The End

by Dan J. DesRochers

  I’d never been to Times Square previously. The one time I was in New York was for business and didn’t really facilitate any sightseeing time. Now there were no sights to see. Times Square, like the rest of the city, had become an impromptu room temperature morgue. Billboards of products no longer produced littered the sides of the decrepit buildings like pop up ads, but right there, smack dab in the center, stood a structure unlike the others. This one didn’t have bodies piling on the stairs like stationary slinkys, it looked like it must have back in the glory days of the once great city. Above it, written in green paint on a modest banner, the name of the building; Civil Services Union. From what Hope told me this was the single remnant of organized government left in all of America, a non profit that didn’t dissolve but took charge in a bad situation, and it shined like a beacon in the dreary tourist trap of a boulevard that was once a glorious testament to America’s love of fast food and cell phones.

  Hope directed me towards the doors. Those magnificent doors. They stood at least sixteen feet tall and were embossed with depictions of people helping people rather than the graffiti that wallpapered the rest of the block. Just looking at them made you feel humbled and proud at the same time, just proud to be a part of the same race of people that were this selfless.

  The door opened silently and the transition from “abandon all hope ye who enter here” to “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free” was perfectly seamless. Compared to outside this place was like a paradise, almost. The paradises I’ve dreamt about had no need for a gun check counter at the door. “Please relinquish all firearms, cutlery, powders and blunt objects prior to entering the building.” The gun check lady monotoned as we entered the doorway. Hope threw her shotgun down on the table, followed by her boot knife, two handguns, a derringer, a switchblade, and a set of palm claws. I stared at the arsenal, slack jawed. “What?” retorted Hope “A girl’s gotta be careful out there, people are dangerous.” “I can see.” I quipped back, motioning at the table of destruction. She smiled and bumped me playfully, maybe even flirtatiously, and then noticed a kink in our entry procedure. “Oh shit,” she said “your gun-crutch.” We both looked over to the woman manning the weapons desk. With an annoyed sigh she restated the organization’s policy and we relinquished the shotgun to her authority.

  I struggled to stay vertical, my legs were still suffering from mild atrophy. If gelatin could get pins and needles, it would empathize with my legs. As adorable as looking like Bambi on ice was, Hope slipped herself under my arm to help me walk, it felt really nice. I could feel the warmth from the nape of her neck on the inside of my arm. The warmth surged through me, filling me with simultaneous feelings of nervousness, energization, relaxation, and lust. Human contact. There is so much to be said for it, for the power it has. Power to change the world.

  The place reminded me of a combination homeless shelter and a pediatrician’s office. There were colorful murals splashed on the walls, I remained unsure if they were from days past or a desperate attempt to impose some cheer into the hearts of the cheerless. Dozens of cartoon animals with fake plastic smiles, glaring at you, beckoning to you to be as happy as they are, I now understood the assisted suicide rooms.

  It was only one of the many services the Civil Services offered. The chance for escape. If you could no longer handle the inevitability of death, it was a simple no frills solution. Still, most the populous opted to go with the more traditional, flashy methods. From what I understood, you couldn’t walk around the city for more than a few hours without a body narrowly missing you during their descent from life. Through a pair of blue double doors lied the barracks section of the Civil Services Union. We entered and were immediately greeted with the smell of hot food, something that I hadn’t had in years. Across from the entrance was a large cafeteria style line where the people of this once great city stood like refugees. The majority of the rest of the space was allotted to living quarters. Bunk beds stacked four of five high blotted out the humming florescent lights at certain points while a thick carpet of dirty laundry slowly turned into rags. Off to the side, almost invisible, stood a row of curtained off therapist booths. Sometimes you just need a place to go and vent, unfortunately for the citizens, most of the therapists advised the assisted suicide rooms as the solution to almost any problem. Hearing sob story after sob story would do that to a person. We made our way through the throbbing masses of human sorrow to the back of the food line. Waiting for this was worse than waiting in line at an amusement park, but I guess if you needed roller coasters and merry-go-rounds to live the anticipation might be heightened.

  “What are you doing standing in line.” Boomed a familiar voice from behind us. We turned and came face to face with what appeared to be Frank. It appeared to be Frank because I recognized his face, it didn’t appear to be him because his face was the only thing that I recognized. He was decked out to the brim, a navy blue pinstripe suit and polished jet black shoes was a far cry from the tank top and shorts I had only seen him in previously. His scraggly peppered hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail and in some way, even his goatee looked more trim and professional. “I’ve told you before, Hope, you don’t have to stand in line, there’s some tables right there in the back by the kitchen where the guys will bring your food to you.” Hope smiled at Frank and put her hand gently on his cheek in the physical equivalent of “Shhh...”. “Why do you come down here, sweetie, you know I could have brought you something back.” Frank asked. “You know me Frank, I’m a woman of the people,” she answered “and David wanted to get out of the house anyways.” Frank looked at me as if he had just noticed me standing there for the first time. “Hey Frank,” I said “so you work here or something?” “Well what do you know,” Frank returned “mobile AND observational, Dave, you deserve some kind of medal or something. Gene, get those dishes to the back!” I looked over to see the man Frank was yelling at, he was a tall fellow, not overly exaggerated characticture tall, but tall none the less. To complement his height he was extremely lanky with long arms and long legs that looked as if they would flap about in a stiff breeze. He had ears to match as well, looked as if they were reaching out to hear a whisper, however I’m sure without strain they heard Frank bellowing. “No problems boss.” He answered in a thick Eastern European accent. “And when you’re done, Gene, I want you to take these two on a little look-see loo around the building, he’s never been here before.” Gene nodded and went on finishing his task as Frank lumbered off muttering something about being to busy to be someone’s fucking tour guide.

  Gene reemerged from the back room, wiping his dirty hands on the dingy off white apron he wore. “Hello my friends,” he belted with a deep booming voice and arms wide open “I have been instructed to give the big tour. Follow me, please.” He led us to an endless corridor of grey. “We must be observing silence here, please.” Gene said in a hushed tone. Hope leaned in and whispered into my ear “Suicide rooms.” I nodded in comprehension. We stopped in font of a windowed door about eight meters down a red light blinked over head and the windows were adorned with some grimy venetian blinds but they were drawn to the top so we were able to witness the act in all of it’s glory. The suicide room had none of the childlike appeal of the rest of the facility. The room was sterile white with a hint of avocado green trim, in the center of the room sat a modest cot and a machine with a few tubes and hoses coming out of it, to me it screamed of loneliness but it was, apparently, comforting to spend your last minutes in a room with hospital characteristics. I think it relates to the universal thought people had that they would grow old and die in a hospital. On the cot lied a frail woman with stringy red hair, her eyes were closed lightly and her chest heaved slightly with each breath. Her left eye opened with determined effort and we locked gaze, I could hear her entire life without hearing a word. Gently her eye closed and just as gentle her breathing slowed to a stop. The light overhead turned to green and Gene mumbled a prayer in w
hat sounded like Russian while crossing his heart. Then in an upbeat yet still hushed voice he said “We continue with tour, yes?”. We ambled our way out of what must have been the single most depressing hallway I’ve ever been in and made our way back into the central area of the building. It’s a strange feeling to go from absolute silence and sorrow to a conglomerate of mixed ethnic music and somewhat jovial chatting voices. “Come, this way, please” he said, motioning to the row of bunks directly ahead. The barracks were set up by city blocks and seemed to stretch on for miles. “Where are we going?” I asked my grammatically deficient guide. “My new friends, we go to Ukraine now.” He answered. I silently thought to myself about what his meaning in that was, but staring at the faces as we moved along I came to a conclusion. This once great melting pot of America had been reduced to grouping refugees together by their ex-national status. Large signs in bold text marked the borders of the countries (as they were referred to in the facility). I leaned in close to Hope “With all these different factions don’t they worry about war breaking out?” I asked, half joking. Gene stopped dead in his tracks and turned on his heels “My friend, we do not say that word here, tension is already large enough. In here we follow one rule.” Gene pointed his lanky arm skyward and extended his lanky finger. On the roof, in large clear print read BE GOOD surrounded by what I assumed was the same phrase in a multitude of languages. I assured Gene that I understood and we continued wading through the sea of people eventually reaching our destination, the Ukraine stopping directly in front of a row of bunks marked D2.

  “New friends,” Gene beamed, grinning from ear to ear “meet my family.” Sitting on the slightly discolored cots was your typical nuclear family, mother, father, and sister who all rose to greet us with large Eastern European hugs. “This is special occasion,” Gene’s father rumbled “Анна, получает мне хорошую водочку.” Gene’s sister, Anna, reached under the dingy mattress and pulled out a brown unmarked bottle and handed it to her father. He held up the bottle and muttered a small toast in Russian before placing the bottle to his lips. I watched this large Ukrainian man who had probably had his share of bitter liquor over his life wince as if someone had just taken a shit in his mouth. Seeing this filled me with fear, before I used to have a nice lager from time to time but my experience with hard liquor was petite. The bottle made it’s way to me following Anna, Gene, and his mother. I said something very British like “Cheers” or “God save the queen” I can’t really remember, the memory of what I said took a back seat to the permanent scarring of my taste buds and throat. I’m sure that spraying pepper spray directly into my nostrils would have been sweet relief. I coughed as I choked the rest of the shot down and passed it to Hope who, like a champ, took her shot down without so much as a twitch of the eyelid. She wiped her mouth and smiled at me, which intensified the warm fuzzy feeling the makeshift vodka had placed in my stomach.

  We must have talked with Gene’s family for hours. We spoke of how things were before, our jobs, our friends, the movies we’d seen, the places we’d been. It was the first casual contact I’d had aside from the fleeting glances with Hope and the snarky occasional comment from Frank. Gene’s father, Orest, was an amazing man, he worked the mines back in his home country of Moldova for twenty years before saving enough to make the hundred kilometer trek to Odessa. The first person he saw after exiting the train was Dina, he described her as a vision in her blue dress among the deteriorated train station buildings. He said seeing her was an omen that good things would come to him in his new home and he vowed to make something of himself to be worthy of marrying her. We got about halfway through what I could tell was going to be an epic journey that would rival Bogart and Bacall when, all of a sudden, darkness. “That’s our cue.” Hope whispered, helping me back to my feet while staring across the hall at an visibly impatient Frank. I told Orest, Dina, and Anna that meeting them was a pleasure and I hope to do it again sometime to which Orest replied “Better make it sooner rather than later.” to which I answered with a morbidly halfhearted chuckle. I hoped I did see them again but knew that the odds were not in reunions favor.

  RECREATION

  It was considerably colder when we exited the facility, it was one of those nights where your breath just hung in the air like a London fog. There wasn’t any wind to push it around so it just floated, serenely, inches from my mouth. I also took notice of the lack of insects flying around. With oil production at a standstill for a little over four years there was no city noise to mask the deafening silence, not a cricket chirp or ethereally glowing lightning bug to be seen nor hear.

  Frank had been outside waiting for us prior to our exit. He stood stiffly, leaning awkwardly against a long inactive traffic light puffing away on a hand rolled cigarette. He had shed his nice pressed suit and instead was dressed in his normal garb, a dingy whitish tank top and worn pair of grey sweatpants. We stood uncomfortably quiet as Frank finished his cigarette, watching how with every drag Frank’s face scrunched up as if to show it’s displeasure but followed it up with a satisfied sigh. So there we stood, shuffling our feet and looking around at absolutely nothing until Gene, thankfully, came to break the tension.

  His descending of the stairs that led up to the building could be described as jovial, like skipping but not as exaggerated. He stopped in front of us and breathed in sharply, exhaling in much the same manor, fully and one hundred percent enjoying just being. “Let us go to the bar now, yes?” He said without turning, already three steps ahead of everyone. Me and Hope followed with Frank in tow, finishing and immediately lighting another of his pre rolled cigarettes. There was a slight chill to the air, not as much as a New York March should have, but with the rapid oil consumption during the first few years, a haze of pollution now blankets and warms the world. So much for the green movement. We stopped at a place just off a dark alleyway, hidden from the rest of the waking world. A small cardboard sign to the right of the door read “Gogol’s” with a hand drawn picture of a bottle and a smiley face.

  The place was a madhouse, the atmosphere reminded me of all the cliché footage of the stock exchange I’d ever seen. People in suits, yelling and clamoring over each other, hands full of dollar bills waving in a frantic attempt to get attention and therein inebriation. We took an empty table in the side room where the unkempt pool table resided, Frank had gone off by himself and was sitting at the depressed wing of the bar surrounded by four other people who just wanted to smoke cigarettes and stare into the bottom of their glasses. Even with the scowl on his face you could still see a hint of contention. Gene explained to us that him and Frank did this every night, they would walk to the bar together and then Frank would go off and sulk while Gene conversed with the random bar people. “It’s nice to know who I’m going to be talking with before I arrive for a change.” He said, his grin stretching wildly from cheek to cheek.

  The service in that side room was surprisingly good, after viewing the pandemonium at the main bar I was whole heartedly expecting to be completely ignored. The months of Gene coming to Gogol’s and drinking with the random bar flies had paid off in a sense. Everyone knew him and all night there were waitresses and drunken cohorts of his coming up to us and buying us drinks and laughing and having fantastic bombed out conversations. He was like their king, but I could see why. Gene just had a certain something about him, it might have been his accent or maybe his optimistic charisma, but people just wanted to be around him and enjoy the presence of his company. At one point in the night the jukebox started hiccupping bits of the song playing and Gene threw his chair back and, pint in hand, leaned up against the jukebox and slammed his hand against it, fixing the sound. He then threw his thumbs in the air and his best Fonzie impersonation to the cheers and applaud from the bar patrons. He took his bows and sat back down with us. “That was amazing.” I told him to which he modestly replied “There is just bundle of loose wiring to speakers, jamming my hand to it shakes them back together.”

>   We did this every night for the next few weeks. We’d go in and get shit faced and wax about pop culture and the movies we’d seen and hadn’t to anyone who’d listen, mostly we’d talk about what we wanted our lives to become had they been given the chance. Gene told us he was in college when the news broke, studying to become a surgeon. He said that all he’d ever wanted to do was save lives, but after the news he found it a futile dream. Now though, he wants to live out his remaining days basking in his love of his family and his love of life itself. “Life’s too short, you know?” he would drunkenly joke when the topics got too real or close to home. Over time I came to notice that Gene’s jolly exterior was no more than that, a facade he put on to see other people happy which would make his happiness sincere. The time I spent with Gene was always eclipsed by the time me and Hope spent together. While Gene would be off regaling some unsuspecting patron with tales of the “old county” Hope and I would exchange glances and cute anecdotes displaying our finer personality points to each other. Over time that graduated to a passing touch here and an extended hug there, we still kept it simple though. You could tell there was some chemistry or spark between us but you could also tell that neither of us really wanted it to get any more serious. With the end fast approaching, what would be the point? There was no future for us and two people basically using their possible emotions for one another as an excuse to have skanky after drinks sex, well, that would make a mockery out of what we both believe could have been.

  As the day drew closer, the bar scene noticeably began to calm down. Fewer and fewer regulars would come in for their nightly dose of Gene and drinks and it seemed as if the amount of stock brokers at the bar had dwindled by more than three quarters or so. Gene said that Frank told him that their number of AS’s had been growing exponentially throughout the last month. A bunch of brave souls who thought they could stand the pending doom turned out to be not so, but who could blame them when it’s not just your own fate you’re staring down. As the main area emptied out we managed to actually sit at the bar for the first time. Frank sat next to us, still keeping completely silent and locked into his glass, occasionally glancing up just in time to catch me and Hope flirting a little. He’s been growing more and more distant lately, at first I thought it was that the end was coming closer but I’m starting to believe its jealousy. I don’t know why, when he looks at her I just see something in his eyes that is more than the morose gaze he normally wears.