What would you do at the end of the world?
Wait, I can already hear you correcting me: in case you haven’t noticed, the end is here. Then you’ll mutter about how careless I am, or how irresponsible, which’ll morph into your ten thousandth raison d'être to look down on me (bet you didn’t think I knew that term).
But sure, fine, what are you doing now that the world is ending? Searching for survivors? Pulling people from your mangled emergency room (sorry, emergency department)?
An hour ago, the pilot announced my plane was being diverted. He didn’t say why or to where, just spun us into a holding pattern. By then I’d switched my seatback movie (one of those “insipid” rom-coms) to the flight map; the plane was drawing curlicues, trailing its yellow path over the Rockies like a spirograph. The map just showed our route, as if we were the only people in the whole world. But when I looked through my little porthole the sky outside teemed with other planes, all doing the same thing as ours. It’s jarring when another plane passes you like that. You don’t realize how fast you’re going until you’ve got a reference point. If my plane’s going 400 miles per hour, and the plane outside is, too, I’m pretty sure it looks like we’re both going Mach 1. But I could be wrong (and you’d make sure I knew if I was).
Not until a lady with in-flight Wi-Fi said “We’re gonna die!” did I start worrying. Lots of people jostled to look at her laptop, but not me. I didn’t want to upset the balance of the plane (I can be thoughtful sometimes). Plus, that lady sounded looney (I would know, right?). But then the rubberneckers muttered about “billions dead” and “global cataclysms” and “apocalypse,” so turns out the looney lady was right, but her internet dropped before anyone learned more.
The ground outside was obscured by little patchwork thunderstorms, fizzling like cigarette butts as they dumped rain, so I zoomed in on the flight map like it might show what was happening way below (I know it doesn’t display the real-time landscape, just humor me). Maybe I’d see lava spewing from Yellowstone’s super volcano or California’d be floating out to sea after The Big One, but the satellite’s eye view revealed not one fucking hint.
We’re over Utah now (still waiting to see the Mormons torpedoing toward heaven). Seemed as good a reason as any to bust out the strong stuff. I even shared (would an “addict” do that?).
Who’d have predicted — Buprenorphine, Xanax, and me, soothing the masses during at the End of Days. Pretty sure that Hippocratic (or is it “Hippocritical”?) Oath of yours says something about that.
You’ve followed that oath to a T, haven’t you? At least where other people are concerned. You’ll probably use your final breaths to reassure some terrified soul whose name you don’t even know. Could’ve spared a few syllables for me, after all this time, at a time like this. Bet you haven’t so much as tried. Bet you didn’t want to waste your precious phone battery.
I wouldn’t have gotten the call anyway.
The pilot hasn’t told us much, but people are eavesdropping on the flight attendants and passing the messages around the cabin. Apparently. air traffic control is kaput. Airports aren’t safe. Nowhere is. Whatever’s happening, it’s happening everywhere.
Honestly, I’m disappointed. I was headed to Vegas (no, not for the reason you think). Not like you asked but I applied for a casino valet job. Was planning to get my own apartment and everything.
And you thought I’d never get off probation (although I guess you’re right on a technicality).
Someone asked if we had enough fuel to reach Hawaii. It might’ve been a joke but the flight attendant called the cockpit and then the pilot came on, cool as anything. He said there’s an open runway in Honolulu and “apologies for the delay.”
Sometimes a lie is the best medicine.
Everyone is really calm, even the babies. Even dogs and cats, who were freed from under seat carriers to roam the aisle. To be fair, we all washed down our Xannies with tiny alcohols (I know, but who gives a damn anymore?).
The plane’s been steadily descending for a while. Seems too soon to be anywhere near Hawaii but the flight map’s dead and I can’t see shit besides, so what do I know (…I know…).
We’re low enough that we’re flying through clouds. Or more like flailing from the turbulence. It’s raining hard here, inside these clouds. Probably acid. Either that or each droplet contains a murderous nanobot.
Remember as kids you told me to look close at the raindrops clinging to the car window? How each drop contained the entire world inside it, except tiny and upside down? Well, I’m not seeing much in these raindrops. Just a whole lotta gray (calm down, it’s a metaphor).
We’re still in the angry belly of this storm, but the roller-coaster tug on my guts tells me we’re still descending. I’m excited, actually. About Hawaii. (Humor me. Please) I didn’t pack a bathing suit but fuck it, I’ll strip to my skin and go out like I came in, except for the part where I was eight minutes before you (I’ll always be older and wiser, no matter what you think).
Speaking of, did you know “aloha” means hello and goodbye (of course you do)?
I wonder where you are right now. Most likely disintegrated by a hyperultrasonic weapon of mass destruction, right alongside your patients. A savior to the literal end.
A stranger to the literal end.
But me? Soon I’ll be lounging on a fucking beach with 300 strangers, all baptized in benzos and vodka. The vampires and zombies will get blitzed on our blood and brains. Maybe the aliens and ancient kaiju will join our party. Maybe my pasty ass will finally get a tan from the nukes.
You never really knew me, but I’ll live it up for the both of us. I won’t miss you, but I hope like hell it didn’t hurt.
Aloha, motherfucker.
