14

In one of the greatest ironies of my life, two weeks and a day before graduation, I was I only had two weeks left on this earth. The rest of my class, the professors, and the world as a whole was just as surprised by the news as I was. It was almost as if the planet, once filled to bursting with activity, spinning around the sun at a million miles an hour like an over caffeinated child around her mother, suddenly sobered up mid-circle and realized just how cold it was getting outside. When the announcement was read by a graying but still rather charismatic newscaster, who now appeared slightingly startled yet still surprisingly composed (worthy of whatever award newscasters receive these days), I could have sworn the world had simply misheard him. “Of course, the signs are all there,” he told the befuddled public with a very straight face a million times over on repeat, twenty four hours a day for all of the two weeks. “Each and every t’s is crossed and all the i’s have their dot.” All we had let to do was wait for was the missing period to cap us off.
I personally found learned the news at work, in the corner office of the corner build making up the Senatorial complex. With only two weeks before I leave school, and with it this job and city, I wasn’t really too keen on working, but still went out of obligation. Originally I went to find work as some sort of fulltime staffer on the hill, a wet dream for a political science major just about to graduate, but to little avail. As a substitute, I found work in a cramp, stuffy backroom which had the smell of a library despite the lack of books and the overly bright ceiling light. The room’s books had been replaced with stacks of mail pouring out of every possible nook and cranny which could be readily labeled. Even from the very moment one walks in, a wall of “Immigration”, “Abortion”, “Iraq”, “Taxes”, “Environment”, “Education”, “Welfare” would assault you with it’s armament of manila folders, post cards, and constituent mail haphazardly stacked in every available slot. As if in a final show of defiance, even the smallest handwritten note and quarter page mass mailings were recruited to stand in this imposing battlement as a last ditch effort to keep you from entering their kingdom. Yet some how I was always able to sneak past these guards at their post, sit at my desk, and read letters not intended for me.
After reading what must have been the twelfth unnecessarily wordy “Defense” letter since I showed up that morning, a second spy managed to slip past the finale stand.
“Hey, ah…I think it’s ok if we leave.”
This was of course, how I found out. By the young women whose name escapes me. All I know about her was that she worked the phones in the fount desk and our mutual boss probably sent her.
“Why?”
“The world is coming to a, ah… it’s coming to an end. I think. That’s what they just announced on CNN, Fox News conformed.”
“What?”
“Yea, I know, don’t ask me, it was on the news. All I know is that I was told to tell you that it’s for you to leave if you wanted to. I am going home.”
She fidgeted nervously with the end of her shirt, perhaps unsure if she was really telling the right “you” (who the hell was this guy anyway?). I looked at the stacks of mail that were pouring from the walls like it was the fake blood from some B-rate horror film. I tried to imagine what demon would slowly be filling this cramped, stuffy room, and wondered if I’d have time to fight it off and finish this mail before the world ended.
“Ok,” I replied, unsure what to say next, “Thanks.”
“Ok.”
She stood there for a moment, opened her mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again, before finally slipping back past the guards and closing the door with a soft click behind her. And in reflection, I’ve come up with worse excuses for skipping work, so I decided to take the rest of the day off.

10

Work had resumed and exams are still expected to take place within the next couple of days. The only difference that I could see came from the never ending flow coming and going from the churches, synagogues, and the found just off campus. Before, I hadn’t really noticed these old, decrepit buildings but now they seem to of taken center stage. Out side each of these buildings stood their respective welcoming committee just in case the coming Jesus, Elijah, or al-Mahdi should happen to walk by without announcing himself first. These welcoming committees lingered on sidewalks smoking cigarettes and talking quietly, nervously trying to figure out what sort of gift or token they should give to their redeemer. Should the savior of souls should be showered with gifts our merely revered? Should we follow him down the street if he should walk by or would this irritate him? The question that was most pressing but never asked was the one I was worried about. Why is this celebrated like it’s a good event? Where am I going after all of this is said and done?
Yet despite the openness and acceptance for the redeemers, the local people inside were faced with repentance, brimstone, and the end of days as tears and screams poured from every pulpit in the city onto the crowds below. Yet the more emotional the sermon, the more the congregations drifted away in their own thoughts.
This was true for all of the houses of worship I had encountered in those two weeks but one. While on my way back from the library, sometime after midnight, I passed by a student run synagogue which had remained open continuously for the past several days. Inside the small brick building that I’ve always walked past but had never be moved enough to enter, the quite murmur of prayer could be heard from an open window. I hadn’t been inside since I was a child, bored beyond belief while my friends played on Friday nights, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to step inside and rest awhile.
Inside, the room was small but fairly crowed with chairs and the occasional bowed head. The student leading the service was buried in a book, reading aloud in Hebrew (a language I’ve absolutely no knowledge of), and dressed in the most disheveled blue button down shirt I had ever seen. Prayer books and copies of the Torah lined the door way, so I picked up a Torah and stealthily crept to the back of the room to read. The story of the beginning of the world felt like a good place to start when facing it’s end.

When God began to create heaven and earth – the earth being unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and a wind from God sweeping over the water – God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, a first day.

Despite any attempts at stealth, the book in my hands had exposed the worries that had brought me here. As I read the image of a dark night’s sky above, as deep and black as ink, hung high over a perfectly smooth lake of black water. This water looked to be like glass, thick, without a ripple nor imperfection to be found on its surface. The above and below married each other on the horizon, miles and miles out at sea. A slight breeze was coming from that horizon. Suddenly, out of no where, the will for light had produced a single glimmer of light far out in the horizon. The first dawn. This light grew into the sky like a plant rising from the water, blowing the wind away from it faster and faster, which in turn, disturbing the water below to the point of crest waves. The light continued to expand outward and upward, displacing what was left of my darkness, until all was illuminated.

5

All of my exams are over, which is a relief, and I even managed to leave work a few days early despite the fact congress was still in session. On my last day of work I decided to walk home one last time since I wasn’t sure I’d be in the neighbored for a while. I pasted the Convention Center and the clusters of women and dejected husbands attending the gardening expo in town that week, through Chinatown which by now was filled to the brim with tourists and exotic smells, and past the crowded New York Ave Church, White House, and a pizza place that I used to always go to. I was relieved to see that they all appearing exactly has they had been a week and a half ago.
When I finally made it back to my dorm, a quick glance around the room told me that my roommate was out somewhere and it would be alright if I turned on the TV for a while. The graying but still charismatic newscaster that looked slightingly startled yet still surprisingly well composed was on. I caught him just in time to hear to hear his famous new line which had already gotten to be a little stale.
“Of course, the signs are all there. Each and every t’s was crossed and all the i’s have their dot. But now, a look at the market place.”
I crashed into bed, displacing some of the old clothes and papers that had been sleeping there before I came in and woke them. Beside my bed there was a stack of books about half a dozen or more high that I was supposed to read for friends, family, and my own fun. The walls were adorn with varies posters, photos, and the occasional delivery menu. It was nothing more than a fairly typical dorm room, but at least it was mine for the next couple of days.
“…closing today at a low but still significantly higher than last quarter. Well, that does it for financial news, let’s check back in with Wolfe for any new developments that may of come up as we approach the…”
Rolling over, I blindly grab for the stack of novels of about a half a dozen or more high that I should be reading. The first book I picked up was actually a comic book called Pizzeria Kamikaze that I had been saving for a free afternoon. I opened it up and began reading the first page.
I think she cried at my funeral. It is not like I’m conceited or anything, sometimes I can actually picture her talking about me to some guy she feels closed to. Talking about me dying. About how they lowered me into the grave…
“…exactly five days and eight hours are left on the big board here in the Situation Room. Stay tuned for our panel of experts coming up after the break…
I didn’t feel like reading anything so depressing and fished out another book from the pile. On the end of the line was a book a friend had given on my birthday one or two months ago called Cat’s Cradle. My friend was huge Vonnegut fan and got the book more out of remorse for his death than my own birthday. But still, it looked like it might be interesting enough for a quick glance. I opened it up to a random page and started reading. Chapter 23 seemed as good a place to start as any other.
Dr. Breed was mistaken about at least one thing: there was such a thing as ice-nine. And Ice-nice was on earth. Ice-nine was the last gift Felix Hoenikker created for mankind before going to his just reward.
Maybe I’m just feeling too restless to read any and put the intangible novel down. I looked over the side of the bed to see if anything of interest was down there, but concluded I wasn’t in a good reading mood.
“…You see, I just don’t agree with you. You’re theory sounds too naive to be taken realistically. Don’t you understand that…”
The tv was getting annoying so I turned it off and sat in silence. A couple of tylenal pills and a hot shower later, and I was in bed ready to get enough sleep for when day four came around.

1

I went out drinking with friends the night before and slept though the day.