Pavel Kravchenko: Project Antichrist

Three days after I threw out my antidepressants, the world ended in countless eruptions of nuclear flame. I was in my living room, sprawled naked on the couch, and in my head every capital you could think of was getting the mushrooms, and every landmark you ever saw on TV was being cooked and powderized. I couldn’t tell you what started it or how long the world tour lasted, but to top it off I imagined one of the warheads — with a ticker and everything — detonating under my building. I imagined that by being seventy-eight floors directly above it, I would avoid that first flash. And it seemed to me that I would glimpse, as I was lifted with my luxurious Lake Shore Drive condo to the sky, the great Windy City being stripped from the prairie and sucked through my basement up, up into the great mushroom of my ass. For a split second I would become the garbage-incinerating, autonomous vacuum cleaner I’d helped advertise. Only better, because in the end I would be incinerated too, “for truly perfect cleanness.”

And then, I thought, Jennifer would regret leaving me.

Meanwhile, on TV was the news, and the Secretary of Defense was saying that regrettably the world was not perfect yet, and Dwayne Robinson promised to gauge the opinions of regular citizens walking up and down Michigan Avenue after the break.

The break lightened my mood; commercials with me in them still did, then. It was a well-crafted piece, not the one with the Auto-Vacs, but the most recent one, shot two months before, in which I was walking across a golf field, shouldering a driver and sharing a story of how the antidepressants manufactured by Freedom Corp. helped me regain my own freedom at the beginning of my career. I was mouthing the words, building up to the great punch line, when the TV wall went blank. Before I could comprehend what was happening, which isn’t to say it was a terribly quick transition, a huge eagle, armed with lighting bolts or arrows or something, spread its wings across the screen.

“Conscript!” a nasal voice snarled out of the speakers, causing me to jump. “You failed to report at the recruitment center on the assigned date. You are hereby placed under the advisory notice. Leaving the city limits is strictly prohibited. A unit of draft marshals will be dispatched to your dwelling between the hours of ten-hundred and fourteen-hundred. They have the authority to escort you in for questioning and subsequent registration for medical examination. Your unrestricted cooperation will ensure this misunderstanding is resolved quickly and efficiently.”

Without a good-bye, the eagle winked out, to be replaced by Dwayne Robinson’s tanned face. Flags on the bridge over the Chicago River occupied what meager screen space was left to them. Off screen, a regular male citizen was expressing his view on the rumors of favoritism in the draft system. Apparently, he didn’t think much of them.

I rubbed my face and did not open my eyes until I was sure I was no longer facing the TV. I found myself staring at the reproduction of Munch’s “Scream.” I felt like I hadn’t seen the painting in years, but it wasn’t exactly balm for the sore eyes.

Hallucinations? I thought. That wasn’t part of the deal. Of course, nothing had been part of the deal. In fact, there had been no deal. Just a whimsical flick of the wrist, and a tiny plastic bottle in rapid descent towards Lake Michigan. But although I’d seen a rough couple of days after that toss, it was only now that I for the first time entertained a thought of calling Dr. Wright and ordering an emergency refill.

“Mute,” I said. “Computer. Mail.”

Dwayne retreated to the corner of the screen. I called the remote, lifted a few cushions when no response followed, glanced under the couch, walked around the living room and finally gave up. Grumbling, I went up to the screen, waved my arms to make the list of ignored important messages smaller, and scrolled through them with my finger. Finding the header “United States Selective Service” and stepping away from the screen when faced with the helpful “Would you like to play the message again?” was a mixed experience. I wasn’t that crazy, but I sure was in trouble.

I combed my hair with my palm, put on a red silk robe and called the office. Christie, the receptionist, picked up.

“Luke,” she said. “You look different.”

“Christie, let me talk to Jimbo.”

“Oh, I think he’s busy setting up the reserve show,” she said. “He didn’t seem very happy about it, either.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset because your boss is upset, baby. I swear I’ll make it up to you somehow. Now can you please find old Jimbo for me? It’s extremely important.”

She frowned, but complied. Two minutes later James Cornwell graced me with his digital presence.

“First you drop a ton of work in my lap, then you refuse to leave me to it. This better be ‘important.’”

“I did?”

“What are you, on drugs?”

“ What? No. Never mind that.” I copied the message to him. “Here. Take a listen.”

He sighed. Indulging idle TV stars was, of course, part of his job, but he didn’t have to like it. I heard echoes of Stuffy Noseman giving him a piece of his mind. About half way through, Jimbo’s eyes began to dart between the eagle and my face.

“Is this a joke?” he stammered when it was over.

“I hope so.” But I didn’t think so, and now I saw he didn’t think so either. Still, watching his round cheeks shake, as though he had been the one called upon to protect freedom, I was glad to have phoned him.

“But on the off chance it’s not,” I said. “Do you mind telling me how I missed the first message?”

His lips formed a crooked little smile. “What? But how can I…?”

“You are screening my mail, aren’t you, Jimbo?”

“Well, yes… I mean, I hardly have the time to do it personally…”

“So maybe you can explain to me why my mailbox is full of crap I will never read, and yet an e-mail from the freaking military, a draft notice in fact, ignoring which is a criminal offense, never reached me.”

“Luke, old sport. I swear to you…”

“And now a ‘unit’ is coming to pick me up at ‘ten-hundred.’” This I yelled.

“Luke, calm down,” he spoke rapidly. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll contact the network. They’ll know what to do. Just stay put. I’ll get you out of it, I promise.”

“I’m not cut out for military, Jimbo.”

“I’ll get on it right away. Just stay put.”

“Is it doable?”

“What?”

“Is it possible to do something?”

“Of course, of course. Nothing is impossible these days. Let me just talk to… You stay put, OK?”

He signed off. I fell back on the couch. The Auto-Vac came to check on the commotion and began to buzz under the magazine table, having found something to incinerate.

I stayed put for about a minute. I went to the bedroom and changed into street clothes, which after three days in robes felt like a straightjacket. While I dressed, I was thinking of a bullet hitting me in the head, a random bullet from a machine gun, speeding towards me as I charged, heroically, over a dune. I imagined seeing a flash, a sun beam catching the bullet in flight, just before it hit me between the eyes, causing the world to wink out in a shower of smoke, like the last fireworks on Independence Day.

And then, I thought, slamming the door shut, Jennifer would regret leaving me.

It took fifteen dollars and some thirty minutes of aggravated speeding through the “gallery” level of I-94 to reach the right exit. I wasted another thirty minutes circling the suburban streets — a merry-go-round of identical lawns, shrubs, flags and trees decorated with yellow and khaki ribbons — trying to locate the house by memory. But the only thing I remembered was deleting the address from “My Destinations” the day I’d signed the divorce papers. Finally, just as I was beginning to regret the impulse that had caused me to disobey Jimbo’s instructions, I saw a wooden sign nailed to a decorated poplar. Olde Hillback Rd. My old streete.