grizzly atoms: part one
Hello. This is part one of a short novel by Kevin Griffing.
There are three more parts to this book. They might get posted here if folks say please. (And if no one wants to publish it.)
a synopsis (I’ve always hated writing synopses... would love input on how to make it gooder):
This is a story about the end of the world. There is a meteor headed toward Earth, and there is no ambiguity as to what the outcome will be. There will be no post-apocalypse. This is a story about the year leading up to this moment. It follows the events in and around one particular grocery store, and the lives of several humans who frequent it, during this period of time.
This is a story about procrastination, and futility. There is a cult leader with no followers. There is a pointless staircase that has no end. There is a painter who doesn’t paint because the world just hasn’t provided anything interesting enough to be worth the time and effort. There is a discussion about the weather on the day of the apocalypse. There are dishes that never get washed. There is a person who spends the last year of their life in prison, and absolutely loves it. There is a writer who doesn’t write.
This is a story about the heroic meteor that sacrificed its life in order to save the rest of the universe from humanity, and no one even noticed.
Part 1
It’s happening right now, I guess. I mean, it’s definitely happening. I look out the window and see the sun still pounding the pavement like it usually does. The news says that it’s been happening for a minute. They say that the astronomers could see it coming a year ago; it was well on its way a long time before that. Now, it’s here. I don’t really watch the news. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, but I try to keep my mind focused on tasks at hand. I think it’s a distraction to worry too much about what’s going on everywhere else. It clutters your head with useless facts and speculation. It’s what makes people so apathetic these days.
The news. And the internet. Anything you ever wanted to know, but never needed to be informed of; it’s all there. It’s all already been thought of. No one has any self-motivation anymore because everything’s already been invented. They’ve got no purpose. No ambition. Not me, though. See, I have this idea. It’s more of a project I’ve been working on for… well, it’s one of those ideas that doesn’t just appear before you like a lightning strike. An idea like this takes time. Especially if you want to do it right.
Right now, the news is everywhere. I can’t seem to escape it. I can hear it through my neighbor’s open window, carrying on an infinite debate over the possibilities. They say some places in the world can already see it coming. Some places they say it’s eclipsed the sun. I look up from the concrete as far as my window will allow, but the apartment buildings give me only a sliver of the sky to look at. And it just looks like the sky usually does. The echoes of the anchor’s voice are saying that it doesn’t really matter where it hits. They’ve been saying that. For some people, it will be a tidal wave. Other places, a fire storm, or like a nuclear blast, or an earthquake that never ends. I try to tune out their endless speculation. It’s just white noise. I sit at my typewriter, like I do most days.
You have to have a routine, and you have to work at it, bit by bit, when it’s an idea this big. It can take a lifetime. It can take several lifetimes.
Sometimes I write a little. Sometimes I edit a little. Sometimes I just sit here, thinking. Like I have been all morning. Just before they broke the news that today was the day it was going to hit, I was thinking. I was thinking about going to the grocery store. To buy some more Kahlua. I put a little Kahlua in my coffee. Coffee is an important part of the routine. I always have a pot going while I sit at the typewriter. It helps me to focus. While I’m putting the filter in, and opening the bag of grounds. Gives me some perspective. Like a little breather from the project. Right now, I’m looking out the window, expecting to see something like a riot down in the street. A lady is walking her dog. Before my dog died, that used to be part of the routine. It was how I began my mornings. I still do my daily work-out, usually after the first cup or two of coffee. When I ran out of Kahlua today, I was pouring my second cup. I remember it quite clearly; I was in the middle of a really interesting Wikipedia article about the Roman Empire. I love Wikipedia. It’s like the dictionary of life. Some mornings, when I sit on the couch with my laptop open, I tell myself I’ll stick to just a few articles while I check my email, Facebook, and hit refresh on my blog page. I like to keep a blog, sort of like a diary. I update the world with progress on the project. Sometimes, I pose questions to the reader. I keep a tab open all day long, occasionally hitting refresh, just to check if anyone will ever respond. They say blogs take time to pick up speed. I know that. But, they say, you just have to keep plugging away and the readership will eventually come. I was trying to think of a good post to write last night. In preparation for the morning. It’s good to plan ahead with blog posts. So that you don’t run out of things to talk about. On the news they’ve been talking about how it’s going to be a giant wall of water here, crashing over the harbor and rushing through every street and every alley. In seconds we’ll all be crushed underwater. A city full of people drowning in unison. Like a choir of desperation. It’s a stirring image, and I tuck it away in the back of my mind. Sometimes, when I think of a really good idea, or a scene like that, I spend a few minutes sort of memorizing it. So I don’t lose it. That way, when I sit down at the typewriter, I won’t have to waste so much time coming up with fresh images. Preparation is such an important part of the creative process. The routine.
They say we might notice the earthquake at first, right after it hits, but after that, nothing. Everything we have ever known will be gone, and I know this should be frightening, but I can’t let the threat of death get in the way of the creative process. You have to have a routine. See, I’ve lived my whole life with the knowledge, no, the anticipation of death. I’ve always known it was coming; I suppose everyone does. That’s why you can’t waste any time. Everything you do has to be toward that one goal. This thing I’m doing, the project I’m working on, it’s going to be huge. It is huge. It’s the biggest idea a person can think of I think. I chose to write it down because that’s what we do. We’re all going to be dead and then what’s left. A legacy. But a book is different. A book is more like a conversation. It’s talking to the future, to everyone who will ever live for the duration. Until whatever happens. And now it’s happening, I guess. The news says some people are getting in cars and driving up into the hills. Any hills nearby. Just going up. And away from the water. They’re also saying it doesn’t even matter. That’s why I don’t really watch the news. So negative all the time. I think it’s important to have faith. Faith in whatever it is. I don’t really believe in God or anything like that, but I do have faith. I don’t think you even need a thing to have faith in. You just need to have it. You take it, and it’s yours. The news has no faith. And it’s distracting. I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything.
The neighbors have had their window open all summer, bringing the news in here with the breeze, pulling me away from my thoughts. It was the first thing I noticed when I woke up today. A little louder than usual. A little more suspense in the anchors’ voices as they were talking about evacuation. I’ve been unable to stop myself from listening to it all day.
This morning, I was just going to go to the store. Like any other day. I have a coupon. It’s technically expired, but I think I’ll try and use it, anyway. I have a particular store I go to. It’s right on the harbor, so you can actually see the sky and the sunset from the parking lot. It’s good to see the curve of the earth every once in a while. Going to the store can help me think while I’m on the way or waiting to check out. I like to talk to the clerks or the other people in line. You never know what you’ll learn. I like all the possibilities in a grocery store. You can buy anything. Sometimes, I just browse the aisles for hours, and then end up buying the same things I always buy. But it’s like a nice little breather. From the project. Like my coffee is. And that’s why I needed to go to the store this morning. I needed more Kahlua. For the coffee. I can’t drink the coffee without the little splash of Kahlua in it. It loosens me up. Brings the words out of me. I never really get drunk. Just looser. The anchor’s echo says it could happen any minute. They’re saying to get in the car and drive away from the bay. That it could have already happened. It’s breaking news; they don’t know what’s going on anymore. Satellites and things are down. The internet might go down. I bet that’s when the riot will start, if it’s not already too late. I stand up, and put the cover over my typewriter. I take my coffee mug over to the sink, and wash it. Thoroughly. I dry it off with a towel, and place it, upright, next to the coffee machine. They’re saying that whatever you do, don’t go toward the water. I grab my car keys and turn off the light. I lock the door behind me.
* * *
I sigh. It’s one of those sighs that goes on forever. The kind that lasts an entire shift. I don’t even look up while I scan the various hair products. “My husband says it’s supposed to hit around four-“
“-but I have an appointment at four thirty! Should I call and cancel? I don’t know what the proper etiquette is in this situation…” I’ve found that if I don’t make eye contact, they’re less likely to try and start a conversation with me. I’ve perfected my resting bitch face. The best case scenario is when there’s someone else in line for them to talk to. “Do you think the phone lines will go down? They said on the news we’ll definitely lose power when it hits.”
“I was in Japan when that Tsunami hit. It was total chaos.” She waddles forward, opening up her massive purple purse. She sets it down next to the register, digging with both arms. She smells like baby powder and dead skin. “Nelson’s friend from work is going to let us in his bomb shelter-“
“Oooh! Japan, huh? I’ve always wanted to visit. What’s it like this time of year?” She glances at me. It suggests that her question is posed to everyone in earshot. I don’t understand why they always want to talk to me. I suppose the only social interaction some people get is in the checkout line, but I just don’t have the energy to feign interest anymore. All they want to do is talk about the weather, anyway. Or gluten. If all goes well, and I put on my ugliest grimace, and avoid eye contact, then all I have to say to them is,
“um, debit or credit,” and then hand them their receipt, and hopefully they’ll just go away. She takes the receipt and folds it methodically. She pauses at the end of the checkout stand, while she slides it into her wallet, with all the other receipts, and continues her conversation.
“Such a shame, too. And the weatherman said it’s supposed to be sunny like this all week.” Her and her new friend stand together near the entrance, still spewing details about the forecast.
“Who would’ve thought the end of the world would be such a nice day?” to pass the time, I like to think about how I’m going to quit someday. I promised myself years ago that I wouldn’t die a servant to this check stand. It’s not a matter of if. Just when. The moment has to be perfect. In the morning, when I get dressed, I think about the perfect outfit to quit in. I was late today because I couldn’t decide. Today really feels like the day. I scan each customer from hair to shoes as they empty the contents of their shopping carts. To see if they’re the kind of customer I would enjoy quitting all over. This lady isn’t quite annoying enough. The moment has to be perfect. It’s like a poem that I’ve been writing, meticulously lacing the pieces together for…well, however many years it’s been since I first took this job. I forgot my birthday one year, and ever since then I keep forgetting exactly how old I am.
“Excuse me?” I pretend not to hear him behind me. The voice alone makes me shiver. It’s dominating and cold, like the world was created just for it to bounce around in and fill with its mundanity. It’s a voice that thinks of itself as a radio broadcast. “Excuse me? Hi.” He continues even though I haven’t acknowledged him. This is the third time he’s come up to the register with a question today. I just continue placing the batteries and cans of soup into a paper bag. “Are these bagel bites gluten-free? It says ‘low sodium,’ but I can’t find anything about gluten on here…”
“Oh, are you on a diet?” The lady in front of me at the register answers, holding her card out over the conveyor belt.
“No, actually. I’m allergic.” They begin a long conversation about the science of gluten.
Some days, I’m actually excited to go to work. When I think it’s going to be the day that I finally quit. It’s become an obsession of mine. It fills my time thinking about it. I never know when that perfect opportunity will arise. Maybe, instead of scanning and bagging someone’s groceries, I’ll throw them back in their face, flip them off and leave my apron in the front entryway. I might give a speech. I’ve thought about that, too. What I might say. Quitting your job is the ultimate ‘fuck-you,’ I think. This morning, I woke up with a headache, so I was already thinking today might be the day. That’s why I took so long deciding what to wear; specifically, which shoes. I couldn’t decide whether to wear my six inch heels or classic black converse’. The converse we’re more practical, in case I decide to run, but I settled on the heels. A small sacrifice in order to nail the perfect look.
“Excuse me? Yeah, hi.” That voice again. It creeps over my shoulder in grey-scale. Every time I hear it, my headache gets a little worse. “Yeah, so the expiration date on this milk is for tomorrow. Do you know how long after it expires it takes for it to go bad?”
“My mother always said a week.” An old lady at the back of the line answers his question for me. The moment passed. That might have been the one. I bite my lip anxiously. I should have had my speech ready. Just the sound that comes out of those vocal chords is enough to make anyone want to quit their job just so they won’t have to hear it again. This guy comes in about once a week, and every time, he wanders the through the entire place, picking things up and putting some back, sometimes for hours, and when he’s finally ready to check out, he just has the same three things in his basket. “Then again, she grew up during the depression…”
“Oh, I wonder what that must have been like.” The two begin talking about how fortunate we all are to live in such a time of prosperity. I stop listening at the word ‘fortunate.’ I need to focus, and think. I can’t miss another opportunity like that. Hours pass. I spend my lunch break thinking of witty things to say in the moment. I come back from lunch ten minutes early, too excited to restrain myself. And, as I’m tying my apron, just loose enough so that it will be easy to tear off and throw in a customer’s face, standing behind the register, I look up to see him emptying his basket. I hear the clink of alcohol as he sets two bottles of Kahlua, a stack of gluten-free lean cuisines, and a bag of Columbian coffee grounds, the expensive stuff, onto the conveyor belt. He looks like a walking charcoal still-life. I don't even attempt to count the amount of time he's been walking around the store at this point. I bite my lip as the Kahlua travels toward the scanner, and then he speaks. I find myself starting to sweat in anticipation.
“Now, this coupon I have says it expired last week, but I can still use it, right?”
* * *
I am a painter. An artist. I always liked the sound my voice makes when I say that out loud. You wouldn’t know it just by looking at me. When you’re in your car, stopped at a red light on the off-ramp of the freeway, and I’m standing there with my sign. When you walk by on your way into the grocery store, avoiding eye contact even when you’re leaning in to drop your change in my cup. Even if you stopped to talk, and got to know me, you would probably have no idea; I am an artist. It’s a title you don’t really have to earn or prove your worth to attain. No one can give you that label. You take it, and then it’s yours. You don’t even need to have made any art; all you need is an idea. A vision. Some of the greatest artists didn’t get started until half of their lives had already come and gone. Whatever it may have seemed like they were, a bartender, mechanic, a serial murderer, they were artists all along. They were just artists in waiting. Because an idea is not something you create; it’s a gift the universe gives you. It rides to you on the back of sunlight to the mouth of the eye. A vision. That’s what really makes you an artist. Whoever first spoke of quality and quantity was probably talking about their favorite artist. Walt Whitman spent his entire life working on just that one book. He published versions of it dozens of times throughout his life, and then died with a version of it that was unfinished. I forget the name.
As I said, I am an artist. Like those before me. I’m going to be the greatest artist who ever lived. The medium of paint is my preferred method of self-expression. I have a box full of supplies that I keep under my bed. Brushes, pencils, acrylics, charcoal, several sets of oils; all the imaginable tools I might need for transcribing the universe into the second dimension. The world is my muse. It’s my subject. It’s a sacred duty of mine. I am its translator. I keep these tools under the passenger seat of my car, too, always within reach, when I leave the house. Just in case that perfect moment arrives, when nature reveals itself to me in all its power and its beauty and tragic futility. I haven’t had to open it yet; the world hasn’t given me anything interesting enough to work with. It’s become bored and predictable. Nowadays, no one looks up from their screen. There’s no reason to. The computer was the last exciting gift the universe gave itself. Its last magic trick; infinity wrapped in a little plastic box. Omnipotent. Omniscient. Eternal; like having a deity in the palm of your hand. Since then, we’ve become so apathetic, like there’s nothing new left to see, but I know that’s not true. I don’t even own a computer anymore, or a television. I don’t have time for things like that. I need to be present. Aware of everything around me. I used to be a productive part of society, when I was younger and more easily amused. It was still exciting then. When we all thought the world was going to change. Maybe it did, too; it doesn’t really matter. Things just tend to get colder and more scientific. Less passionate. There’s no imagination in the universe anymore. No more science fiction. Just history. Everything is just machinery now. It probably always was. I don’t know. Besides, a machine is just a bad reflection of what’s already there. No camera could take a picture as well as the human eye can. No mushroom cloud could compare to the sun’s eternal fireworks show. But these things aren’t new, or exciting. Anyone who has an internet connection has seen everything the universe has to offer us. It makes it hard to decide what to paint.
My sacred duty, my calling, is to wait but to always assume the position. To be ready at any moment; to bear witness, and to paint my subject. The world always finds a way to surprise itself when things start getting too orderly. The holocaust is a good example of a bored universe. When the industrial revolution became a little too predictable. Too automated. Death is nature’s greatest invention. It gave everything weight, made life infinitely more interesting. It gave every moment a singular importance. But we’ve all seen enough death not to blink or flinch at the idea ever again. There’s really only one exciting thing left for the world to do, and I plan to be there when it happens. To create my masterpiece. I think that most people would understand why my time can’t be wasted working some normal human job. I need to be available at all times in order to perform my sacred duty. To you, I probably just look like any other homeless person, holding a cup full of ones and change in your direction as you walk to the car with your groceries. I drew up a cardboard sign that says “Starving artist. Anything helps.” I know what you’re thinking; I’m not actually homeless. And the truth is I’m not really starving. I actually do pretty well for myself. I don’t need very much money, anyway. Most things I steal. I believe that even if I did get caught, I could make them understand. I don’t think of it as stealing. It’s more of a form of payment, whether they know it or not. It’s like a credit card you get for being an artist.
Right now, I’m in the refrigerated section of my favorite grocery store, trying to stuff a T-bone steak into the crotch of my pants. I like this store the best because the clerk doesn’t seem to notice or care. I think she secretly hates her job, but you wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance. There’s a face she makes every once in awhile, on particularly sunny days, when a customer asks her a question, or pays entirely with loose change. Her brow furrows and her face puckers as if she’s sucking on a lemon, like she’s moments away from committing mass murder. I put my hands in my sweatshirt to cover the bulge, and begin walking toward the exit. A man is standing at the checkout, waving a piece of newspaper six inches from the clerk’s face.
“… but I can still use it, right?” The clerk looks like she’s biting her tongue, like there is something she wants to say, but before she can, there’s the crash of shattering glass from the front of the store, the sound of someone diving through the front window next to the open door.
“It’s all happening!” He screams through the gas mask he wears over his face. It’s painted red and blue with white straps. The red is thick and dark like dried blood, almost black like his trench coat. He stomps through the store, holding a shotgun like it has a disease, like he’s never held a gun before, like he’s never needed to until today. He grabs a basket on his way through the aisles, throwing random items of canned food into it as he goes. While everyone is occupied, watching him tear through the store, I grab a Reese’s peanut butter cup from the stand next to the register, and slide it into my back pocket.
The man mumbles at full volume, repeating gibberish sprinkled with obscenities. He stumbles into the aisle with the Advil and cough medicine. He’s desperately searching for something, picking up different bottles and boxes, then throwing them to the floor. He lifts up the gas mask to read the label of something. His face twists around in frustration. He pushes his head down into his neck, creating a couple more chins. He lets out a scream. “Where is the fucking saltpeter?!” He stomps up to the check stand, where the customer and clerk stand in silence. “There’s no time!” The customer doesn’t so much as glance at him; he continues to wave the newspaper in the clerk’s eyes, which have retreated back down to face the items on the conveyor belt. “Bullets and water…” the man says through his gas mask, holding the shotgun up at the ceiling. “That’s what’ll go first… that’s what they’ll fight over…” he says, like he’s having an argument with someone. He repeats, “the saltpeter god damn it!” He stares at her and waves the shotgun around in anger. The clerk looks up from the scanner again, her eye glinting from just a single tear. It’s not fear or grief. It’s a tear of anticipated release, like there is something special about this moment. She’s making that face again. Creased and folded into itself as if she’s trying to squeeze the words out of it. It’s the look that says she has something important to say. From where I’m standing, I can see her begin to undo her apron slowly behind her back. She opens her mouth to speak - and then two policemen glide in, weapons drawn, facing the man with the gas mask.
“On the floor, motherfucker!” They say, pointing with their guns. “Now!” They say, but the man isn’t listening. He swings the shotgun up into his other arm, holding the trigger as he points it at one of them. A sheathed samurai sword dangles from his hip as he moves erratically.
“Follow me!” He says. “It’s all happening-“ and then he’s on the floor, squirming and shaking. The cop walks over and pulls the Taser out of his abdomen. As they’re dragging him off, the clerk looks back down at the conveyor belt, her face relaxed back into its usual state, cold and hard like marble.
“Aisle thirteen,” she says, answering the unconscious man’s question as he’s pulled through the front door. She scans a bottle of Kahlua. I walk past the checkout stand and out the door, holding my hands in my sweatshirt pocket to cover the bulge. As the policemen drag the man, trench coat and all, toward their cruiser, suddenly the sky turns orange above the grocery store, painting the street and city with all the colors of fire. It’s red and yellow, like the world has just been submerged in a lava lamp. Just above the open sign, a ball of light bursts through a pregnant cloud, leaving a trail of black smoke that stretches across the horizon. It’s perfect and beautiful, like the sun is falling out of the sky. The two cops handcuff the man next to their car, not so much as glancing up at the sky. Two large women in their forties fill the trunk of an old Cadillac with plastic bags, talking and laughing. I gasp, choking on my own saliva. The steak falls out of my pants as I run toward my car, fumbling with my car keys. I’m shaking while I try to slide the key into the door; it drops to the ground, falling through the sewer drain between the street and sidewalk. It doesn’t matter. It’s happening. I ram my elbow through the window, shattering the glass. I reach down under the passenger seat and pull an elegantly carved wooden box out.