Bomb Shelter

"We just need a few things to stock up the bomb shelter. It's dangerous just being in here, so let's make it quick; those damned crazy Koreans could be dropping an A-bomb on us right now."

Her husband, a passive man, was loitering around the produce section, thinking idly that it would be a blessing if the Koreans had even heard of their shithole middle-of-nowhere town. The smells and colors of the fresh food were hypnotizing him. He began to reach out for a bright, juicy tomato when his wife smacked the top of his hand.

"No, Don, those rot far too easily," she said, dropping a bushel of green bananas into the top of the cart.

She saw her husband glare at the fruit, trying his hardest to transform them into the tomato. She could sense this, so she offered, "These will slowly ripen so we'll have potassium when they drop the bomb."

She quickly began maneuvering the cart towards the canned food aisle, almost mechanically, as if she was not choosing to move there. Her husband took one last longing look at the mounds of vegetables and followed his wife.

He joined her in aisle four, which was all too familiar with its yellow labels and green price tags. His wife was filling the cart with large yellow cans of Royal Gold whole peeled tomatoes. He looked down into the cart where at least ten cans already lay.

"Well, you wanted tomatoes, right?"

"It's not the same," he said to himself.
"What's that?" she sneered. "What did you say?"

He sighed and said, "Nothing." He wandered down the aisle, anger building inside him as he thought of all the wasted nights eating cold green beans straight from the can as his wife lectured him about the on-coming human apocalypse and how he was risking his life by sitting in a third floor office building all day just so he could pay "useless bills." The only upside, he thought, of his wife's paranoia was that he could take half-days and come home early to do house work -- even just to sleep in a real bed.

"Canned tomatoes last forever, don't they?" His thought train screeched abruptly up to the gate.

"Sure, Honey."

"I thought so," she replied, placing one last can in the cart. "Okay,
Don, let's go."

Her husband had disappeared. "Don?" She pushed the cart out of the aisle and spotted her husband in the dairy section. The wheels stopped short, directly behind Don, the metal inches from his waist. His eyes scanned the rows of cheese and yogurts, which he had not tasted for years. It took all of his willpower not to reach out and eat everything illuminated in front of him.

"Couldn't we..." he began, reaching for a block of cheese.

"No. I'm finished, let's go." He followed unwillingly to the check out and, after a few minutes, decided to wait in the car. He had drifted off in thought when the engine roared and the tires screeched against the pavement.

A quick drive, a quick sleep. His wife shut the door behind them with a heavy, metallic thud.

His eyes opened prematurely. He tip-toed to the door, trying not to disturb his wife so that he could get out early. But the handle broke off into his hand with a loud crack.

"What was that?" His wife shot up in bed. "Was that it? Did it hit? That wasn't much. Come on, we have to eat the bananas before the nuclear waste sets in."
Don stood completely still. She walked up to him. "Don? Did you hear me?"

"I-I-" he stammered.

"What?" She looked down into his open hand. "Oh, you just broke off
the handle. Just go to the hardware store and get something to fix it." He did not move. "Well, go on. Hurry!" she said, shoving him out of the door.

* * *

The paint can opened with a quiet pop, and paint spilled onto his hand. He wiped it off with a rag, the same material as his sheets in the shelter. He unlovingly thought of his wife idling underground, sleeping, reading, doing nothing. In a rage, he painted an entire wall-forest green, the way he had originally planned.

He then decided to fix that door -- for good. He went into the bedroom and picked up his supplies.

He was old, but not so old that he would soon forget what he was about to do. He drifted into the hallway and turned to close the heavy, rusting door with a squeaking thud. He ran his fingers along the wall as he walked, leaving large, visible scratches across the fresh paint.

He pulled his hand away from the wall and watched as green flowed down his hand onto his wrist, and over his watch. The wet paint felt almost like blood, and suddenly he didn't want it touching him anymore.

After cleansing his hands of the green filth, he flew down the stairs and out the back door. He stopped dead in front of the metal monument, a sign that filled him with anger.

He pulled down his protective mask and closed his eyes. Did he want this?

Suddenly, through a rage of painful memories and lost dignity, he
welded the door closed -- forever.

"I fixed it, Honey," he said, breathlessly. "I'm all done."

END

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