Imagine his surprise when he saw the obituary, force itself as it were into his daily routine, in the middle of his second cup of coffee ("Light cream, two spoons of sugar") and between bites of cinnamon roll ("No nuts, please, they get caught in my digestion"). He had just padded down to the bottom of the driveway without his slippers ("Damn dog") trying to ignore the cold rain ("and worms") that got between his toes and the bottom two inches of his unhemmed pants ("Gotta do that").
The paper spread open on the mahogany table leaving nut-sized drops of water that might or might not ruin the wood after time. As always, he skipped straight to the end, to the announcements, to the life and death page ("The only real news"), which was the main reason ("the only reason") he subscribed to the rag.
"So. There it is. This is what it's like to be dead."
He wondered if it was no longer appropriate to finish his coffee ("but since no one's looking...").
In many ways he felt cheated—not at being dead ("It seems natural enough"), but rather at the system failure, that he hadn't been notified, that he'd had to read about it in the paper like everyone else, and ("My God!") that meant some people in this meddling town knew before he did ("Nosy").
Rather than let himself get bitter about it ("bad for my blood pressure"), he poured himself a third cup of coffee.
"Well, better go tell the kids", already sleeping through some of their favorite cartoons because the clouds and the rain kept the sun off their sleeping eyes.
It was another routine day in Metropolis for Superman, the day he saved the single-engine jet from crashing into the city. The plane had lost power to its stabilizer and gone into a flat spin from which it surely never would have recovered, had Superman not flown in to save the day: the Man of Steel managed to grab the plane by its engine, arrest its spinning, and guide it to a safe landing in a nearby baseball field. The four passengers of the plane were grateful and in tears, while the Little Leaguers stopped their game to cheer.
Unfortunately, the force required to catch the plane in mid-air was also enough to dislodge the jet turbine, which broke loose from the body of the plane, and plummeted out of the sky and into an apartment building below. It tore through the building and killed two dozen people.
Superman, exceptional in so many ways, had never been the most thoughtful hero: decision-making while flying faster than a speeding bullet does not lend itself to introspection. Good and evil had always been for him, if simplistic, at least clear. When he received the news of the two dozen deaths—deaths which had been directly caused by his own well-intended efforts—he was devastated, and confused like he had never been before. For the first time in his life, Superman questioned his own ability to discern right from wrong—so he did what any reasonable thinking person would do in such a situation: he stopped rescuing people, and retreated to his Fortress of Solitude, there to wait and contemplate, until which time his path of action would become infallibly clear—which is to say, never.
When Ulysses returned to Ithaca, it wasn't what he'd remembered. The streets were dirtier and narrower, the people furtive, unhealthy and short. Climbing the hill back to his palace, the road was worse, too—pocked, uneven, steeper, it seemed; and the palace itself had fallen into ruin: the ceiling was collapsed in spots, and the front door was rotting off its hinges.
"Penelope?," he called out. "Penny, are you there? It's me, Ulysses. I'm home." His voice echoed off the crumbling walls, and scattered a herd of stray cats that went into hiding under a pumpkin plant that had grown to take over what used to be their living room.
He sat down on what was left of his old throne: it was covered in moss and decayed leaves. "This is where we lived," he mused. "This is where we loved," though he'd been gone ten years without a word to her, without so much as a postcard. She'd left and left no forwarding address.
"What now?," he wondered. The master strategist of the Achaeans had failed to contemplate this—a life without Penelope.
"What now?," he asked again, and he sat back to look at the stars through the holes in the ceiling, arranging them into shapes and then giving the shapes (for the first time) names. He named them for his friends. When he'd filled the sky with "Orion" and "Perseus," with "Andromeda" and "Cassiopeia," he still hadn't found a set of stars to call "Penelope." He loved her dearly—he was sure he did—but he couldn't quite recall her shape; and he didn't want to get it wrong.
His apartment was too large and his schedule too busy for him to have time to dust, or clean toilets, or scrub floors, so he got a referral from a co-worker, and hired a cleaning lady. "Look at all these nice things you have!" she exclaimed upon her arrival, and promptly threw them in the trash. "There. Everything is cleaner now," she said, and indeed it was.
They said it was the warmer weather, and the rains, which brought the snakes to our city.
The first time we saw one, it was so out of place, we didn't recognize it. By the time we understood what we were seeing, it had already slithered away into the shadow, into the sewer, and we didn't believe our eyes.
The second time we saw a snake, we assumed there'd been a mistake: an escaped pet, an accident at the zoo.
By the third time, we were seeing them twine around each other like slippery knots. "Did you see that?," we'd ask strangers on the street. We knew something must be wrong.
We started to hear stories: snakes in the basement; in the sofa; in the shoes. They startled us in our cupboards and in our glove compartments and in our bathtubs.
We didn't know what to do.
We didn't know who to call.
Nothing had prepared us for the snakes.
Soon we were seeing them every day. They lost their fear. They held their ground and flicked their tongues.
Sometimes a child would be bitten, and a vengeful parent would find a golf club or a garden spade and smash and slice any snake she could find.
Still they came.
We found them in our toilets, crawling out of our drains. We found them resting on the bars at our favorite restaurants, on the floors of our favorite movie theatres. We found them in our babies' cribs, in our sleeping wife's hair.
One evening, after a thunderstorm, they welled up as if out of the ground. They oozed up from the subway stations and into the streets. Cars skidded and lost control. Now, the brave and enterprising among us tried to fight back, tried to make an industry of snake-killing, and they filled the city with snake blood and the writhing bodies of dead snakes amidst the live ones.
Still they came.
Before long, we had no choice but to leave the city behind, to leave it for the snakes, which filled it like a lake, poured in from every crack, flowed in and out of everything, breeding and sometimes devouring each other, filling up the ruins we'd left behind.
I lost focus so I went to a fortune teller. I picked the first one within walking distance who took credit cards. She asked me to hold out my hands, and as soon as she touched me, I got a hard-on. Within ten minutes we were fucking on the sofa.
"You've got a really strong love line," she said.
I moved in that night. That was three years ago.
* * *
(Did she see it coming? I always wondered, and I never knew.)
* * *
Her name was Stella Luna, like the children's book. That's what it said on the sign in her parlor. Her real name was Stella DeAngelis, but she changed it. "I thought Luna sounded more mystical," she explained.
"More mystical than, 'From angels'?"
I asked if she came from a long line of psychics, and she laughed. "My daddy was a plumber." But she also had an uncle who made a good living betting on horses, and legend has it that her grandmother predicted the assassination of JFK, in vivid detail, including the phrase "grassy knoll." She claimed she saw the face of the third gunman, and could have picked him out of a police line-up. "But who knows?"
* * *
"You're going to struggle a while," Stella told me, as we laid naked on her sofa, she finally reading my palm. "Because you're a seeker."
"What do I seek?"
She ran her finger along my palm but didn't answer.
"What do I seek?"
"That which you don't have," she said finally, and got up to pull on her clothes.
She knew the future but she didn't know that certain truths follow from their atomic propositions.
* * *
"You're going to go home and pack a bag of things and move in with me," she said.
"Is that a prediction? Or just something you want?"
She smiled and kissed me. "It's your destiny."
* * *
I went home, packed a bag, and moved in with her, which was a shitty thing to do, because I'd lived with a woman at the time, a woman who told me often that she loved me.
"I'm moving out."
"What? Why?"
"It's my destiny."
I paid an extra month's rent and let her keep my share of the deposit, and since she was justified in saying all of those bad things about me, I never tried to stop her. I still think about her sometimes.
* * *
Stella and I took a trip to Vermont, after I'd been living with her for a few months. We rented a car and took turns driving up the coast through the rain. Halfway through Connecticut, she said, "Pull over. I want to fuck you."
I stopped the car, and she unbuckled my pants and climbed on top of me, somehow squeezing her lithe body into the space between me and the steering wheel.
"That was great," I said, and she laughed and wiped the fog of our breath off the windows.
Up ahead, a tractor trailer had jack-knifed and killed twenty-two people—the largest single auto accident in Connecticut history.
"Did you know?," I asked her.
"I just wanted to fuck," she answered.
* * *
"Do you believe in predestiny? Are our futures written?"
"Of course." She looked at me like I'd questioned the roundness of the Earth, or gravity. She didn't understand why this idea put me into a three-day sulk and got me wondering about suicide. "Do you ever think of killing yourself?," I asked her.
"That's stupid."
* * *
"What do they say?"
She looked at me impatiently.
"Nothing about sinking ships, right? Nothing about death at sea? I couldn't bear knowing I was going to drown."
"When I read your palm," she explained, "I am reading your palm."
"That's tautological."
"But when I read the cards, I am reading the cards. And the cards are reading you. Do you understand?"
"No. I mean of course, yes, but, no, not at all. Why does a random shuffle of cards offer meaning about my life?"
"Right? Why does a random shuffle of events, or a random shuffle of jobs, or a random shuffle of girlfriends, offer meaning about your life? Exactly."
"So what do the cards say?"
She looked at them quietly for a while. She didn't like telling my fortune. Or maybe she just didn't like my fortune.
"You're going to struggle a while," she finally said.
"That's vague."
"The cards are kind of hard to read tonight. I'll look at them again tomorrow."
"I want my money back," I told her.
"Then you should have paid me." She kissed me sweetly on the cheek. "Let's go to bed."
* * *
She held a bag in her hand and she told me she was leaving. She gave me an extra month's rent, and said I should keep her share of the deposit.
"What? Why?," I asked. But she didn't answer.
"I've loved you," she said. "I'll always love you."
"Did you see this coming?," I asked.
"Did you see this coming?," I asked. "Because I didn't see this coming."
But I was shouting at the door. She was already gone.
* * *
We were lying on the sofa, and she was kissing my hand. "What am I seeking?," I asked her. We were both so relaxed, the way lovers are. "I don't know," she answered. "What are you seeking?"
We were on the train and we were going toward important places, and that is what allowed us to disappear into ourselves, and pass by station stop after station stop, staring into books and newspapers and windows and each other, as if we were nowhere, as if we were people without souls.
The man shuffled onto the train announced by his own stink, a sticky vinegar that attached itself to the inside of the nose. He shuffled his feet and he shuffled his cardboard cup, mostly empty but with a few coins, like a broken toy tambourine.
He spoke too quietly to draw us from our reverie. It was the stink, rather, that drew us, and pushed most of us to inch away from him without looking, nor hearing his mumbled words: "I am Shiva," he said, "Neelkantha of the blue throat, eye of fire, skin of tiger, greatest among gods, destroyer of worlds." He chanted this quietly and made his way among us, while we withdrew from him without looking up.
Not listening to him or even hearing him, we never imagined that his words were true, that he was indeed the great deity incarnate, nor that our failure to love him or care for him was a final act of disastrous consequence: that we had failed so exhaustively, failed in our very humanity, and, undeserving of it, would live to see it stripped from us, while we, unaware, listened to our headphones, read our magazines, and recoiled from the stink of the misfortune we'd helped to create.
It started with the sound of nothing, which was unusual even at that time of the morning. The power was out in the kitchen, and when I peered out the window, there was no traffic, no one on the sidewalk, no construction sound, no plane passing overheard, no hum of electricity, nothing.
There was no one. Sometime overnight, everyone had disappeared. Everyone except me.
I assumed, then, I didn't have to go to work; so I finally finished a book I'd been reading for too long. I made myself a sandwich, and then, not really knowing what to do, I went back to bed, around 3pm. I really needed to catch up on sleep.
Monday, 11:30pm
I woke suddenly, well-rested but draped in so much darkness: dark as far as the eye could see. Haha. People are still missing, or seem to be. Maybe it's an elaborate hide-and-seek.
It's so quiet that it hurts my ears. That is, in the quiet, I hear a high-pitched whine. I've been told that this is the onset of hearing loss: the pitches I hear are the pitches that I no longer can hear, if that makes any sense. I wonder, then, is deafness actually loud, a cacophony of all pitches?
I'm wide awake; it's midnight; I'm the last man on earth. It's flattering, really. And frustrating—so many things left unfinished: the report I was writing on at work, which Alex told me was quite good. (Alex is my immediate supervisor.) (Or maybe I should say was.)
Also, I had Mets tickets for next week. They were playing the Orioles.
It's harder than I expect to pass the time, in the dark; but it gives me unexpected joy—it gives the familiarity of my apartment refreshing newness. I also stub my toe, badly, on the corner of the sofa.
I walk through my neighborhood. Everything seems to be in its right place: cars are parked, trash cans lined neatly against the walls. The black outline of a nearby skyscraper blots out a patch of stars. In the dark, there are more stars than I've ever seen in the city, but I don't remember the names of any of the constellations.
Tuesday, 5:45am
I start jogging. I don't usually jog. It's funny how we behave differently when there's no one around to see: there's no one who knows I don't jog, so I can be a jogger if I want to. Central Park is covered in a light mist, and I twitch with a vague foreboding: "Don't go into the park alone!" But when you're truly alone, no one is a danger.
Tuesday, 11:21am
I keep glancing at my cellphone to see if there are any new messages, but of course there aren't, because I'm the last man on Earth. Anyway, it's not like very many people called me before.
Tuesday, 12:48pm
I'm standing in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, underneath the twine of steel cabling. The wide sidewalk on the bridge is empty. The lanes of traffic on either side are empty. The water below me is calm, but everything is so quiet that I can hear it roaring by.
Tuesday, 4:55pm
I get a guilty pleasure out of reading Cosmopolitan magazine. It's embarrassing: I'm a guy and it's not for guys, but I read it whenever I go to the doctor or the dentist. I like knowing what women are supposed to be thinking about me.
Every issue of Cosmopolitan is almost exactly the same as the last issue: it has articles on sex positions and how to drive him wild in bed. Cosmopolitan has more sex in it thanPlayboy. I'm surprised they manage to come out with new issues each month, since eventually they must run out of sex positions. But I guess people forget, so they don't mind reading the same things twice.
It occurs to me that the Cosmopolitan I read today in the park outside City Hall is the last Cosmopolitan that will ever be printed. I wonder, does that mean the hair style they describe will be in fashion forever?
Wednesday, 8:15am
I decide to go door to door in my apartment building to see if anyone is still around. I've lived in this building for three years and I've never knocked on anyone's door till today.
I like the people who live here. (Lived.) (Liked.) (Insofar as one can like people to whom we don't speak.) People in this building are quiet, and clean, and polite. (Were.) Sometimes they'd hold the door for me when my hands were full with groceries, and sometimes I'd do the same for them—so we were neighborly, I guess is the word.
I bring a box of Girl Scout Cookies, so that if someone does open their door, I can ask them if they want one.
You'd be amazed by the variety of doors in my apartment building. You'd think they'd be all the same, bought in bulk, at a discount rate, but in fact nearly every one is a little different. I imagine they've been replaced, one by one, over a long period of time. Some doors seem incredibly heavy. One, on the third floor, is light like the closet door in a child's bedroom. Knocking on that door is like knocking on paper.
No one is answering any of the doors. It was a forgone conclusion, but I got caught up listening to the sounds that my knocks made without ever really thinking about why I was knocking, till the paper-thin door knocked me out of my reverie.
I climb out on my fire escape and eat some Girl Scout cookies. I pour some milk to go with the cookies, but my milk had started to sour, and I throw it out after a mouthful. That was the last milk I will ever have. I might never wash that taste out of my mouth.
Thursday
Though there is no one else left in the world and therefore the status of my obligations is vague to say the least, still, I am a man of my word: I spent my morning paying bills for my cellphone and cable. I won't do it again next month, though, if this continues, since neither of these services has been working for several days.
I also decide to finish the report I started at work, the one which Alex liked so much. I bike to the office. Without traffic, without stoplights, without car doors, without pedestrians in crosswalks, biking is the purest joy: it's really like flying.
I'm quite productive, working alone. The phone doesn't ring once. When I've finished assembling my PowerPoint deck, I do a practice run of my presentation in the conference room. It goes well, I think.
On the way home, I head west and watch the sunset over the Hudson. I wonder why I didn't do this more often, before. Then I bike home, the strobe light on the back of my bike seat flickering to protect me from non-existent traffic.
Friday, Early Morning
My watch stopped and I'm quickly losing my sense of time, but I wake naturally just after dawn. Today is the day of my work presentation. I own three suits and I have trouble deciding which one to wear, but finally I pick the newest one, the one with pinstripes. I never expected I would be the sort of person to own three suits, the sort of person to have enough suits that it's hard to decide which one to wear to work. I'm not sure when I became that sort of person, but the transformation wasn't awful, like I might have imagined. If anything, the third suit was liberating. The first two suits were obligatory, but this third suit seemed somewhat for fun.
I'm proud of my PowerPoint deck: it's got a kind of structural elegance, and it deserves to be shown.
But as I'm tying my tie, I notice there's a blemish on my face, a black spot on my cheekbone, like a beauty mark. I've never seen it before. It is sudden and alarming. I can feel my heart quicken, and I wonder, should I call a dermatologist or an oncologist?, before I realize that phones are dead and there are no doctors. I am alone with my blemish.
Looking closer in the mirror, I see that the blemish is nothing: it's not a pimple or a lesion. It's a tiny spot of pure nothing, a little black hole on my cheek. I poke at it with tweezers and the tip disappears. It is unsettling, and I decide not to go to the office today.
Friday, Late Morning
I've returned to the paper-thin door on the third floor and I'm smashing it down with my tennis racquet. "Hello?," I call out, after destroying the door. "Anyone home?"
The apartment is nicely furnished, and very clean, and comfortable, and has a very fresh smell. There is a vase of cut flowers on the kitchen table, and I refresh the water in the vase, though the flowers are nearly all dead.
"Hello?," I call out again.
The view out the window is good. I wonder what she pays in rent?
Then I notice—and I can't believe I didn't hear it earlier: there is water running. The shower is running in the bathroom.
"Is anyone there?," I ask again. "It's me, from upstairs."
I turn the knob of the bathroom door, and push the door open with my tennis racquet. Steam pours out and fogs my glasses; I can't see a thing. "Hello?"
I pull back the shower curtain. There is no one, just hot water pouring down into the drain.
The showerhead is very nice—one of the overhead ones that pours the water out like rain.
On my way out, I borrow a stack of DVDs from a bookshelf, and bring them back to my apartment.
Sunday night
There is a scene in the movie Amélie where the main character (a French girl named Amélie) has the television on in her apartment with the sound turned down. She looks over at it and notices a news clip: a horse has escaped its corral so it can run, side by side, with a team of bicyclists. Amélie watches in wonder and decides to record it on her VCR. Later in the movie, she gives the videotape to another character, who also watches the scene with silent wonder. I doubt either one of them could explain why it was wonderful, but it was, and they knew it, and it made them happy.
I felt the same way about the movie Amélie. I couldn't explain why, but when I saw it, it made me feel happy to be alive.
Monday morning
I decide perhaps I'll learn French. I practice saying, Sans toi, les émotions d'aujourd'hui ne seraient que la peau morte des émotions d'autrefois: "Without you, today's emotions would be the scurf of yesterday's." I don't really know what it means, even in English.
Evening
Something strange happening with time. I don't mean in the sense that "Time flies when you're having fun," or in the sense that, in absence of outside obligations, we lose track of days, like children in the summertime. Whatever is happening, it is alarming in a way that it never was when I was a child in the summer.
I blink my eyes and a week goes by. Anyway, I think it's a week. It might be longer or shorter. There's no way to know.
It happens in the midst of a day, too: sometimes I'll sit at my kitchen table in the morning, flipping through a magazine I've already read, and then, twenty minutes, the sun will begin to set.
But then twilight lasts for days.
So something's not right, but there's no way to measure, and no one with whom to compare.
When I look in the mirror, I think I look much older than I remember. But then as soon as I concede this is the case, I seem much younger.
I'm losing track of things.
And I'm not sure when I stopped eating.
Thursday or maybe Sunday
Of course I wasn't watching the DVD of Amélie. Electricity had been out for days, weeks, who knows how long? Instead, I stood the DVD box on top of my television, and I watched the box. I stared at Amélie for hours, days, who knows how long? And she stared back.
"Hello," I said.
"Bonjour," she replied. And proceeded to tell me, in detail, in French, everything that had happened in her movie, to the best of her memory. I don't know French, so she would stop periodically to recap in English.
"Thank you," I said.
"De rien," she replied. "It's nothing."
It was, without a doubt, the best movie I've ever heard.
Some Time Later
I find that the people I used to know are beginning to blur in my mind. I remember a funny story, something I did once with a guy named Adam. I laughed out loud when I remembered this story. Fun times. Then I realized, "Oh. That wasn't Adam." And I couldn't remember who it was.
Since no one has any further use for street signs, I've begun to paint them over with the names of the people I knew. I walk around during the day with a can of green paint in one hand and a can of white paint in the other, and I gradually re-map the city: Jonathan Street. Caroline Boulevard. Adam Lane. Before I forget.
I rename Broadway after my mother, whatever her name was.
Middle of the Night, I Think
I had a nightmare that everything that's happened recently was in fact only a dream. In the nightmare, I woke up, and the world was still full of people, same as it ever was. My alarm clock chimed and beckoned me to another workday, and I was filled with great emptiness.
Then I woke from the dream, and the night was still, and the city was empty, and everything was as it had been.
I went to the bathroom for a glass of water, and noticed the black hole on my cheek had grown, now big enough to fit a finger.
Later
"What do you want?," Amélie asks. "What do you want to do? Ce qui vous veulent faire?"
"I want to write a manifesto."
"Bah!" She wrinkles her nose. "Your life is a manifesto."
My life is a manifesto. "Ma vie est un manifeste!"
Daytime and Tomorrow
I have more paint now. I roam the city, and one by one, I'm painting over all of its billboards.
Left to our own devices, maybe we all become artists.
I am painting enormous murals, scenes I remember from my life. As I paint, I remember everything, everything I ever did, everyone I ever knew. I remember long forgotten years and feelings of communion; holding hands at the junior high dance; the encouragements of my second grade teacher; the mobile of ceramic swans hanging over my crib. I remember sweeping forests sprawling far as the eye could see, rolling oceans, endless plains. I remember mustard gas and sinking ships, bullets and bayonets and the sticky warmth of my own blood; I remember rounding Cape Horn, scaling Everest, building the Pyramids brick by brick, walking light-footed on the Moon. I remember the center of the galaxy, the center of the universe, the sound of vacuum. I remember the Big Bang, like a gasp of breath, like a baby's laugh, like the anticipation of an orgasm, like the spasm of fear that comes alongside true love, the true fear of loss; and I remember, before that, the bottomless silence—like the silence I hear now.