by Kate Novak
“Can I bum a cigarette off you? I left mine in my other jacket at home.”
I offer him my pack. He brushes his hair from his forehead and pecks a cigarette out swiftly. With his other hand, he offers me a crumpled banknote. I shake my head.
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says.
“No problem,” I say.
“You an artist?” He points with his chin toward my sketchbook and pencils.
I nod.
“You from around here?”
“Now I am.”
“Not that it will matter in two weeks,” he adds. “See you around.” He waves his cigarette at me.
That’s how I meet Nick. Next time we meet he tells me what’s going to happen in two weeks.
Day 13.
I should practice patience. There’s no point in spending the last weeks angry.
One of my trigger words is we. Man, I hate this word. I mean, it just makes me shudder. Like, literally. Whenever people use it, they want to strangle you with it, put their own limited little loop of a world around you and tighten it slowly, inch by inch, until you do what they do and you think like they think.
“What is this?” this creature named Lynn asks, turning her nose up. I swear, I’d never seen anyone do that before I came to this country. I always thought it was a manner of speaking, people turning their noses up, like turning over a new leaf or something, but no, this Lynn can actually do that.
“My lunch,” I say.
“No it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.” Stupidly, I show her the label on the lunch box which says lunch.
“Not as we know it.”
There it is, that’s it right there: this little suffocating we. And she looks over my head, like there’s some larger, more important, taller version of me with which she could have a proper conversation, not with me, the sad little loser who brings around weird stuff and calls it lunch.
But that’s all right; she’ll be dead soon.
Day 12.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not planning anything horrific. It’s just that I happen to know horrific things are going to happen, and sooner rather than later. I just have to wait. They already happened where I come from. And they will happen here. People are just naturally myopic. They see those things happening in one place; they see people fleeing; they call them “climate refugees” or “war refugees,” doesn’t matter, and then they do nothing, just letting the same thing happen to their own land.
So I’m waiting, and while I’m waiting, I’m making some interesting observations. I don’t note them down, because, honestly, what’s the point? Everything’s going to go, but I keep them in my head. I organize them in categories, mental folders, if you will. One of them is labeled Foreigners, and it is subdivided into the things foreigners are and the things foreigners should be. Foreigners are traumatized, and they bring their trauma from countries where terrifying things happen; foreigners should forget the past and assimilate; foreigners are needy and want to take “our” jobs and scholarships; foreigners should go back to where they came from; foreigners are cheapskates who send all their money back home; foreigners should try to be like “us”; foreigners are lazy and don’t want to work; foreigners will never be like “us”; foreigners should be grateful to be here, because nothing horrific ever happens here.
That’s the list. Sure, I could tell you how to make sense of it, I could tell you what to think, but that’s precisely what I want to avoid, okay? Let me just say, it’s a lot of BS.
Nick doesn’t call it BS; he calls it bullshit. He is the only person who can see what a lot of bullshit that is. The only one. I mean, how difficult is it? He says, “It’s bullshit, jeez,” and the smoke from his cigarette wraps itself around his head in a halo.
Day 11.
“Is this picture yours? Did you make it?”
“Yeah.” I blush, but I try to sound like I don’t care.
“Pretty cool.”
I acknowledge his compliment with an exaggerated bow.
“Let me show you something.” He reaches for my laptop, even though his is open in front of him. “I don’t want to use my computer. I’ve been searching and somebody might’ve noticed. There might be someone keeping an eye on me,” he explains. “Yours should be fine. You haven’t done anything. But it’s your decision to make.” He holds his hands up until I say, “Go ahead.”
He types in the address. There’s a map of the Pentagon and a superimposed chart with some chemical formulas, a very long mathematical equation, and something that looks like a drawing of a fetus.
“What does it mean?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. But it all means something.”
Day 10.
Nick is the one who told me what’s going to happen. He said, “Always check the facts for yourself,” and he gave me the book and the website and said, “Don’t just believe what I say, go and check it, see for yourself.”
So when I go back home, I fire off my computer, and I look. He’s right; it’s all there. And it’s not just one website: One leads me to another, and another. I spend the whole evening reading. It’s mind-boggling, like he said. He would probably frown upon me using my IP address like a chump. That’s a new word for me: a chump. Nick calls chumps all those people who don’t know how much the government controls everything, people who naively use their IP addresses, people who think this is some stupid conspiracy theory. Well, they’ll see. “These chumps will see,” Nick says. Nick has straight, brown-black hair that falls in a cascade on his eyes. It makes him look shy, the way his eyes are locked behind his hair, but when he talks and blows the cigarette smoke up, throwing his head back, any appearance of shyness disappears. Maybe I should grow my hair longer, like his?
Day 9.
So when we meet the next day after lunch, I tell him, “You were right.” “What did I tell you?” he just says. When I mention the other websites that I found, he seems impressed, but then asks me, “Have you finished reading the book I gave you?” And when I shake my head, he blows the smoke in a fast impatient blast.
“I’ll read it tonight,” I say.
“Okay, and tomorrow we’ll hang out.”
Hang out, wow. I don’t say anything to that. Nobody’s ever wanted to hang out with me.
Day 8.
Normally, I hang out with Mimi and Violetta Valery. They are the best people I know. They never want to hurt you. They never want to feel better at your expense. If they ignore you, it’s because they have better things to do, not because they want you to feel shitty. They are not human people; they are cats. I think humans should be more like cats. When I tell people that the cats are also refugees, with passports and all, people are often surprised. This is how awful people can be. They assume that we would leave two members of our family behind, and they suggest that it’s an unnecessary hassle, to have brought them over from the old place. Once I asked, “Would you leave your granny behind, just because she’s old and can’t move as fast as you do?” But they don’t understand. They think these are two completely different worlds, unrelated issues. I don’t think so. I think the way we treat other animals says a lot about how we feel about other humans. I, for one, feel sorry for them. They see a cat and they don’t learn.
Some of them do learn. And I feel even more sorry for them, because, what’s the point? It’s all going to end real soon. Real, real soon. I saw it happen there. And it will happen here as well.
But maybe it does make sense, to learn and to remember? Maybe not all is lost when the material world is gone?
Day 7.
I think that something will remain. I don’t believe in an old man with a beard on a cloud, that’s not what I mean. But it’s hard to believe everything will go up in smoke and nothing will be left behind. Some kind of energy, I don’t know. A soul is the wrong word, but if the Europeans have the idea, if the Asians have the idea, if the Africans have the idea, if the Americans have the idea, then maybe there’s something to it? How would they all come up with it? So maybe something will remain. Maybe my soul and Nick’s soul will hang out after… Maybe the souls of Mimi and Violetta Valery will hang out with me? It’d be cool to communicate with them in a better way than now. I think that souls can communicate, if they exist. I have a funny thought: What if Nick’s soul wants to smoke, but the soul can’t hold a cigarette? But isn’t a soul just like cigarette smoke? The moment I think that, he sends me a message: Dude, let’s hang. I’m a little put off by this “dude” business, but the more important thing is, it’s like communicating through souls. I’m thinking about him, and he texts me. For a moment I consider asking if he believes in telepathy, but I decide it’s a lame question. Maybe when we hang out I can ask him that.
We take our bikes, and we go to the end of the alley, where the trickle of a sad, cemented river flows. We sit on the harsh, porous slabs. He hands me a rolled cigarette and laughs.
“Can you imagine what those idiots’ faces will be like? Their jaws will drop to the fucking floor,” he says.
“How long do you think it will last?”
“What?”
“You know, the thing.”
He shrugs.
“Because…” I hesitate. “Maybe there won’t be time for their jaws dropping.” I remember that from the old place: Three summers in a row getting hotter and hotter, the hurricanes more potent, each rainfall more torrential, each drought more devastating, but because it happens gradually, people say, “Nah, it’s not that bad,” and because it all happens quite fast, people say, “It’s just an anomaly, not a pattern.” And then there comes a moment when you can no longer pretend the place is livable, and you have to go.
“It doesn’t take long for a jaw to drop,” Nick says, and pulls my jaw with his thumb and a forefinger.
“Fucking A,” he says, moving my jaw up and down. The echo of our howling laughter bounces off the cement bank. We kiss.
As we lie there, the night crawls up, rubbing off the contours of things. It gets chilly. We share a cigarette, and then we get back.
So this is what hanging out is. Cool.
I feel like I took another step to becoming of this country. An unofficial test. An unannounced quiz. And I passed. One tiny bit less of a stranger. But I forgot to ask Nick about telepathy.
Day 6.
I never knew I looked different before we moved here. What does it mean anyway? I have two eyes, a nose, a mouth, two hands, two feet, and everything in between. My skin isn’t scaly; I don’t have a tail. And yet they stare. And from there it’s only a short leap to when I open my mouth.
“Do I hear an accent?”
“I don’t know, do you?”
That was my first conversation with that Lynn person. She says I’m impossible to be friends with. But the fact is, she wants me to accept her superiority. She wants to be charitable toward me.
“Fuck that shit,” Nick says. She will die with the rest of them, and I’m glad.
She’s brought cookies to lunch today. Opened the Tupperware like it was Pandora’s box or something. “Try what we have for lunch,” she says, specifically to me.
“Nice of you.” Nick grabs one. Jesus, what? Nice? Seriously? I don’t know why he doesn’t see what a major hypocrite she is. I don’t know. Even a smart guy like him can be blinded, I guess.
This tells the TRUTH, he texts me later. There’s a link. I go to the website, but I don’t answer his message. I hope he knows my silence means something. It all means something.
Day 5.
“Did you check out the page I sent you?”
“I didn’t want to use my IP address,” I lie.
“Too bad,” Nick says. “They will probably take it down soon, if they haven’t already.” He looks into my sandwich. “Is that radish? I love radish.” I give him half of my sandwich. “They tell you how to prepare.”
I snort. He looks at me like he’s hurt.
“I mean, can you ever prepare for it?” I ask.
“At least we can try.”
“That’s the spirit,” I say with the most mocking tone I can muster.
He shrugs. “I’m going to the hardware store after. You can come if you want.”
“Sure,” I say like I don’t care. But my heart is singing to the tune of “We’re hanging out again.”
We get bolts and nails. We can’t afford more.
“These are the basics,” Nick says. The guys who write on the web page he sent me recommend getting power tools and generators, but we just get what is necessary. To build, after. If there is any after.
“Do you believe you can survive this?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I think it’s human nature to believe in something, you know.”
He’s philosophical. He surprises me every time. I forgive him for the Lynn incident earlier.
Day 4.
“Why don’t you wear a nice shirt? I’d iron one for you if you just asked.”
“Mom, it doesn’t matter.”
“How can you say that? We are strangers here. People are watching. They are judging us.”
“Well, they won’t for long.”
“Just wear something more elegant than this. I’m sure people around you, the locals, are appalled.”
Day 3.
Violetta Valery is not feeling well. She might be feeling something; animals are smart, they know things way before we do. Like earthquakes and stuff. She’s not eating and doesn’t want to play with me. “Don’t you want to hang out?” I ask her, but she just looks at me sadly. So I take her to the vet. She’s sitting in her transport bag, meowing from time to time to let me know that if it were up to her, she wouldn’t tolerate any of this. There was this guy in my previous school who was like that, and when there was a situation that he couldn’t take, he’d first wail and flap his arms, and if there was no way out, he’d freak out. I get it. I don’t like loud noises either. Cats are like that, too. Dogs are different. There are five dogs in the waiting room, and they’re all looking around, wagging their tails, even the ones who know what’s coming. They still have great social skills. Humans are such dicks compared to dogs, or even cats, seriously. Two dogs here are small, just your ordinary mixed type. One is tiny and sits in the owner’s handbag. Two are big, like four times the size of the medium dog, and shaggy. When they lie down, they look like two carpets. And you know what? All those dogs acknowledge one another. A bark here, a sniff there. Hey, dude, hey, you’re a dog, too, that’s awesome! For humans, for humans it’s enough that someone’s hair is straighter, that someone’s nose is wider, and it’s like, I don’t think you’re the same species. What the actual what?
The vet gives Violetta Valery some shots and tells me to come back for a checkup in five days. Yeah, right, I’m thinking. But I don’t say it. Let the poor guy believe he still has five more days to live.
Day 2.
Violetta Valery lies in my bed. She meows sadly. I stay at home with her. Mimi walks around the bed. I think she’s trying to be supportive. I sketch them. They are my people. Till the end.
Day 1.
One of my drawings sells, and I’ve got unexpected cash. I send Nick a message, Want to go to hardware store to get power generator? There is no reply. Maybe it’s because I forgot to put in the stupid articles, like I always do. But he wouldn’t be petty like that. He’d still understand that the message really says: Let’s hang. Yet, there is no reply. I go to the pet store to buy a treat for Violetta Valery and Mimi, and I get back home. Still, there is no reply. So I go to the hardware store on my own. I like the owner; he calls me a “gentleman.” As I walk to the store through the parking lot, I see a car reversing. They don’t see me, but I stop and watch them. I know it’s them. There’s no mistake. Nick and that Lynn, in her yellow car. Both of them in her car. Hanging.
When I get back home, I hang out with Mimi and Violetta Valery. She’s feeling better now. I want to tell her it’ll be over soon. The end of the world is near. And if we survive, we’ll take you to the vet for a checkup. That is, if the vet survives as well. There are a lot of ifs, and it all sounds very doubtful, but I don’t tell her that. I just say, “I’m glad you’re better,” and she meows, knowing I care about her and telling me she cares about me, too.
I make a new sketch. It’s Lynn, with her upturned nose. I make her eyes bulge, and her arms extend into tentacles. If I perish, which is the most likely scenario, that’s what will be left after me. I imagine that if there is another species that comes after us, and if they develop a civilization, and if they have their science and art, there will be archaeologists thousands or millions of years from now, and one of them will find my drawing and say, “This is what finished the human race.” Lynn and the likes of her. Self-obsessed, xenophobic, well-meaning little humans.
Day 0.
“I made you an end-of-the-world present.” I hand Nick the drawing.
“Shut up.” He laughs with an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. Lynn comes to the table.
“Join us for lunch,” she says, her eyes negating the invitation.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, and go away without saying anything. But the day drags on, and the feeling of pressure is getting to me. Is this how it’s going to end? Without so much as even saying good-bye? In the late afternoon I send Nick a message: So this is it. Enjoy the eternity! But he doesn’t reply. I’m not sure, is it the eternity or just eternity without the article? Can this be the reason he’s not responding?
I make dinner for my mom and myself. I want to be nice to her the last evening of time.
“How is your friend Nick?” she asks.
“He’s got a new friend now.”
“I’m sorry, child. People will break your heart many times over. But one day there will be someone who will love you till the end of the world.” She tries to touch my face.
“I’m not crying,” I snap.
“I’ll do the dishes,” she says. “Please don’t slam the door.”
I fall asleep with Violetta Valery and Mimi curled up on both sides of me. When I wake up, my phone is still in my hand, zero new messages.
“Meow,” they say.
“Meow,” I respond.
They look at me and lick their paws to clean their faces. It’s evening. The sky glows with the spectacular display of air pollution. Breathe in, breathe out: It’s all that’s needed to survive, for now. So I do just that.
Kate Novak is a feminist, immigrant, vegan cat lady. She writes about what she considers important: being an outsider, speaking from the margins, representing a minority perspective. She teaches American literature and writing. She is passionately anti-anthropocentric. Kate has published several short stories in online and print magazines (Tulsa Review, Fairlight Shorts, Neuro Logical, Eunoia Review, The Bookends Review, Literary Yard, Literature Today, vol. 7). She also writes academic books and papers about literature, culture, and translation. She has two novels in preparation, which she hopes to publish one beautiful day.
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