famously known for in the Broadway community. His plays, which have graced New York’s finest stages, have been entertaining audiences for nearly twenty years. Though, they’ve also entertained Frank’s gambling and pornography addictions, which is why he’s stuck in a Long Island studio apartment jerking off to online under-agers and the occasional voyeur cockroach, rather than enjoying the lush lifestyle of Manhattan’s finest.

The faces become a blur, and the chorus of colorful outfits smear together as he continues forward, unable to contain a slight snort at the special .99 cent glasses everyone was carelessly wearing. He remembers how the world stood on end when they’d heard the news that Halley’s Comet was going to collide with the sun, bringing its 16,000-year journey around our solar system to an unfortunate end. For some, it was an unexpected once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but it only seemed to piss Frank off more than usual, as it led to three endless weeks of news coverage and redundant conversation.

Frank’s building slides into sight beyond the upcoming streetlights. A fluttering of wings charges overhead, drawing the crowd to duck. A careless fedora nearly bumps into Frank’s coffee, but Frank smoothly slid it out of the way. He sneers at the inattentive hipster, opening his mouth to say something until an odd sensation in his ear catches his focus. He apprehensively surveys the area, his fingers nabbing a string of black chunks drowning in a still-warm glob of paste, which was dripping onto his blue Hawaiian button up. He glancs around, noticing a barrage of droppings all over the ground, but none which seemed to land on anyone else.

“Well, that’s rich.” Frank spits, gritting his teeth. “Ten thousand people on the street and I get shit on?” He brushes off the remaining clumps from his face, slinging the remnants onto the ground. An irritated sigh quickens his pace.

The door to Frank’s building finally appears, budding a warm relief that crawls through his spine. Even his breath begins to relax, until a young woman in the midst of an hysterical laugh falls off balance and jerks sideways into Frank at the same time his foot breaches the staircase. The cup implodes between his fingers, splattering brown mocha across his khaki shorts and leathery arm.

“Son of a bitch!” He shrieks.

The woman twists her hips, stretching her lips with embarrassment. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry! I’ll be more careful.” She scrunches her face, then quickly turns back towards her group of friends.

“Sorry?” Frank grabs her shoulder, whipping her around. “You spilled my god-damn coffee and all you can say is you’re sorry?”

“Hey! Don’t touch me like that!” She screams, retreating back into the arms of a slightly taller, more muscular beef head.

“Yeah,” The chiseled chin grunts. “Watch your hands old man!”

“Hey, this twat-squawker just spilt my damn coffee! Now I want a real apology!”

“If you don’t go away, you’re going to get an apology, but it’s not going to be the one you expect!” The grunter snips.

“Wooh! Don’t pop a zit there, pal!”

The muscular man takes a step forward but is suddenly stopped by a feminine hand on his chest. “Robbie, don’t. He’s not even worth it. Seriously, just look at him.”

Frank’s eyebrows perk up. “I wouldn’t judge sweetie. I may not be much to look at, but I could show that vegan-fresh a pussy a better time than dickless here.”

“Excuse me?” The beef head blurts.

“I’m just saying,” Frank shrugs. “You should probably consider your options before Mr. Rawhide blows a bunch of retards into that tight snatch of yours.”

A fist circles through the air, driving into Frank’s jaw, and sending him crashing to the steps. The woman gives a cocky head-tilt before walking off with the rest of the group. Frank is slow to pick himself up, reeling from a bout of lightheadedness. He waited for the world to stop spinning before finding his feet, then uttered his rebuttal to the fading audience. “Was it something I said?”

Frank eventually pulls himself up the steps, jamming a fidgety key into the door and muddling inside. A heaving jerk sends the door flying into the frame, shaking the walls as it slams shut. He begins stumbling up the first flight of stairs when a boy, fresh into his twenties, spins around the corner of the landing and rushes down the steps. Their eyes meet each other, and Frank gives a close-lipped nod. The boy’s dexterous hand quickly grips the banister, pulling his body to an abrupt stop.

“Woah, Mr. VanZant! Are you alright?”

Frank freezes, drooping his head and letting out a long sigh. “Yes, Cal. I’m just dandy. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, well, you spilt something on your shirt. And I think there’s birdcrap on your collar?”

Frank snickers, turning to place a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Cal, I’m really glad that Ivy League education is working out for ya. Scholarship was it?”

“Oh no. My Uncle’s best friend is the Dean. But thanks Mr. VanZant! That’s a real compliment!” Cal eagerly praises.

“Right.” Frank slowly lets out. “I’m going upstairs now.” He gives a swift slap to Cal’s shoulder before dragging his feet back up the steps.

“Have a great day, Mr. VanZant!” The boy yells before disappearing out the door.

A defeated gait drags Frank up three more flights, down a long hall and into his apartment. He goes immediately for a near empty bottle of scotch and pours himself a drink, then dodges a few dancing cockroaches while he empties the pile of European sweeteners onto his table and seeks out his computer which lays open on a desk against the backdrop of his apartment.

Frank plops into his chair and downs his drink in a single gulp. The excitement on the street grows with anxious cheers and whistles. Frank groans, irritated by the consistent noise his windows can’t seem to keep at bay. He stares into the screen, trying to rally his next idea, but when the mayhem cuts through his focus his chair becomes a projectile, ejecting backwards across the room as Frank pulls himself up and b-lines it for the window. The glass quakes from slamming against the brick above. Frank sticks his head into the brisk air to witness the sparkling blanket of camera flashes polluting the ever-reddening sky. His sights turn towards the sun for just a moment, glimpsing the comet’s fading tail extending out from the blinding light.

“It’s just a God-damned comet.” He scowls, shutting the window and returning to his desk. The serrated edges of his overgrown nails clack in rhythm over the tabletop. Turning his attention to the screen, he feels himself being insulted by the empty page, as if heckled by the persistent blinking line in the corner which is too lazy to simply reveal the words he so desperately needs. The alcohol mixes with the rising noises on the street. His gander’s back towards the glass, noticing how the colors of the buildings across the way have saturated themselves in a differing hue, and the overall lighting of the world seems eerily dimmer than usual.

“It’s just a God-damned comet.” He mutters again. “Millennial shits.”

His palms hover aimlessly over the keys, agitating his near evaporated levels of patience. It’s been two years since he’s heard claps of an entertained audience or embraced the praises of New York’s harshest critics. He needs to feel important again. He’s worked too hard and kissed to many asses to let his legacy become forgettable, eternally stumbling through some stage right door and into the abyss of failed playwrights and weekday productions. Frank twists his head, considering the idea of a young teenage girl who acts in a failed park production but finds her way to fame by marrying the writer of a famous play, but despite the slight erection it begins to give him, he dismisses the idea on account of its cliché nature.

Amid his internal groping, something shakes him from his self-defecation. A sudden shrieking of dull screams overcomes the air, replacing the anxious cheers a harrowing orchestra of terror. Frank hesitates at first, wondering if maybe someone just dropped a wrapper on the sidewalk or insulted a lesbian couple, having waited for the day that such events would spark anarchy in this backwards culture of ours. He stared at the window, reluctant to investigate the scene until the cries grew so loud that one could have mistaken the gathering for a warzone – a shattering of glass and throat-clenching shrills echoing over the constant volley of car alarms. Frank, unable to cool the embers in his nerves, moves slowly towards the window, creeping it open and peeking downwards.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” He mutters. Thousands of figures scurry along the concrete, faces pale white, and tripping over sporadic corpses which lay twisted on the ground. Frank stares blankly into the chaos, unsure of how to comprehend the canvas below, but a vile grin slowly spreads across one side of his mouth, endorsing a mild amusement in the unfolding events. He props himself up by his hands and relishes in the sounds of widespread panic. A maniacal smile eventually takes hold, unsure of whether to watch one man get beaten to death or hold out for the group of peace-pleaing hipsters to meet their doom in some fantastical way. It would have almost been perfect, were it not for an unsettling thought that seeped into his mind. Why? He unexpectedly wonders.

It only takes a few seconds to come to an answer, which was blatantly apparent to anyone who could decipher the reason that this particular day of all days was different from any other. His eyes squint as he turns his sights towards the blazing object above, taken by the once small glowy thing in the sky that has now become a much larger glowy thing in the sky, swallowing up the panoramic space above whose identity is being altered. Though, it wasn’t just the view that’s different, but the drastic increase in temperature as well. Already, Frank notices the whiffs of heat rising from the concrete below. Around the same time, a burning sensation forces him to yank his palms from the windowsill. He turns over his hands to witness pockets of puss forming over the skin. Shock settles into his bones.

He chuckles, each blurt more intense than the last, giving birth to pointing a finger tilted upwards. “Alright, I’ll give it to ya. The old fire and brimstone trick is a classic. Good one.” He arrogantly sits back down, sliding the wheels of his chair under the desk, dawning a mask of composure that covers a crazed sense of terror, as searing fingers return to their ready positions. His breath slowly sharpens, and his hips grow heavy. The external madness gnaws at his sanity, ripping away the crumbling bits of ease he desperately clings to. His feet begin bouncing against the ground while his fingers strike at the keys like a hammer over nails. Before long, the chaos becomes too much to bare, its victory solidified by a wild hollering, Frank slamming the computer shut and sending it flying across the room.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me?!” He turns and flips the desk with all his strength, but the force redirects it off the wall and onto his foot, crushing the bones of his toes.

“Son of a bitch!” He shrieks. “God d… Son of a… Ahh!!!”

His rage limps him into the kitchen and pitches empty bottles through the air, dressing his hardwood floors with a layer of glass shards. The chairs are his next victims, splintering them to pieces across his countertops. The fridge is thrown on its face, a stack of Barely Legal Playboys litters the dining room, and his fancy European sweetener clumps in his throat as he erratically consumes the packets raw.

A family of Cockroaches scramble into their holes, seeking protection from the fearsome giant whose endless smattering regresses into incomprehensible garble. Nearly half an hour passes before Franks blackened lungs cease to feed him with the energy to continue, drawing his tirade to a close. He holds himself as straight as he can before extending out his arms and sending his weight towards the rear of his heels. Gravity pulls his body to the floor, the less-than-dramatic thud barely being heard over the sounds of scorching bodies and exploding vehicles. His head slams against a pile of shards, inducing a river of blood which creeps out from under his thinning grey locks.

He stares into the light with a grimaced face. Waves of heat penetrate his apartment, turning everything into a dancing hallucination. The constant wheezing from dying oxygen makes him dizzy. Unwilling to let Death look him in the eyes, he lets his vision fade, taking note of the paralysis which has numbed him from the pain of his peeling flesh. Ravines of blood emerge between cracked lips, who struggle to draw their final breaths comfortably. Everything goes dark, and quiet, the only sounds piercing Frank’s ears being those of his last vengeful thoughts.

“Fuck you.” He silently sneers. “You omnipotent bastard...”