by Joel Arnold
Erik shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess so. I mean, actually, yeah, he was, now that you mention it. He came out like he’d seen a ghost and took off.”
“Huh.” I went into the office and I’ll admit, the first thing I looked at was that damn calendar, my eyes lingering on a young Marilyn Monroe. If you had to pick a Grand Poobah of oozing sex appeal, it would have to be Marilyn. My eyes slowly moved down to the days.
I caught my breath.
The days.
The calendar went up to December twentieth and stopped. Underneath was empty space, all virgin white.
My stomach knotted. I felt dizzy. Nauseous.
Stop it, I told myself. Stop being so damn ridiculous.
I took the calendar off the wall, carried it out to Erik and showed it to him.
“What do you see here?” I asked.
He glanced up from his Game Boy. “Some hot chick in an old swimsuit.”
“But what about the days?” I asked.
His eyes were back on his device. I jerked it out of his hands and shoved the calendar in front of his face. “What about the days?” I asked again.
He stared at me a moment, then looked down. “That’s messed up,” he said.
“Why do you say that? What’s messed up about it?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Looks like they ran out of ink.”
“It only goes up to the twentieth, right?” I asked.
“Well, yeah.” He looked at me like I’d turned senile. “What do you see, Mr. Conrad?”
“Same thing,” I muttered. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“It’s a printing error,” Erik said.
I slowly backed away, nodding, staring at the blank space on the calendar. So he saw it, too. It wasn’t some mystical, magical calendar then, showing us our dates of death.
Unless…
I ran outside. A couple kids were filling their bicycle tires with the air hose. I held out the calendar to them, folding it over so that only the page with the dates was visible. “Tell me what you see,” I said.
They glanced warily from me to the calendar.
“What do you mean?” one of them asked.
I tried to keep my voice calm. “How many days do you see here?”
They looked closer. “Twenty,” one of them said.
I held it up to the other kid. “And you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Twenty.”
“Okay.” It really was just a printing error after all. I took the calendar back into the office and placed it back on the wall, making sure it was straight. Not worth getting fired over.
Monday. December 3rd.
I walked into the break room and poured a cup of coffee. Ben came in, smelling of bourbon. No, he reeked of it.
“Jesus, Ben,” I said. “What the hell?”
He looked up at me. Pale. Sweating. Trembling. “I…” He pulled a chair out from the card table and slumped into it. “Fuck,” he muttered. He looked up at me glassy-eyed and shook his head. “I guess my time has come,” he said. He pulled a bottle of Jim Beam from his pocket and took a slug.
I grabbed the bottle from him. “Cut it out,” I said. “It’s the calendar, isn’t it? It’s just a printing error. I saw it, too. Only goes up to the twentieth, right?”
“You saw it, too?” he asked.
“It’s just a goddamn printing error.” Then I said, “Go home. Sleep it off. You can’t work like this.”
He nodded slowly. “You really saw it?”
“Of course I saw it. Erik saw it. Anyone who looks at the thing can see it.”
Ben said, “That calendar – it’s been here a long time. It was here when Mort bought the place.”
“Go home,” I said.
“But we’re all doomed. Can’t you see that?”
“You’re beyond drunk.” Then I asked. “Is Mort in, yet?”
“Huh?” He shook his head. “What’s it matter, anyway?”
“Go get some sleep. Nobody’s doomed. Not me. Not you. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
Ben slowly got up. “I can walk.”
“You sure?”
He stared at me, confused, then said, “Ayuh.” He shuffled out of the break room. I followed him to make sure he didn’t get behind the wheel of his car, and when he was a block away, I came back in. Mort arrived a few minutes later. I stopped him before he went into his office.
“Hey, wait. Look, the calendar,” I said.
His brow furrowed. “What about it?”
“There’s a misprint on it. But don’t worry. We can all see it. Okay?”
His eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“It stops on the twentieth. But I saw it. Ben saw it. Anyone can see it. I’m just telling you so you don’t freak out.”
He pushed me aside and rushed into his office. I followed. He stopped and stood, staring at the calendar.
“See?” I said.
He slowly nodded. “I see.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said.
He didn’t respond.
“Not if we can all see it,” I said.
He looked at me and smiled slightly. “Right,” he said. “Not if we all see it.”
“That’s right,” I said.
He walked over to the calendar and ran his fingers over Marilyn’s black and white body, and then over the days, stopping at the twentieth.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I said.
He sat down in his chair. Rapped his knuckles softly on his desk.
“Right,” he muttered, staring at his hands.
I sighed. Left him there. Went into the garage and got to work. Although it was a slow day, I kept myself busy. When I wasn’t working on cars, I swept and straightened out the tools. I mopped the floor, both in the garage and the convenience store. I scrubbed down counters and shelves. I cleaned the break room.
As I got ready to leave, Mort called me into his office.
“Should I sit down?” I asked.
He shrugged. He handed me a thick envelope.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“It’s for you. A bonus.”
“What for?”
“For all the hard work you’ve done around here.”
“Are you firing me?” I asked.
He looked up at me, confused. “What? No, I’m not firing you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
He waved the words away. “Sure.”
I asked, “Are you okay?”
He shrugged. Looked up at me. “I’m okay,” he said.
“Why don’t you go home,” I said. “I can stick around and close the place up.”
“No. Thanks, though.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
That night I woke to the sound of sirens and the smell of smoke. At first I worried that my apartment building was on fire. I dressed quickly and hurried outside. It was nearly three in the morning.
It wasn’t my apartment building. It was Morton’s Service Garage.
Others had woken and stepped out to see what the fuss was about. Flames reached into the sky. Smoke rose and obscured the stars, muted the moon. There was an explosion, a series of loud pops, like gunfire. Firemen trained their hoses on the building.
At least nobody was inside at this early hour, I thought. Thank God.
Turns out I was wrong. I found out the next day that Mort had been inside. Ben, too.
The word was that the fire hadn’t started accidentally.
Jesus.
I picked up the envelope Mort had given me, tore it open and pulled out a thick wad of hundred dollar bills. Seven thousand dollars worth.
Double Jesus.
That goddamn calendar. I should’ve burned the thing when I had the chance, not just tossed it in the goddamn garbage bin.
Well, it was burned up now. Burnt to a cinder. Goodbye, Norma Jean. Those crazy, stupid…
It was a pri
nting mistake. I saw it. Erik saw it. Those kids saw it. Ben and Mort saw it.
And besides, it wasn’t the twenty-first, yet. So if it did mean anything, it was wrong. Mort and Ben died too damn early.
Days went by. I wasn’t in any hurry to look for new work yet. With seven thousand dollars, I had time. Hell, maybe I’d leave this town. Go back to Chicago. Or someplace, anyplace else. I dug out my atlas and started flipping through it. Maybe I’d move closer to my daughter. I missed her. Just talking on the phone wasn’t always enough.
The twentieth came and went. Nothing happened. I didn’t expect anything to. I went to bed.
But...
The phone woke me up at six this morning. It was Angie.
“Dad?” she said.
“What is it? Are you okay?” I asked.
“Turn on the TV.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Oh God, Dad, I love you.”
“Honey? You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“I just – ”
The phone died.
I turned on the television. All I got was static.
I tried connecting to the internet on my phone. Nothing worked.
I heard people crying outside. Dozens of them.
They’re out there now, some hugging, some crying, some wandering around dazed.
Just what in the hell is going on?
* * * * *
* * * * *
Last Seat on the Rapture Express – 2
Cally-Jo rocks nervously in her seat, hunched over the daypack she holds tightly in her lap. Colors whiz by in a phantasmagorical blur. She catches herself humming, and the moment she stops, she forgets the name of the song, forgets the melody, as the chug-chug-chug of the train takes over her brain. She sweats, wonders if the air-conditioner isn’t working, although maybe there isn’t one. But that would be ridiculous here on the Rapture Express, wouldn’t it? No air conditioning?
She sits between an old man in overalls and shit-kicker boots, and a little boy in a black suit and tie.
I don’t think I belong here.
The old man sleeps and snores, moaning occasionally as if something hurts him in his dreams. The little boy – maybe ten, eleven – runs his fingers over the text of an open book. At first, Cally-Jo thinks it’s a bible, but as she listens to him mumbling the words to himself, she hears words like Pikachu and Charizard. She squints at the book. Something about Pokemon.
He catches her staring. His fingers stop mid-page and he looks up at her. “’Sa matter with you?” he asks.
“Nothing. Sorry.” She looks back at her daypack, squeezes it tighter, and begins rocking again.
The boy’s voice softens. “It’s okay. You can read along with me if you want.”
She glances at him and smiles briefly. Then she leans over and whispers, “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”
“Why?” the boy asks. “You got your ticket, don’t you?”
She sits back, clutching her daypack, a gaudy hot pink, and closes her eyes. She rocks harder, faster.
“Lady, it’s okay. You can just explain it to them. Tell ‘em you lost it.”
She lifts her face barely an inch off her daypack. “I have a ticket,” she whispers. “I just – it’s not mine.”
“Someone give it to you?”
A voice rings out at the front of their car. “Tickets! Tickets please!” The conductor slowly makes his way toward them, dressed like he’s straight out of a western.
Cally-Jo’s hands tremble as she unzips her daypack.
“Tickets, please!”
Five rows ahead of them, a man starts sobbing, pleading. “I had it right here. You’ve got to believe me!”
“You know the rules,” the conductor says. “Ticketed passengers only.”
“But what about that hippy you picked up? That guy with the sign?”
The conductor spreads out his hands, his fingers neatly trimmed, save for his pinky finger. That nail is long and pointed. “He was on the guest list,” the conductor says.
The passenger nods, his eyes brimming with hope. “Yes, the guest list. Maybe I’m on the guest list! Could you check? Please?”
“You’re not on the guest list.”
The passenger starts to stand, his eyes darting this way and that. “But I made a deal.”
The conductor smiles sympathetically, although Cally-Jo, five rows away, can tell it’s not real sympathy.
“I’m sorry sir,” the conductor says, “but the only deal is this deal. The real deal. Any unauthorized deals are null and void.”
The ticketless passenger steps into the narrow aisle and drops to his knees, hands clutched together. “Please.”
The conductor sighs and produces a wooden whistle from his pocket. He puts it to his lips and gives it three quick blows. The door of the train car opens and a stern, sturdy old woman appears. Cally-Jo thinks she’s dressed like one of those prison matrons from the movies – like what her uncle Dusty would call a ‘straight-up bull-dyke.’
“No,” the man pleads.
“There, there. Not to worry.” The conductor puts his hand on top of the man’s head. “There are available seats up top.”
The man looks up, confused. “Up top?”
The conductor nods. “Plenty of room.” He steps past the kneeling man, and the old, but thick and sturdy woman takes the man by the hand and encourages him to stand. Cally-Jo notices now that the woman’s eyebrows are painted on, her lipstick too thick.
The man stands. He hangs his head as the woman leads him out the door from which she came. The door slams shut behind them.
And then over the chug, chug, chug of the train, Cally-Jo hears screams.
“Tickets! Tickets, please,” the conductor says as he makes his way down the aisle.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cally-Jo sees a body – another body – fly past the window, on its way somewhere.
She clutches her daypack in her lap, hunches over it and rocks back and forth in her narrow seat.
“Tickets! Tickets, please!”
The man to her right in the overalls continues to snore. The boy in the suit on her other side leans over and puts his hand on her arm. “Miss? You can have my ticket if you want.”
She stares at him hard and shakes her head. “I couldn’t do that,” she says, blinking away tears. “Besides, I’ve got a ticket.”
The conductor hovers above them. He taps the boy on the shoulder with his well-manicured index finger. “Well?”
The boy looks once more at Cally-Jo, and as she slowly unzips her daypack, the boy hands the conductor his ticket.
The conductor smiles. “Thank you, son.” He punctures the ticket with the dangerous looking nail of his pinky finger.
The boy closes his eyes and leans back in his chair.
The conductor clears his throat, and as Cally-Jo stares into her pack, the man next to her stirs and wakes. He digs a crumpled ticket from the pocket of his overalls and hands it across Cally-Jo to the conductor. The conductor taps his cap in acknowledgement and punctures the ticket. The old man lies back in his chair and looks out the window. He startles as another body falls from the roof, but then shuts his eyes and begins muttering the Lord’s Prayer.
The conductor clears his throat again and rocks back and forth on his heals waiting for Cally-Jo. “Shall I call for assistance?” he asks quietly.
Cally-Jo shakes her head and reaches into her daypack. She pulls something out. “It was my mother’s,” she says.
It’s a human forearm, sawed off just below the elbow, the ticket clutched in the pale, stiff fingers of a dead hand. Cally-Jo hands it over, trembling. “I don’t know if it counts.”
The conductor takes the severed limb and gingerly extrudes the ticket from the clenched digits. He uncrumples it and examines it. He smiles. “Perfectly legal tender. We do value the resourcefulness of our riders. Well done, well done.” He punctures the blood-soaked ticket and drops it into his pocket. He h
ands the limb back to Cally-Jo. Winks at her. “A souvenir,” he says.
Cally-Jo takes her mother’s forearm and places it back in her hot pink daypack. She zips it shut.
The boy in the suit continues to sleep and the old man in overalls continues to mutter prayers as the Rapture Express rolls on.
* * * * *
* * * * *
The Greening of Bushton
All the streets, the parking lots, the sidewalks of Bushton, breathed. The smog was fading. Curtains of soot and smoke were parting. The sky was turning emerald blue, a color that hadn’t been seen in decades.
Dr. Harry Moore acknowledged the thunderous applause and stepped carefully off the platform. It was enough that the wine was getting to his head, but the effect of this unprecedented attention was in itself enough to make a man dizzy. He clutched the key to the city in his wiry hands and drifted slowly through the crowd as a jazz combo struck up In the Mood.
Harry Moore was the inventor of Oxycrete, a form of organic cement. It was durable, cheap to produce, and it breathed. While absorbing pollutants from the air and rain, it also produced clean oxygen.
Oxycrete had quickly replaced the old highways and sidewalks. New buildings were being erected with it. Bushton was the prototype for introducing Oxycrete into the rest of the world, and it was becoming more successful than anyone had imagined. Harry just hoped it would stay that way.
He grabbed another glass of wine off a passing waiter’s tray. He had never expected so much attention. All those years in an isolation tank made him forget how many beautiful women there were out in the real world.
An arm slithered around his shoulder.
“Harry! How are you?” Large white cheeks and glistening teeth hovered inches from Harry’s face.
“Great,” Harry managed. “Super.”
