Black Wave (18 page)

No, Michelle was happy to tell him. I Don't Do Morphine.

You don't shoot drugs?

No, she was pleased to assure him. I Don't Shoot Drugs.

Swear to god?

Swear To God.

You don't believe in god, though.

It's True, I Don't. Not A Fearsome And Punishing Christian God Who Would Strike Me Down For Lying To You. What Do You Want Me To Do?

Swear on something you love.

I Swear On You.

That morning Kyle's anxiety was insistent.
Michelle, you've got to get up. You're still in bed? Get up, please. There's a state of emergency. They're grounding planes.

What, Why? Michelle said. She stood up. The blood drained from her head, dizzying her, then filled her back up. On a recent morning Michelle had passed out on the toilet bowl shortly after waking up. She'd been hunched over, in her normal amount of hangover pain, clutching a glass of water, and when she sat upright it was like her blood swirled down some drain in her body and her vision got sprinkled with black confetti. The glass slipped from her hand and for a moment she was not there. It had scared her.

People are jumping from the buildings in New York City. People are jumping from the World Trade Center, the Empire State, the Chrysler Building. I can't get through to anywhere, I've been calling New York, I've been calling Boston, calling the moms, everything is a mess. I'm so glad I got through to you.

What Is Happening?

The world is ending. It's such a mess. Scientists can't reverse anything. The problems, the oceans, we've passed some point where it's going to accelerate and become like some sort of horrible like sci-fi movie where we all start eating each other and bands of crazed rapists roam around murdering each other and no one will be able to go into the sun or they'll explode like vampires, it's going to get so hot. The levees in all the cities are cracking under the sea, they can't keep up with how fast it's rising and all the shit in it, it's going to be like that crazy molasses factory in New England that Wendy likes to talk about, the one that exploded and everyone in the town drowned in molasses. There is some tsunami that is big enough to take out the entire West Coast of North America. They're tracking it. It's just a baby now, a baby wave, but it's going to grow big enough to do that, and once it does all the waves will be like that, like all waves just become tsunamis and the ocean eats the land.

Really? Michelle said. Are You Serious? Do You Have
Xanax For Yourself Right Now? Kyle's words were so fast and crazed, they sickened Michelle like a carnival ride.

I'm fine,
Kyle snapped.
Stop projecting. I think I'm having a normal reaction to learning I'm going to be dead at twenty-six. But yes, I took a Xanax.

Can I Have Some Xanax?

I don't know,
Kyle said.
I'll have to see how many I have. I don't know what's going to happen to the pharmaceutical industry. I don't want to be without antianxieties if the world is ending.

I Don't Understand, Michelle wrestled with the information. Can't Someone Do . . . Something? What If They're Wrong? What If They Kill The Planet And They're Fucking Wrong And The Tsunamis Never Come And We're All Dead?

How do I know? I'm not a scientist. I cast movies and stroke the ego of a crazy person. Do you want to know what I'm casting right now?

What? Michelle asked.

This movie about a Nordic boy who is lost on the coast of North America and raised by Native Americans and then grows up to save their tribe.

That's So Racist! Michelle exclaimed. Why All These Movies About White People Saving Brown People?

I know,
Kyle said.
I'm casting that, plus a film about a really mean mother-in-law.

Oh, Kyle.

And now the world is ending. I wonder if I'll have a job?

People Will Want To Go To The Movies, Michelle predicted.

But what if everyone loses their minds?
Kyle worried.
My boss is already so unstable. Things might just fall apart. People are killing themselves in New York City.

People Aren't Killing Themselves Everywhere?

Not like there. They got the news first. And they'll be one of the epicenters of the waves, one of the impact sites. It's just hitting people there harder.

Michelle looked out her window, peeking through the shades. The rottweiler's panting breath hit her in the face. Michelle was experiencing a disconnect, or perhaps her environment was. If the world were really ending, would the rottweiler remain at the window? Would cars keep cruising the freeway behind her building? Michelle could hear the smooth sweep of them, like rain.

Promise You're Not Fucking With Me? Michelle demanded. Your Psychobitch Boss Didn't Ask You To Try Out A Premise On Me? This Isn't A Treatment For A Film You're Casting?

No, I wish. Bruce Willis is not coming to save us. Turn on the TV, see for yourself.

Michelle knew once she turned on her television it would remain on for a very long time. She considered people leaping from buildings. She didn't want to see that. Michelle just wanted to get back into her futon for the slightest bit longer. Just drink some water, let her headache subside.

I want you to know that I love you,
Kyle said.
I love you and I'm glad you're in Los Angeles and that we can be close. You should come to my house today.
Kyle lived out in North Hollywood, in a suburban neighborhood ten degrees hotter than any other part of the sprawl.

I Have Work, Michelle said.

No,
Kyle said.
You won't work today. They're closing everything. In case of attacks or riots or mass suicides or looting. Everything is closed but the In-N-Out Burger. Just come over.

Kyle! Really? Michelle thought of her mother:
Is this a gay boy thing, this drama?

Girl,
Kyle sighed.
Just turn on your TV.

9

In the kitchen Michelle killed cockroaches with her bare hands. She'd become immune to it. Every morning they were there, scuttling across the counter, seeking refuge in the slats of the plastic dish rack. The only weapons handy were the dollar-store glasses prone to shattering, and so Michelle began bringing her hands down on them with a slap so hard it pulverized them, it juiced them. Her hand would go warm and tingle, vibrations rising up her shoulder. She would turn on the faucet and rinse the tiny carcasses from her palm. The big ones, the baby ones they called tweedlebugs—she smacked them all to death.

I Am Killing Roaches! Michelle hollered. With My Bare Hands! Michelle needed a witness. To both her bravery and the mundane horror of her life.

Michelle's studio was full of bugs. Michelle thought perhaps the government should visit her apartment and investigate, maybe there was something they could learn about sustaining life, because the bugs had learned to work it out. Invaders, but still. Jungle bugs, stowaways on ships, on trucks driven up from the tropics. They would emerge from
nowhere, alarming Michelle. One looked like a feather, it had a million wispy legs floating its slinky body across the linoleum. It was almost beautiful, except it made her throat close and her eyes water. When Michelle killed it, its legs shriveled away and it became just another stain on the kitchen floor.

Beetles fat as tanks waddled from cracks in the walls, sturdy, shiny beetles that looked fake, like a gag beetle you'd scare a coworker with. Or a robot bug plodding toward you by remote control. Michelle screamed. If she killed the beetle she would hear its body crunch. Her arms rolled with goose bumps.

Michelle grabbed a glass and captured the formidable beetle. She released it in the alley below, knowing that it would only find its way back inside.

On the first day of the end of the world, Michelle got out of bed, walked into the kitchen, and smacked some roaches. She dumped a half-empty champagne flute swampy with dead fruit flies into the drain. She made coffee. Michelle made her coffee camp-style, tucking a filter into a plastic cone and hovering it over a mug. She knew she needed to buy a coffee machine or a French press or something, but she'd been scared to spend the money. Michelle wondered if things would perhaps become free now that the world was going to end. Would people become very greedy or very generous? Michelle could imagine manufacturers succumbing to an insanity of scarcity, raising their prices and padding their mortality with profit. She could also imagine them shrugging a cosmic oh-fucking-well and releasing their inventory, allowing the world to take whatever it wanted.

If Michelle had only a bit more time left to be in the
world, she wanted to stop worrying about money. The relief of that possibility, never before considered, shone over her head like a new sun. Imagine, to stop worrying about money! Michelle was born into such anxiety, it had been her placenta, the water breaking between her mother's legs, dollars and coins scattered on the ground.
They'll nickel and dime ya to death
was a phrase Michelle was acquainted with. No heirlooms, no property or fortune to be passed on to her. Michelle received bitter chips of wisdom from her mothers instead.
Money goes to money,
like cash was a carousel and Michelle's people did not have a ticket to ride.
Just as easy to marry a rich man as a poor man.
The advice seemed to contradict. If money went to money, then a poor girl would find it difficult to find a moneyed man to marry, no? There were no rich men in Chelsea. Indeed, in Chelsea, Massachusetts, it was just as easy to become an unwed teenage mother with a jobless baby daddy as it was to marry anyone, period. Anyway, if rich people sucked so bad, why was Michelle being encouraged to marry one?

Here at the end of the world, Michelle was suddenly over poverty. The shield she had welded around her heart to protect herself from the pain of it was corroding like rust in the rain. It had felt so strong, but there in the apocalypse kitchen Michelle felt it flimsy as a floppy disk—so much philosophy, political analysis, rebellious identity, and liquored intoxication just to stave off the simple scary sadness of being broke. Michelle began to cry. The anxiety of being poor and not understanding how to not be. Learning she would die so soon had cracked Michelle's bravado. Her hand holding the plastic coffee thing over a mug, she fed slow gulps of boiling water to the grounds. Still hungover, spacey, tired, not caffeinated, in that honest pocket, a
tender, beaten place, not yet inflated with the day's efforts, Michelle felt the broken reality of her life. She was not her mothers, but she was in fact her mothers' daughter, valorizing a struggle that was breaking her down.

A decade spent in the downtrodden underground had warped Michelle's ambitions. In a place where powerless people fought over who had the least amount of power, Michelle had applied herself to the acquisition of hardship. People bragged about and competed for who had it the worst. Whose parents were brokest, whose PTSD the most damaging. “Calling people out on their shit” was a worthwhile way to pass the time. Michelle wanted her last days to be of a higher quality. She knew that she would likely leave the world as broke—
broker
—than she had entered it, but she was through pretending she was somehow the better for it, had chosen a superior mode of existence rather than been assigned a losing lotto ticket of economics and genetics at birth and then written a love story about it. She also thought she would think about trying to stop drinking.

Michelle took a shower. The news of the coming calamity had not impacted water purification, the plumbing that snaked through her building and out beneath the street, tubing off—where? Where did Michelle's water come from? Where did it go when it spiraled down the drain? The world would end before Michelle had the chance to understand how it had ever worked. Outside the rotted bathroom window the freeway whizzed with cars. Tiny cars, zippy electric things propelled by their batteries, plus some older ones buzzing on compost and then, every so often, a lumbering antique wheezed by, gargling gasoline.

Michelle often read news articles that explored how the poor, in their ignorance, destroyed their own environments, be they Los Angelenos torching their neighborhood grocery stores or South Americans slashing their rain forests. The poor inherited the archaic systems of the rich as the rich moved on to better ways of life the poor could not afford. And so the poor drove their gasoline hand-me-downs, sold away their corner of the earth and ate the last endangered sea turtle. Michelle imagined the poor would be blamed for the earth's catastrophe, the way gay people and artists got blamed for gentrification when people in suits came to town and the landlords jacked up the rent.

A crash happened on the freeway below, a battery car driven straight into the wall. It looked like a television show. Michelle realized she only ever saw cars crash on television. After the one car crashed, another car, gas powered, crashed beside it. It didn't need to crash, it's like it was inspired. It simply followed suit, swirling the wheel and aiming itself into the wall. It took three cars crashed on the bank of the freeway, accordioned and steaming, for Michelle to realize she was witnessing suicides. She turned off her shower and climbed out of the tub. Michelle felt the urge to return to the window, to gawk at the spectacle of the fire, but also to convince herself of what was happening because it felt unreal. The smoke streamed down her nose and clutched at her throat, choking her. She did not return to the window. She would probably begin seeing lots of car crashes, she thought.

Michelle moved through her bathroom gingerly, as if through a haunted house. It felt like she could trip an unseen wire and cause the roof to collapse or a car to burst through her walls. The wail of fire trucks and ambulances pierced
the air. She zipped herself into a dress perhaps originally worn by a stewardess for an airline that went bankrupt in 1971. It was Creamsicle orange and woven from polyester so dense it could stop a bullet. It had a weird mock-turtleneck neckline, golden buttons angling down the torso, and box pleats. The second she zipped herself into it Michelle's armpits began to stink. She pulled her hair into a bun atop her head. She looked like a waitress on
Star Trek: Enterprise
.

Michelle boiled a pot of pasta and plopped a chunk of margarine into the tangled noodles. She walked the food into the bedroom, something she normally avoided lest the roaches follow and climb through her hair as she slept. She settled onto the floor with her pasta and coffee, her back against the bed. On the television, planes smacked into buildings in an unrecognizable country, perhaps somewhere in Eastern Europe. The planes on the television dropped burning to the ground, the image synced with the smell of smoking automobiles coming in through the rotted bathroom window. All over the world, wherever there were streets, people were running through them. Wherever there were buildings, people were leaping from them. Or blowing them up. The world was a sandcastle doomed to the tide. Why not experience the release of demolition? Buildings vaporized, became a rolling cloud of debris, curling through the streets like a sideways mushroom cloud. It looked like a monster approaching, the shockwave footsteps of a giant lizard. The people who survived it stood stunned and dusted in the street, shit in their hair, speaking to news cameras with the glaze of shock upon them.

Michelle thought it was irresponsible of the journalists to speak to these victims. They needed medical attention, ambulances, all of them. Michelle did not want to watch
these people. They looked like they'd had strokes, how they could hardly speak, their twitching faces and their stammer. Michelle chewed her pasta. The TV was so staticky she could barely see the footage of people suiciding from bridges and towers. They were pixels merging into pixels. Michelle began to cry. At the idea of their fear, the moment when they understood they were about to die, even though they had chosen it, that moment when they were both alive and dead, there had to be a split second of instinctive regret, it made Michelle weep with spooky grief. The mock turtleneck of her polyester dress absorbed her tears like a parched landscape. Her hangover was powerful, she was all jangled nerves. She lay down on the floor and cried, the bowl of pasta on her stomach. The phone rang, and it was one of her mothers.

Have you seen the planes?
Kym wanted to know. No one ever wanted to talk to Kym about television but today all anyone could do was watch and comment. It was her time to shine.
The one in Ukraine? The one in Ohio?

Not The One In Ohio.

Oh my god. And the people, did you see them jumping in New York and in London?

I Saw New York, Not London.

Kym had been tuned in for hours. The carnage filled her with fear, yes, and sadness, of course, but also with an odd satisfaction. She knew something like this would happen. She knew it would get too bad, was getting too bad, had gotten too bad. People could not become incapacitated from their food and water, from the rays conjured to enliven cell phones and tiny gadgets, from computers. Think of all the computers, the dead computers piled upon each other, leaching poison into the earth and the water table. Think of
all the new computers, millions and millions being birthed each day by third world women wearing gloves and masks to keep the deathiness of the machines off them, good luck, fat chance. People could not be gasping for air in the very air of their time and not have a solution dealt out to them eventually. A terrible solution for a terrible problem. It was a cancer. People were a cancer on their very own body and like a cancer they would band together and kill, cell after cell. Kym expressed this into her telephone, a true landline, a thick wire curling from a heavy receiver. The phone had been manufactured in the 1980s, it was safe.

Michelle thought Kym's metaphors were a little off, but her mom was stoned and Michelle got the general gist.

It's True, Michelle said simply. You Were Right. Michelle was prone on the floor, the phone jammed into her ear, the television rolling its loop of destruction. There's A Lot I Don't Understand, Michelle began, I Don't Know If It's Because I Actually Have A Bit Of A Hangover, I'm Not Going To Lie—

You out late last night?

No, I Don't Go Out. I Stay In And Watch
Friends
. I Rent Movies. I Sleep A Lot. I'm Working On A Scrapbook Project That Is Taking Up A Lot Of My Time.

You writing another book?

Yeah, Michelle lied. It's Just In My Head Right Now. I Have To Write It There First And Then Put It On The Computer.

You should write a screenplay,
Kym suggested.
Being in Los Angeles and everything.

Yeah, Michelle said. Well, Being In Los Angeles And Everything There Are Already A Lot Of People Writing Screenplays.

What's the book about?

Um, It's About A Crack-Smoking, Aging Psych Nurse In New England.

Whoa
, Kym said.
I'm not going to tell your mother that. What happens to her?

I'm Still Sorting It Out, Michelle said, distracted by a woman on the television. Her face was smeared with probably blood. On the black-and-white television it looked like chocolate, like fake blood, Karo Syrup and food coloring. But Michelle presumed it was, in fact, real blood. The woman's mouth was open in a scream.

You might not get to finish it now,
Kym said practically.
I mean, how long does it take to write a book?

I Don't Know, A Year? It Depends?

Kym was quiet, considering.
You could do it. There's that National Book Writing Month, right? Where everyone writes a book in thirty days? You might do it. I'd forget about publishing, though. It might not be worth it to go through the trouble of putting out a book if we're all going to die the day after it comes out, you know?
Kym's voice had a certain crushed quality to it. She kept the phone jammed between her head and a throw pillow, her throat bent around the receiver.