Clouds of God Sleeping

Sara

August 21, Year 2

The best thing about the end times? Gee, I'd have to say the heat. Every day I wake up hoping it'll be hotter than yesterday. Sometimes I actually feel like global warming is a white-hot demon dancing on my back as I try to figure out what to do next each day.

What do I miss most? My air conditioner. (That and tampons.) The guys from the Bureau of Conservation took it right after the second power outage. Right after they were illegalized. Now I can hardly believe how mad I was, standing in the middle of the room with my arms crossed, glaring at them. After they left, I grabbed the first thing within reach, my glass of water, and threw it at the door. Stupid. When I cleaned up my mess later, I cut my hand on the broken glass. Besides, what good would an air conditioner be to me now? Unless you're in power or you've got special favors to offer (like Mindy, who used to live on the third floor. Now she lives downtown in a luxury high-rise with big windows and "consults" with a guy from the Bureau of Security during three lunch hours a week.), you get two hours of electricity during the day and two hours at night. And that's if nothing goes wrong. Last month turning on the power caused an overload that crashed the system for 8 days. That's why the government reminds us every week to stock up on water. You'd think everybody would know by now, but there's always someone wandering the streets after an outage, begging for food or water.

Shit-brains.

But I guess I'm the real idiot because I usually end up giving them water, even though I don't know when -- or if -- the power's coming back on. (Maybe I got dropped on the head as a baby.) I just can't stand the crying, the big, wet eyes. (Of course, if it's a guy, I don't get too close. I might be a little naïve sometimes, but I'm not completely dense.)

Yep, power outages double the fun. That's when we look forward to the smell. Well, not the usual smell. This one is especially special. The power goes out with a sudden pop with the barest smoky aroma. Then, a long moment of silence, as if nobody's moving or breathing, as if they're holding onto that last moment until they finally have to take another lungful of air.

And then somebody swears. Shit. Sometimes it's me. I've even been the next person -- the one who slumps down to the floor and starts crying. Or the one who starts throwing things and screaming, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" If we're lucky, others join in with their own delightful versions until we're unified in our common self-pity and hopelessness.

I'll admit I've participated, even in next morning's performance of: It Never Happened. The choreography is superb. If you're coming out of your apartment and realize someone else is walking down the hall, you must suddenly realize you've forgotten something and rush back through the door. Don't loiter -- you don't want to embarrass anyone with eye contact or an accidental brush as he walks by. Once he's cleared your area, take your turn quickly before it's gone. Be sure to give others the opportunity to duck back into their rooms as you pass by. Gee, isn't everyone incredibly absent-minded this morning?

Usually it's the next night, when most of us begin to settle into the dark with our stock of candles and hopefully a full moon, that the muffled crying begins. This dirge is not nearly as entertaining as the previous night's rowdiness. At first, her moans make tear at me, make me want to help her, even though I doubt she would thank me. I can almost see her (the blonde girl from 2C? The old woman from 1A?) laying in a fetal position on the cold tile in front of her stove with tears rolling off her nose. Alice in Wonderland desperate to drown herself in her own tears.

After a while, the annoying factor wins out. A better person would care. Would so something. I just wish she'd get on with the inevitable.

The smell starts a couple of days later. I've never actually seen the bodies. Sam, the small, stocky man from 3B hangs out in the hallway, offering a chance to see fresh photos after every suicide. Most everyone walks around him until his mother returns from work and herds him into their apartment. I've never seen the photos. I don't know if he really has film in his camera.

I don't know why, but as the bodies roll out to the front curb, I imagine them as overripe strawberries, badly bruised with fuzzy mold on the soft spots. Sweet, flawed, and waiting too long.

Now that I think of it, if I could wish for the one thing I miss the most, it would be diet Pepsi. Caffeinated. It's what got me in trouble in the first place.