It's Only Temporary

by Eric Shapiro

  IT’S ONLY TEMPORARY

  By Eric Shapiro

  Copyright © 2004 by Eric Shapiro

  Cover by Zach McCain

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Fourth Digital Edition

  For my family

  1

  “So, what’re you gonna do now?”

  That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the only question we have. All the other questions are supporting players to that one. You can ask yourself if you paid the rent last month, ask yourself if you should leave your husband, ask yourself if you’re in the mood for pasta, but when you boil it all down, you’re left with:

  “What now?”

  On this day, the question is particularly hard. Perhaps excruciating is a better word. There won’t be other days for doing other things. This, as they say, is it. Whatever you do, you had better choose wisely, and you had better do it right. Or wrong. It really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Because pretty soon, there will be no grand scheme of things.

  Tonight, just before seven in my time zone, the clouds will part and the sky will darken and a giant rock—far too giant for words—will enter the ocean and pound the earth, just off the coast of New Zealand, turning us all into God-knows-what (assuming, of course, that there is a God; most of us have been wondering about that lately). This rock will hit the planet so hard that no matter where you’re standing, no matter what closet you’re hiding in, no matter how sturdy the foundation of your home is, you will fall (or if you’re lying down, shake) so violently that your bones will shatter and your life will end. The same goes for most of your worldly possessions. The same goes for all animals. (Many bugs, however, will be spared.) The orb will go silent. Your body will eventually deteriorate. Your checkbooks and foodstuffs and music collection (all of them dusty and broken) will be available for the scrutiny of any aliens that may eventually pass through. Some reports say that .00001 percent or .00002 percent (or whatever) of the human race will survive. Varied regions of the earth won’t shake too hard, they say. Other reports deny that. In any case, this event will be off the Richter scale. Don’t even bother to hold on tight.

  Predictably, people have resorted to a variety of coping mechanisms, some of which are depraved, others of which are enlightened. The word got out six weeks ago. The powers that be have been aware of this for years, but they kept things quiet to avoid mass hysteria. You could imagine their surprise when the town of Butler, Maine, blew itself up with a low-level nuclear reactor two days after the announcement. Talk about mass hysteria. “Maybe we shouldn’t have given them six weeks,” the powers probably shrugged.

  They gave us the advance warning with a charitable mindset, so we could quit our jobs, say our good-byes, start shooting heroin, plan a few orgies, that sort of thing. Again, the results have been split. Some have developed a glaring intimacy with the almighty. Others have drawn up “who to kill” checklists and reached for their gun racks. We’ve even heard reports of a crazed lion tamer who’s been touring small towns, introducing his pets to human meat. (I hate to be a Pollyanna, but I find that a little hard to swallow. Aren’t tamers supposed to tame?) Several folks—who are clearly in the iron grip of denial—have gone about their routines, eating steak every Tuesday night, showing up at work even though the boss has shot himself, et cetera.

  Suicide has become a trend. I never guessed that such a thing would be trendy, but the context has paved the way. The evening news ran a story on it. At the end of the story, the blonde anchorwoman climbed atop a ladder and hung herself. Talk about visual aids. On the whole, television has never been better. Our local weatherman appeared without pants the other morning. I don’t recall him saying anything about weather. Needless to say, all programming schedules have gone out the window. Sometimes you tune in to shots of empty studios, sometimes sobbing pundits, mostly religious sermons. Given my knowledge that every second is precious, I’m trying not to watch too much TV. But sometimes it’s hard to get off the couch. Sometimes there’s very little blood flowing to my legs.

  Most of my time is spent with my family: mother, father, younger sister, younger brother. We’ve been praying around the dinner table. Having lengthy philosophical discussions. Engaging in infinite hugs. We’re all learning wild things about each other, not to mention ourselves. Mom dropped ecstasy the day after The Word got out. Dad admitted that he’s been attracted to some males during his lifetime. I confessed that I found suicide tempting. They talked me out of it. They want to be looking in my eyes during the final moment, and me looking back at them. Because if there are no lights or tunnels or mystical beings, at least we’ll have each other. At least we’ll have the flesh-and-blood magnet that holds us together. So I wait. I watch the meaningless clock. I have long talks with my friends. Try to read Buddhist books. Try to read Palahniuk. Smoke tons of marijuana. Eat tons of junk food. Masturbate constantly. Drive nowhere. Stay out of the frightening streets. And more than anything else: think about Selma.

  Despite the panic burning up my mind, somehow there’s always room for Selma.

  “I want to go to her,” I tell my mother.

  My mother knows how close we were. I see the understanding in her eyes.

  My mother says, “You have to be here with us.”

  She says, “You should have thought of this before now.”

  I shrug and say, “I couldn’t think clearly. Now I can see straight. I think Selma’s the person I want to be with.”

  I can hear my mother’s heart beating. She goes, “It’s dangerous out there. You don’t know how people will behave.”

  “It’s a three-hour drive. Probably less since there’s no traffic.”

  “How do you know there’s no traffic?”

  “Because everyone’s at home. There’s less than ten hours left.“

  We look at each other.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “You know I don’t like it.”

  But she follows that with, “But you have to make up your own mind. I’m not your protector anymore.”

  Suddenly I’m chilly. I don’t need to hear that, but I know what she means. What use is a mother if she has no more days with which to raise you? She’s no longer my mother. She’s just the portal by which I entered this world. We’ve become peers. Everyone has.

  Her eyes are moist.

  “So, what’re you gonna do now?” she asks me.

  And so that’s what I’ve been asking myself.

  2

  I dial Selma’s number. It’s amazing how even on mankind’s last day a phone call to a girl can still scare me. Or maybe I’m just scared to begin with.

  Her sweet voice: “Hello?”

  I grip my bedspread. Part of me wants to weep. She’s still alive. No suicide conformity for her.

  “Hello, Selma?”

  It’s been months. Feels like a year.

  “Sean?”

  Both of us breathing.

  “I want to come to you, Selma.”

  I’m aware of the way this sounds: mannered, heavy, overly dramatic. But that’s another recent trend. Everybody’s over-the-top nowadays.

  She laughs. Is it a real laugh or a nervous one? I ask myself that every time I hear someone laugh lately. Can anyone truly laugh?

  “Shouldn’t you be with your family?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know what the right thing to do is.”

  “Me neither.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “To be here with my parents.”

  I think of my mother and father. They’re downstairs in the kitchen, pro
bably discussing my potential absence later on. “Would you not like it if I came?”

  She laughs again. This time it’s gotta be real.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It’s all just so fast. How—are you?”

  “Pretty terrible.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  Every second we spend talking is worth more than gold. She knows this. Her pace is rapid. She says, “Part of me thinks I’m hallucinating this conversation.”

  “Has that been happening to you? Have you been hallucinating?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’ve been trying to talk to spirits.”

  “Have you reached any?”

  “Not sure. I see colors before I fall asleep.”

  In a flash, I picture red, yellow, green, blue, purple.

  I say to her, “I haven’t slept in days.”

  “Really?”

  “No, I have. Just not for a long time. Couple hours here and there.”

  “You should try pills.”

  We share a pause. We both know that there’ll be no more nights on which to try pills. She laughs a third time, very fake. She changes the topic: “Have you hallucinated?”

  “No, but my little brother has. He thought he saw demons the other night.”

  “Maybe he did.”

  “You never know.”

  And you never will.

  “My cousin in Texas is a little schizophrenic, too,” Selma tells me. “She keeps asking her mom if this is all a conspiracy.”

  “It could be. That’s what they think in the Middle East.”

  “Well, we’ll find out tonight.”

  “Speaking of which, you have to tell me. We can’t split hairs. We both have to be for it a hundred percent. Do you want me there?”

  “Yes.”

  Tears slip down both sides of my face.

  “I was prepared to say, ‘Are you sure?’ but I’m not going to.”

  “You know I’m sure.”

  “I love you, Selma.”

  She’s crying now. Very hard. Funeral hard. “I love you, too. And I’m sorry, Sean. I’m so sorry.”

  She’s either apologizing for breaking my heart or for the end of the world. Either way, she has my forgiveness.

  “I know you are.”

  “When are you coming?”

  “Now. Right now. It should only take me two or three hours.”

  “Be careful out there.”

  My mother’s face flickers inside me.

  “I will.”

  “Okay, I love you.”

  “I know. And Selma …”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I see you, I want to go inside you. I want to fuck you, if you think you’re up to it.”

  More crying. “I think I am.”

  Her breath is hard. Somehow I can smell it. She smells like pure nature. Like the world before man. My whole body rings. I want to put my face in her neck. I want to feel her hips, her cheeks. The mere prospect of seeing her is worth getting killed for on the way.

  My father is putting a gun in my hand. This is the gun that he told me didn’t exist, the gun he never purchased, the one that wasn’t hidden on the top shelf of his walk-in closet, in the white towel beside the shoebox. I’ve known he was lying since I was ten.

  The piece is heavy on my palm. “Is it loaded?” I want to know.

  “You think I’d give my child an unloaded gun?”

  “Good point.”

  You have to hand it to my dad. Under the most extreme pressure imaginable, he still has the capacity for wit. I hug him. For his gun and his wit and everything else. I wish his body was warm, but it’s not.

  We look at each other. His face doesn’t exist. He consists of two eyes. Their blue shade brings the Earth to mind. Kind of like a “before-and-after” setup. Right eye: Earth with people. Left eye: Earth without people. He blinks and the thought goes away.

  We’re touching each other’s shoulders. It’s nice to touch each other. Too bad we never connected like this before. Macho male bullshit. If we had known things would turn out this way, we would have been more physical. We’ve always been able to talk, but as I’m learning lately, touching transcends conversation.

  “I can’t say goodbye to you, Dad.”

  He smiles. “I’m gonna force you to. There’s no way you’ll leave without saying goodbye. I’ll tie you up.”

  I pretend to laugh. “I could make it back in time for the end.”

  “No. You’ll be in Selma’s arms by then. You’ll be too scared to move.”

  You’ll be in Selma’s arms. He’s never spoken like that before. The birds and bees was never his thing. Whenever I brought girls home, he pretended they were all just my friends. Even when my door was locked and the radio was turned up loud.

  He holds my hand. His palm is soaked. We haven’t held hands in a long time. Between quick breaths, he says, “Let’s go say goodbye to your mother.”

  3

  When I was in the first grade, some kids at school decided that I was ugly. To be honest, I’ve never felt that I was ugly. In fact, I tend to think the opposite. But those kids did a pretty good job of convincing me otherwise. The ringleader of the group went by the name of Peter. He was backed up by Jennifer, Allison, and some others whose names I don’t recall. One day, while I was staring off into space, Peter turned around from the desk in front of me and asked me what I was looking at. I just shook my head. Then he said to “stop looking at me with your ugly face.” Jennifer, Allison, and the no-names laughed. The u-word got repeated for the rest of the afternoon. I went home in an awful mood, but I said nothing to my parents, for I guessed that the torment was over.

  The torment was only beginning. They went easy on me the next day—until lunchtime. Then, between bites of her cheese sandwich, with a gleeful smile, Jennifer said to Peter, “Hey, remember how Sean is ‘ugly’?” Peter giggled and went to work on me again. I may have cried; I’ve blocked it out. In any case, I cried when I got home. My mother knocked on my bedroom door and asked me what was wrong. I told her the whole dreadful story. She demanded that I give her some names.

  The next day, my mother picked me up from school. I usually rode the bus, but while my class was lined up at the curb, my mother appeared beside my teacher. She was like something out of a dream. It didn’t make sense to me—school was the place where Mommy wasn’t around—yet there she was. She asked my teacher, Mrs. Panensky, for a word in private, and the two of them stepped aside.

  I never got called ugly again.

  As a matter of fact, when I was a junior in high school, word got around that Jennifer intended to ask me to the prom. She chickened out, though, which was just as well, for I already had a date. Besides, Jennifer had long since devolved into a loser. I, on the other hand, was cool by then. Justice is sweet.

  The fact that my mother intervened and told the teacher to reprimand those asshole kids didn’t occur to me until a week after the looming apocalypse was announced. My brain’s been turned inside out, so all kinds of repressed thoughts have been popping up. But even if this particular revelation had never occurred, I’d still perceive my mother as a hero.

  Everything I’ve ever done, every choice I’ve ever made, every girl I’ve ever dated, every picture I’ve ever drawn, every course I’ve ever dropped, every fight I’ve ever picked—my mother has supported me. And now, in our sun-painted kitchen, she looks into my face and tells me that she doesn’t mind that I’m gonna die with Selma.

  “If that’s your choice, Sean, I respect it.”

  Forget the meteorite. My mom’s killing me already.

  My tears won’t stop. The insides of my cheeks are lined with mucous. We hug each other. Her body, unlike Dad’s, is nice and warm. That’s because women (in my humble opinion) are better at coping with stress. Something inside of men refuses to let go. Something inside of women understands when it’s time to move on.

  Her face is unreal. She’s in her late forties, but she stopped a
ging at thirty-six. My friends always called her a M.I.L.F. (“Mother I’d Like to Fuck”). Some guys would be offended by that. I took it as a compliment. There are a lot worse things than being told your mother’s hot.

  I feel the bones in her upper back. She hasn’t been eating lately. This is the last time I’ll touch her, yet I don’t want to overdo it. Because if you overdo it a little, you gotta overdo it a lot. Once you pass ten seconds, then you may as well keep hugging until thirty, then a minute, then the next thing you know everyone’s been incinerated.

  We move apart. Two wet faces. I resent her for a moment. The feeling cuts me up. She protected me from classroom bullies, but now she’s letting the ultimate bully have its way with me. She should’ve turned on the oven before bed last night. She should’ve injected cyanide into my neck while I was sleeping. Anything but this.

  Shut up. You know you want to go out like a champ.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” she says.

  Even though my father is behind me, I can see him grab his chest.

  “Yeah,” I stutter, “see you in another place.”

  I can’t be sure that I believe this, but I know that she does, and that’s all I need right now. She asks me, “Do you want to say goodbye to Josh and Erica?”

  My brother and sister. They’re in the basement playing video games. They know they won’t be alive in a day, but their preadolescent minds are ignoring it.

  My jaw is creaking. “No. No, I can’t do that.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s just …”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  “Tell them I love them.”

  “They know you do.”

  One more hug. This one’s shorter, but its tightness makes it seem longer. I hope that I can take some of her warmth with me. I’ll need it once I’m out there by myself.

  As I exit the kitchen, my dad and I look at each other, both asking ourselves if another hug is called for. We mutually and telepathically decide against it. He asks me where the gun is. I tell him in my pants. He goes, “Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to. Just because it’s the last day doesn’t mean you’re allowed to go berserk.”