Look Left

“You heard about the asteroid, right?”

“Hmm…?” It takes a second for my wife's words to register, but when they sink in, I drag my attention up from my mindless scrolling on my phone. “What asteroid?”

“It’s supposedly three times the size of Mount Everest.” She slumps onto the couch, her glass of wine filled to the brim, sloshing precariously.

“And? Is it going to hit Earth and kill us all?” I muse.

She rolls her eyes, pulling up her phone. "Most of the comments are people saying things like, 'Let it come.'”

"That's stupid."

She shrugs, and we go back to our phones, the bad laugh track on TV filling the conversational void. Emily eventually gets up to refill her wine.

"Hey, Siri, is the asteroid going to kill us all?" I whisper into my phone, half-joking.

Siri's robotically calm voice replies, "Here's what I found: Scientists say some larger rocks that survive their fiery descent to Earth's surface may pose a threat. Would you like to keep reading?"

"No, thank you."

"You're welcome."

—

Scrolling through social media reels during my lunch break, I'm so trapped in the vortex that it takes me a minute to notice the theme of the last several videos: all hammy wannabe stars cracking jokes about living in a post-apocalyptic world should an asteroid hit our planet.

One wise-ass with a thick Boston accent says all the 'Massholes are gonna suh-vive just fine cuz' they know howda fight.' Another LA-looking waspy twenty-something wearing various shades of beige talks about post-apocalyptic fashion and using beets and other natural materials for make-up. You know, should Sephora not survive. They go on and on, with the occasional ad from Amazon interrupting to try and sell survivalist kits for every kind of homeowner.

"Hey Siri, is NASA concerned about this asteroid?" I ask, closing out of the social media app.

"Here's what I found: Scientists say some larger rocks that survive their fiery descent to Earth's surface are posing a threat. Would you like to keep reading?"

—

Our night passes like most do. We talk, mostly about food—what we had for lunch and what we plan for dinner. Even though she's aware the content is just as vapid as it seems, Emily runs commentary, pointing out plot holes and inconsistencies on whatever brainless reality show she's watching. I've yet to figure out why neither of us ever changes the channel.

I keep getting headline alerts on my phone, reiterating this asteroid news. Curious, nervous, an under-the-skin kind of discomfort forces me to open the notifications and scroll through the comments. Some people are legitimately concerned—preppers are prepping, anxious types are fretting—but an overwhelming number of people are excited by the prospect of everything coming to an end with one swift blow.

Somehow, I managed to silence my phone, ignore the growing number of alerts, and accomplish around five hours of interrupted sleep until our dog, whom we got so my wife had company when I wasn't home—but turned out to have more anxiety than a middle schooler—began his nightly ceaseless whining.

I shrug off his whimpering as long as possible, knowing he doesn't have to go; he just wants to know he can. When his stumpy legs start dancing on mine, I whip the blanket up in frustration and stumble out of the bedroom. I dutifully walk him through the kitchen, and we both step outside into the moonless night.

Chuckers, our small, fat Corgi-blend pup, flounces around the yard, pretending to do his business while I wait, not bothering to open my eyes wide enough to take in my surroundings. We live in a quiet cul-de-sac, the American dream, white picket fence and all. 

Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling, unable to ignore the glowing red of the clock as it counts down the minutes before I need to get up for the day. It's pointless to try and sleep. It won't come; even if it did, it wouldn't be worth the torment of waking a second time to face whatever monotony tomorrow brings.

Despite being up since 3 a.m., I'm late to work, finding a parking spot in the back of the lot. Our company raved about the productivity of remote work for about a year, then slowly downgraded us to a hybrid schedule before reverting all of our work hours to in-house so their corporate jockeys could stroll the halls and watch us unimpeded.

Margaret, the water-cooler queen, shoulder checks me as she runs past, tissue in hand, slobbering and sniffing in tears.

"Margie, you okay?" I call after her, but she dismisses me with a wave.

It's silent in the halls. Though my tread lands on soft, tightly piled carpet, the harsh neon lights flicker, and each step I take feels like it reverberates around the quiet office.

Many cubicles remain empty. Apparently, I'm not the only one getting a late start.

As I pass through the maze, I hear a few more sniffling, teary co-workers, but the tall cubicle fencing hides their distress, so I make my way to my desk and collapse into my chair.

While my computer boots up, I pick up my phone.

"Hey Siri, what's the news today?"

"Here's what I found: Al Jazeera news reports that Iran's—"

"Next."

"Okay. CNN reports that six people were found dead—"

"Next."

"Okay. NPR warns the American People of Jeff Bezos's—"

"Next."

If Siri could sigh in frustration, she likely would. "Okay, here's what I found. In latest NASA news, 'Planet Killer' Asteroid 2007 FT3 is hurtling toward Earth. Would you like to learn more?"

I glance up and around, though the false walls block my view. A picture of Emily smiling with a baby Chuckers is the only thing littering my desk. 

Leaning over the cubicle wall to get a better look, I became aware of how empty the office really was. There's an air of desperation and confusion, and it's thick, though I suppose that's not so different from every other day.

I close my phone and get back to work.

—

"Did your phone do that super loud beepy alarm thing today?" Emily asks, pouring the last of the bottle into her glass. I'm not sure why she doesn't just change to pint glasses; she drinks the whole bottle anyway, and her wine glasses just keep getting bigger and bigger.

"Yeah, the Emergency Alert? I think they were just testing the system. Nothing to worry about, I'm sure." 

The alert would have set the office into a tizzy two months ago, everyone gathering to gossip and speculate. Today, my phone echoed. I heard three or four other phones going off, but none of us dared talk about it. If we breached the topic and tried to discuss what was happening, we might have to face the unfathomable fact that an asteroid could end it all. I'm inclined to be one of the few who keeps their head in the sand. Before, the monotony of every day was slowly sucking the life out of me. Today, I cling to it.

Emily presses her lips together in a tight smile before carrying her wine to the living room.

—

More than half of my co-workers are still out, and I can't help but wonder if I could get paid overtime for being one of the only ones who show up anymore.

Our nerves have collectively, exponentially frayed. Suicides, robberies, murders. The social chaos is out of control. Grocery stores are stripped of the essentials, lines for gas are a mile deep. We have to buy everything through Amazon just to get by.

Response to the asteroid has impacted everyone, but online, it's like the asteroid has already hit, the way people are acting. This is what happens when we're all threatened with the prospect of imminent death. 

Except, aside from the extreme public mass hysteria, nothing coming from NASA says the asteroid is going to hit us or that it's imminent. We'll likely face some weather changes, storms, possible tsunamis, and other natural disasters due to the winds from the asteroid passing by so close to our planet.

But people don't listen. They panic. And they post. God, do they post.

—

"I just don't understand how this could happen. How could we have let—"

"I know, I know." I rub my wife's back, though as much consoling as she needs, I feel like I need it more. We sit cuddled up on the couch in the living room. TV off. Phones off.

"How could we have been so stupid? How could we have l-l-let this happen?" She hiccups.

Brrrerrrrpppp Errrr Errrrr. Brrrerrrrpppp Errrr Errrrr.

Emily screams, picking up her phone and throwing it across the room, but it's made of sturdy metal and bounces unsatisfactorily, leaving a dent in the wall. 

The Emergency Alert system goes off a second time—somehow, despite both our phones being turned off—loud and terrifying. Brrrerrrrpppp Errrr Errrrr. Brrrerrrrpppp Errrr Errrrr.

"Sale today on Amazon! Get back-to-school and summer gear at up to 70% off!" The Emergency Alert System beeps once more, concluding their announcement.

Emily stares silently in horror before collapsing into a bed of tears. I resume my back rubbing because what else can I do?

We became so distracted by an asteroid that didn't hit Earth that none of us paid attention to Jeff Bezos, who was destabilizing our government and taking control of our lives. 

Didn't I see a news alert with the headline "President Bezos? Why the American People Aren't Objecting." We didn't object because we barely noticed.

NASA warned us that the asteroid had a 1 in 11 million chance of hitting Earth. Nobody listened. Everybody posted and spent all their money on Amazon on survival prep kits and MREs and useless shit they didn't need.

We were looking right, sucked into the vortex of mindless scrolling and spending all our money out of abject fear when we should have been looking left.