Lettuce, Tomato and Locusts.
“Spring’s coming,” the produce manager said.
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“You prepared?”
“No. Are you?”
“Well, now that you mention it—not really.”
“I know, right?”
“Did you hear about the locusts?”
That made me pause in my careful selection of tomatoes. “No, what locusts?”
“I don’t know. Just heard mention of it on the radio.”
On my way home, the power company was out in full force. I didn’t count them, but I saw at least a dozen crews trimming trees away from the power lines. I waved to one of them as I went by. They’re doing a superhuman job.
I drove home, got the electric clippers out of the back seat and buzz cut a tunnel through the hedges to my yard. The grass was a foot tall and I mowed it less than a week ago.
I scanned the street and the neighbor’s yards.
It was after five, so a lot of people were out, trimming trees, bushes, flowers. The sound of electric pruning shears and blowers made for a tonal backdrop to the variable pitch of two chainsaws growling and purring, back and forth, like a musical competition. Spring hadn’t even officially started yet. Come June or July? I don’t want to think about it.
I grabbed the groceries and let myself into the house. Say hi to the wife. “Hi wife.” Yes, I have more vegetables.
“What ya got there?” She asks.
“A tomato.”
Her face goes slack. “You got more vegetables? Hank!” She takes the bag and sets it on the counter.
I drift over toward the stove. She’s cooking something but I don’t know what. It smells, unfamiliar.
“What cha makin’?”
“Hank,” she says seriously. “Seriously? More lettuce?” She holds up two heads and shakes her head. Then she shakes the lettuces heads. Then all three heads are shaking at me. No. No. No. Bad Hank. “But they were cheap,” I say. “Really cheap.”
“It doesn’t matter how cheap they were if we don’t eat them.” She’s giving me that tilted head, maternally patient but disappointed, you are such a child look. Every woman has one. It probably goes with having children. Or men.
“Five cents,” I say.
It’s as if she’s been tasered. She’s momentarily stunned. Then she recovers, she always does. “Five cents? Hm.” She pauses. She’s got impeccable timing. “Next time you decide to throw our money away, buy something smaller.” Then she tosses them to me and says, “Put ‘em away.”
I caught them both. Shoved one in the fridge, not easily, then left the other one on the counter.
We have a TV in the kitchen, usually it’s on. “You hear about the locusts?” I say.
“No.” She finds the tomatoes. “Ooo, these are nice Hank. I forgive you for the lettuce.” We’ve already got a lot of tomatoes too, but these are really nice ones." I’ve got her figured out.
“Shit,” I blurt out. There was a couple of vine tendrils pushing through the screen and the window. Two green shoots.
My wife looks too, and says, “Damn it, I just opened that window twenty minutes ago.”
I know that’s an exaggeration—but not much of one. She takes two steps, breaks the ends off the tendrils and slams the window shut.
“That won’t do it Carol.” That’s my wife’s name. Did I mention that? Carol. I grab a sharp knife off the counter and she backs away. I notice. I stop and look at her. We both laugh. Then I open the window and using the knife l crush and slice the shit out of those two ‘tendrils’ until there’s nothing left of them. Then I re-close the window.
“My hero,” she says. Clasping her hands together, supplicant-like.
“A minute ago you thought I was a psychopath.” I said.
“And now you’re my hero,” she replies.
I’m already looking for the TV remote. ‘Women.’ “Did you see the remote—hon?”
“Nooo.” It’s a very patient ‘no.’
In the living room I lift up the “Home & Garden Magazine,” and there’s the remote.
I flick on the 'tube'. A menu appears and the TV talks to me. “Would you like to restore default audio settings? Please use the remote to choose your preferred option.”
This is why I like to leave it on.
The wife sticks her head out past the kitchen wall. “Did you say something?”
“No. It was the TV.”
“What?” She comes walking over.
“What?”
“What’s on TV?” She looks at me quizzically, like, ‘why did you call me over here?’
I didn’t call you over here. But now that you’re here. “Did you turn the TV off?”
I find the proper button to push and hit okay. The TV comes on, displaying a hamburger as big as the TV. “Why?” I turn down the volume. Change the channel to CNN.
“I felt like it.” She says, and retreats to the kitchen.
Fox Blitzen is ramping down into a commercial. ‘this—time and we’ll be—back after these messages—from your local—sponsors.’ I caught the tail end of the scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen which said, ‘…een Prepares For Locusts Onslaught.’
Crap. My neighbor Jim knocks on the door and lets himself in. “Anybody home? Hi Carol, how ya doing?”
“Fine Jim,” she calls from the kitchen.
He says to me. “Your lawn needs mowing.”
I say nothing. I don’t need to. I have a remote in my hand. The universal silencer.
“You hear about the locusts?” He says.
I want to strangle Fox Blitzen right now. “No. What locusts?”
“What luck huh?”
“Who?” I say, somewhat heatedly. “Whose luck? What locusts? Where?”
“Jesus Hank. Drink enough coffee today? Take it easy, neighbor.”
Carol appears behind him. “You want coffee?”
Jim says no. She looks at me and I say, “Jim was just telling me about the locusts.”
“Oh really? You have a locust story? I’d love to hear it sometime.” To me she says, “No coffee? That’s fine.” And she goes back into the kitchen.
She’s so quiet and clueless that sometimes I want to go over there and check to see if she’s not going through some kind of inter-dimensional portal, and that most of the time she’s not really in the kitchen, she goes to another world where she’s an Amazon Queen. Maybe she just steps into the refrigerator.
Fox Blitzen comes back on, I pause the TV and Jim says, “So, they’ve been saying this species was supposed to be extinct.”
I unfreeze Fox. ‘A species, once thought to be extinct for 50 years, is threatening to slam into this area for the third time in four years. Residents are preparing for the event in some unexpected ways.’ A video clip begins, showing people holding up signs, to the locusts. ‘Welcome back, locusts,’ ‘put your six feet up and stay awhile’, ‘God Bless our ‘loscuts’.
I paused the TV. “Carol.” No answer. I know she’s not in there. Can’t be. “Carol.” Her head pops out from behind the wall.
“Yes?”
“We’re getting locusts for Easter.”
“Really? Oh thank god. That’s wonderful Hank.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said.
“You prepared?”
“No. Are you?”
“Well, now that you mention it—not really.”
“I know, right?”
“Did you hear about the locusts?”
That made me pause in my careful selection of tomatoes. “No, what locusts?”
“I don’t know. Just heard mention of it on the radio.”
On my way home, the power company was out in full force. I didn’t count them, but I saw at least a dozen crews trimming trees away from the power lines. I waved to one of them as I went by. They’re doing a superhuman job.
I drove home, got the electric clippers out of the back seat and buzz cut a tunnel through the hedges to my yard. The grass was a foot tall and I mowed it less than a week ago.
I scanned the street and the neighbor’s yards.
It was after five, so a lot of people were out, trimming trees, bushes, flowers. The sound of electric pruning shears and blowers made for a tonal backdrop to the variable pitch of two chainsaws growling and purring, back and forth, like a musical competition. Spring hadn’t even officially started yet. Come June or July? I don’t want to think about it.
I grabbed the groceries and let myself into the house. Say hi to the wife. “Hi wife.” Yes, I have more vegetables.
“What ya got there?” She asks.
“A tomato.”
Her face goes slack. “You got more vegetables? Hank!” She takes the bag and sets it on the counter.
I drift over toward the stove. She’s cooking something but I don’t know what. It smells, unfamiliar.
“What cha makin’?”
“Hank,” she says seriously. “Seriously? More lettuce?” She holds up two heads and shakes her head. Then she shakes the lettuces heads. Then all three heads are shaking at me. No. No. No. Bad Hank. “But they were cheap,” I say. “Really cheap.”
“It doesn’t matter how cheap they were if we don’t eat them.” She’s giving me that tilted head, maternally patient but disappointed, you are such a child look. Every woman has one. It probably goes with having children. Or men.
“Five cents,” I say.
It’s as if she’s been tasered. She’s momentarily stunned. Then she recovers, she always does. “Five cents? Hm.” She pauses. She’s got impeccable timing. “Next time you decide to throw our money away, buy something smaller.” Then she tosses them to me and says, “Put ‘em away.”
I caught them both. Shoved one in the fridge, not easily, then left the other one on the counter.
We have a TV in the kitchen, usually it’s on. “You hear about the locusts?” I say.
“No.” She finds the tomatoes. “Ooo, these are nice Hank. I forgive you for the lettuce.” We’ve already got a lot of tomatoes too, but these are really nice ones." I’ve got her figured out.
“Shit,” I blurt out. There was a couple of vine tendrils pushing through the screen and the window. Two green shoots.
My wife looks too, and says, “Damn it, I just opened that window twenty minutes ago.”
I know that’s an exaggeration—but not much of one. She takes two steps, breaks the ends off the tendrils and slams the window shut.
“That won’t do it Carol.” That’s my wife’s name. Did I mention that? Carol. I grab a sharp knife off the counter and she backs away. I notice. I stop and look at her. We both laugh. Then I open the window and using the knife l crush and slice the shit out of those two ‘tendrils’ until there’s nothing left of them. Then I re-close the window.
“My hero,” she says. Clasping her hands together, supplicant-like.
“A minute ago you thought I was a psychopath.” I said.
“And now you’re my hero,” she replies.
I’m already looking for the TV remote. ‘Women.’ “Did you see the remote—hon?”
“Nooo.” It’s a very patient ‘no.’
In the living room I lift up the “Home & Garden Magazine,” and there’s the remote.
I flick on the 'tube'. A menu appears and the TV talks to me. “Would you like to restore default audio settings? Please use the remote to choose your preferred option.”
This is why I like to leave it on.
The wife sticks her head out past the kitchen wall. “Did you say something?”
“No. It was the TV.”
“What?” She comes walking over.
“What?”
“What’s on TV?” She looks at me quizzically, like, ‘why did you call me over here?’
I didn’t call you over here. But now that you’re here. “Did you turn the TV off?”
I find the proper button to push and hit okay. The TV comes on, displaying a hamburger as big as the TV. “Why?” I turn down the volume. Change the channel to CNN.
“I felt like it.” She says, and retreats to the kitchen.
Fox Blitzen is ramping down into a commercial. ‘this—time and we’ll be—back after these messages—from your local—sponsors.’ I caught the tail end of the scrolling banner at the bottom of the screen which said, ‘…een Prepares For Locusts Onslaught.’
Crap. My neighbor Jim knocks on the door and lets himself in. “Anybody home? Hi Carol, how ya doing?”
“Fine Jim,” she calls from the kitchen.
He says to me. “Your lawn needs mowing.”
I say nothing. I don’t need to. I have a remote in my hand. The universal silencer.
“You hear about the locusts?” He says.
I want to strangle Fox Blitzen right now. “No. What locusts?”
“What luck huh?”
“Who?” I say, somewhat heatedly. “Whose luck? What locusts? Where?”
“Jesus Hank. Drink enough coffee today? Take it easy, neighbor.”
Carol appears behind him. “You want coffee?”
Jim says no. She looks at me and I say, “Jim was just telling me about the locusts.”
“Oh really? You have a locust story? I’d love to hear it sometime.” To me she says, “No coffee? That’s fine.” And she goes back into the kitchen.
She’s so quiet and clueless that sometimes I want to go over there and check to see if she’s not going through some kind of inter-dimensional portal, and that most of the time she’s not really in the kitchen, she goes to another world where she’s an Amazon Queen. Maybe she just steps into the refrigerator.
Fox Blitzen comes back on, I pause the TV and Jim says, “So, they’ve been saying this species was supposed to be extinct.”
I unfreeze Fox. ‘A species, once thought to be extinct for 50 years, is threatening to slam into this area for the third time in four years. Residents are preparing for the event in some unexpected ways.’ A video clip begins, showing people holding up signs, to the locusts. ‘Welcome back, locusts,’ ‘put your six feet up and stay awhile’, ‘God Bless our ‘loscuts’.
I paused the TV. “Carol.” No answer. I know she’s not in there. Can’t be. “Carol.” Her head pops out from behind the wall.
“Yes?”
“We’re getting locusts for Easter.”
“Really? Oh thank god. That’s wonderful Hank.”
It was the worst of times, and that’s no lie. In the Year of our Lord, two thousand and eighty-four, the oil’s long gone, the oceans have swelled and the rain never stops.
My woman grabs me by my shirtfront and pulls my face close to hers, “Be careful,” she says. “Don’t mess around, and for God’s sake come back to me, or so help me Cain, I’ll kill myself.”
I wince at her words and then give her a long, sweet, passionate kiss. “Will do,” I say. Then I shrug on my cloak and wide-brimmed hat, pull the door open and dash out to the barn.
I saddle my horse, a steed I jokingly named ‘Buttercup.’ He’s not fast or pretty, but sturdy as an ox, and anything but a buttercup. He once pulled me and 200 pounds of bear meat out of a mud hole so deep, it could have swallowed a car.
I like to refer to cars, especially in front of youngsters, few though they be, they’ve never seen one and most don’t know what I’m talking about.
I lead old Buttercup out into the pouring rain and lock the barn behind me. One doesn’t take chances in this day and age. I check that both pistols are fully loaded as well as my rifle before climbing up into the saddle. Buttercup snorts once as I pull my collar up as high as it’ll go. I nudge the horse with my knees and he starts off down the sodden road. His hooves splash through the puddles, but I can’t hear anything over the incessant sound of the rain pelting down on horse, rider, saddle, and the lush foliage that crowds the road on either side.
I imagine what I must look like. Black horse, black cloak, black hat, black gloves, deep, sunken eyes: Like death himself? I recall a saying I’ve taken to heart. ‘Tis better to look like a predator, than be mistaken for a victim.’
An hour down the road and Buttercup jerks his head and his ears perk up. I check up on the reins, dismount and lead him off the road into the underbrush. I pat him gently on his neck. ‘Good horse, good boy.’ We can’t stray far from the road for fear of getting bogged in the muck. Thirty feet from the road it’s nothing but swamp and full of bones.
We wait. Presently a lone horse and rider come skulking up the road. He looks like me: Dark, sinister, armed and dangerous. He’s scanning the trees on the other side of the road and never looks our way, but I’ve seen that trick before. Me and Buttercup keep as still as stones, ankle deep in the mud until he passes. Then I check my watch. It’s nearly noon. We wait 15 minutes to make sure he doesn’t double back.
Time passes. I re-mount and we continue on our way. I check behind me periodically. The rain lessens to an annoying drizzle. The low hanging clouds look silver and gray. I haven’t seen the sun in—I don’t know, over twenty years?
Eventually our destination emerges from the drizzling mist; a ramshackle cabin nestled in a small clearing beside the road. Bad news: A horse is tied to the hitching post.
I urge old Buttercup forward and he complies reluctantly. He doesn’t like other horses any less than I distrust other humans. I dismount, keeping Buttercup between me and the door. First, I pull a chain out of my saddlebag and secure old Buttercup to the steel hitching post. Then I grab my rifle and pull a bloody sack out of the other saddlebag.
I approach the door and tap it with the barrel of my rifle. After a few seconds, a small trap in the door slides open and the owner recognizes me. He nods and slides the trap shut. I can hear chains and bolts rattle as he unlocks the door, then pulls it open and lets me in.
As is customary, I stand at the entrance for a bit to let the water drip off my cloak and hat before removing them; the gloves come off too.
The owner of the other horse is hunched over the counter, nursing a cup of something that might be coffee. He barely acknowledges my presence, which is fine with me.
The owner of the cabin, a man named Sutton, says, “What cha need, Mr. Jones?”
I pull a soggy slip of paper out of my pocket and slide it across the counter. He looks it over while his lips move silently. Then he says, “What cha got for me?”
So I plunk the bag of chickens on the counter, and he looks in the bag and gives me an appreciative look.
The other man notices the bag and sort of glances my way. I respond to his interest by setting my rifle on the counter with the barrel pointing in his general direction. The clunk it makes sends a clear but unmistakable message.
I look at Sutton and say, “Any problem with that list?”
Sutton shakes his head and then disappears into the back room as I keep my eyes straight ahead.
After a few minutes, Sutton returns with a different sack and slides it over the counter.
My return trip home is uneventful, thank God, and my woman is so glad to see me she ignores my soaking clothes and hugs me tight. She takes the bag out of my arms and sets it on the table, and begins to pull items out and place them in the cupboards.
There’s a hot stew bubbling on the stove and I lick my lips in anticipation.
“So,” she says, “how was your trip to the store? Tell me all about it.”
Eve Of Destruction. |
Only five of the nine commissioners bothered to attend his presentation; even by remote holographic projection, their expressions betrayed various degrees of incomprehension.
“How do you know it even works?”
“We’ve sent back artifacts, uniquely anomalous artifacts.”
“Such as?”
Djin hesitated. “The Shroud of Turin, for instance. It didn’t show up until the twelfth century, because it didn’t exist until the eleventh. We even put it outside for a short time to give it that scorched, authentic look.”
This amazing revelation barely got a grunt out of the commissioners.
The only one who showed interest was the Chairman, Mr. Bain. “So,” he said, “your device only sends one article, or person at a time.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Bain, and we’re not certain that it’s survivable.”
“I see, and it’s a one-way trip?”
“Yes,” Djin replied. “Unfortunately.”
“So this experiment, whatever else it may reveal, is no solution to our problems.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Chairman. As a means of escape, or exodus, it’s useless.”
“So the purpose of this experiment is purely academic?”
“That is—essentially correct,” Djin lied.
“All right, Doctor. Proceed with your experiment, for whatever good it’ll do, you have our blessings.”
The meeting was adjourned, the holo-vids winked out, and Djin set about the laborious task of getting his heat-suit on without any assistance.
He popped an OxyStik into his mouth and bit into it. It fizzed. Without the supplements, the high levels of carbon dioxide in the air could inhibit brain function by as much as 20 percent.
After wrestling himself into the suit, Djin attached the helmet, closed the latches and got a green light on the seal. (All this for a trip across the campus parking lot.) He thumbed the communications link. “Evelyn. You there?”
“Sure, Doc.” Her voice crackled back.
“I’m returning to the lab. We’re going forward with the experiment.”
“I’ll be standing by the airlock, Doctor.” Evelyn was his chief Assistant. “Kick a lizard,” she added, signing off.
Because of the heat, airlocks were now the norm. He stepped through the inner door and was already sweating by the time the outer door opened.
He tried to ignore the smoldering, hellish landscape. No one traveled by day anymore, when they traveled at all. Global warming was worse than imagined, the oceans had risen, temperatures had soared, fresh water was scarce, food was scarcer still, droughts, plagues and famine had devastated the planet: Except for the insects and reptiles. Earth was in the last stages of its final mass extinction.
Dr. Djin was a scientist by training, but deeply religious by nature. It was difficult to reconcile the fate of humanity with his religious beliefs, but that same faith prevented him from surrendering to what seemed inevitable.
He kicked a two-foot-long lizard out of his way with one of his shielded boots. Their thick hides, toxic flesh and cold-blooded physiology allowed them to flourish in the steamy conditions. And they were multiplying rapidly.
After cycling through the airlock at the physics lab, Evelyn was waiting to help him out of his heat-suit. She wore oven mitts and a disposable mask. “I’ve assembled the team in the classroom, Dr. Djin.”
He forced a smile as he finished extricating himself from the protective gear. Evelyn was a godsend: A smart, vigorous and exacting young woman, beautiful and, as one would expect, one-third his age. She had applied for the assistant’s position at a time when no one wanted to work, let alone pursue academics. Her energy and charisma had attracted a host of talented young people into the physics program, and she drove them like pack horses.
Dr. Djin’s experimental research attracted its share of young talent too.
Addressing the team of a dozen students, he said, “Today’s the day. We’ve been given the green light.”
A clamor of approval swept through the group.
“This is not a cause for celebration, people.” The self-congratulation ceased. “Let me reiterate the most vital aspects of this experiment. One: We’ll have no reliable means to gauge its success or failure. Two: We must believe that it’ll work.” They all nodded their heads. “And Three: I believe the machine is as accurately calibrated as it can be. If my computations—and yours, are correct, the rest will be up to Evelyn.”
The students seemed restless until Evelyn stepped forward and clapped her hands twice. “All right then, you all know your jobs, get to your stations, and let’s get started.”
Several students hung back to wish her well. She brushed off their concerns with cheery optimism, and almost made them feel as if they were the guinea pigs, not her. She turned to find Dr. Djin staring at her morosely. He dreaded this moment. The point of no return.
He was genuinely distraught. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? You don’t have to go, you know.”
Her reply was crisp and harsh. “Oh yeah, Doctor, I’m really going to miss this place: the fires, the hunger, the yellow fog, and let’s not forget the lizards.” Her tone softened. “I’ll miss YOU, Doctor, but—I’m ready.”
He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her towards the ‘launch room.’ “If this works, you’re going to be close, very close. Probably within visual range and there’s nothing in the equations, or the tests, that says you can’t rewrite history.”
She smiled. A firm, self-possessed smile. She was well acquainted with the theories and equations. They had discussed her options ad nauseam.
“I know what to do, Dr. Djin. Have faith.” What she meant was, 'Trust me.'
He escorted her to the biodegradable stool, and hovered nervously as she sat down and the team went through the pre-launch physical check sequence.
When they’d finished, he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “Remember what we talked about, trust your instincts." He wanted to say more, but his voice cracked with emotion. "Okay." He straightened. "Goodbye Evelyn, and good luck.” His grief was palpable. She remained solemn.
He retreated to the safety of the control room as a mist of quantum tachyons descended upon his courageous assistant. She became transparent, and then vanished.
*****************
She removed her clothes and took a moment to appreciate the lush tropical environment. A blue sky crowned with white clouds presided over a beautiful pre-historic paradise. A rushing mountain stream ran alongside an orchard filled with fruit trees and curious, fearless animals. She was in the right time, at the right place. In fact, hers and the team's calculations couldn’t have been better.
They were calm but curious as they watched her approach. Incredibly, the woman reached out and offered her the forbidden fruit.
Evelyn slapped the apple out of the woman’s hand, shoved her hard into the rock strewn water, then watched her drown, the current pushed the body downstream quickly. Then she grabbed a rock and pounded the sinister snake to death and was kicking its battered carcass under a bush when Adam returned from his walk.
“Eve! You look different.”
“God made some improvements,” Evelyn said, breathlessly: rinsing blood off her hands. “You like the changes?”
“I DO,” he replied emphatically, “but I’m hungry.”
“Have a peach,” she suggested, “they’re good for you.”