Will McIntosh - Soft Apocalypse

Cortez struck an impressive karate pose—hands out front, squatting slightly—and floated toward the lead guy, who was grinning and waving his knife like it was a snake with a mind of its own.

Back in the peanut gallery, Deirdre was shouting for Cortez to kick their asses. I told her to shut up, but she ignored me.

Cortez lunged, his wrapped left arm leading. The guy slashed at Cortez and missed. Cortez kicked him in the knee. The guy went down. Immediately. Cortez did a stunning 360-degree spin and kicked the second guy in the chest, then reversed his spin and hit the guy in the throat with the edge of his hand.

The guy he’d kicked in the knee had gotten up. Cortez dropped, spun, swept the guy’s legs out from under him, then stomped on the hand holding the knife as soon as he hit the pavement. The guy screamed; the knife clattered onto the sidewalk.

“Let’s go,” Cortez said, arms wide, corralling us away. We ran.

“Man, Cortez, I didn’t know you were that good,” I said as we reached the taxi guy.

Cortez stifled a grin, shook his head. “I been practicing. What else do I have to do?”

“Watch it,” Colin said, steering Jeannie around bricks and glass.

It was unsettling to watch your city die. My mom had once bought a painting from the art gallery that used to be in the building we were passing—the one that had spit the bricks and shards of glass onto the sidewalk. Was the city dying, or just resting before it rose and dusted itself off? Surely one day it would come back. Soon, I hoped. I missed fresh paint. Only the trees kept their color. I tried to soak it in, letting my eyes linger on the leaves. Bright color was like a vitamin I was deficient in.

“Oh, jeez,” Colin said, turning his head pointedly away from a homeless guy sitting in the eave of a stairway. At first I didn’t understand, then realized the guy was masturbating into a rolled up newspaper.

“Charming,” Jeannie said.

A guitar riff started up in the distance. “Hurry, it’s starting,” I said, picking up the pace. Above the wall of overgrown azalea ringing Chippewa Square, smoke wafted into the Spanish moss.

We made it to the square just as Deirdre’s voice split the night:

“So sorry about the wheelchair,

But why should I clean my carpet

For a man who can’t even fuck me

When there’s always more dogs than bones?”

She reached down with her free hand and stroked the long mike. The crowd whistled and cheered. Deirdre grinned lasciviously.

“That’s just beautiful. I’m getting all teary-eyed,” Colin said. Jeannie laughed, wrapped an arm around his waist as we settled into a spot inside the square. The crowd was huge. The daylight was beginning to fade; Deirdre was bathed in the light of a lamppost, her eyes closed.

“What’s that you say?

There can still be sex after Polio-X?

Then walk on over and spread my legs,

Cause I ain’t carrying you.

“If you can’t come to bed

Wheel your crippled ass home.

Cause there’s studs lined up to take your place

There’s always more dogs than bones.”

The crowd ate it up. Except for the kids in wheelchairs.

But that was Deirdre’s appeal, I think—she called it like she saw it. You got her unfiltered thoughts.

She launched into the next song. I didn’t recognize it, and given that I was now Deirdre’s biggest fan, I knew it must be a new one. It opened with a recording—a 911 call. The woman Deirdre had played for me, screaming into the phone. Then Deirdre began a ballad of sorts, a story about a group of gypsies walking a street in a suburban neighborhood.

No, she wouldn’t , I thought.

She did, though.

“Oh, my god,” Jeannie said as Deirdre described Jeannie holding out the knives and each of us taking one. She didn’t use our names, but she described it all just as it had happened. Just as I’d described it to her. She’d set a collage of 911 recordings in the background to accompany her, a chorus of frantic souls screaming for help.

Jeannie sobbed, buried her face in Colin’s chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know about this,” I said.

Jeannie looked at me. “What do you mean, you didn’t know about it? Where’d she get all of those details?”

“Well,” I said, swallowing, “I told her about it, but not to use in a song.”

“Well, what did you think was going to happen when you told her? She doesn’t care about us, she only cares about her career.”

Colin leaned in close to Jeannie’s ear. “You want to go?” he whispered. Jeannie nodded.

“I’m really sorry,” I said as Colin led Jeannie away.

I watched Deirdre gyrate onstage, my heart pounding with anger. She’d used me. The thing was, it didn’t even surprise me that she’d used me, and why should it? That was Deirdre; she didn’t even pretend she wasn’t self-centered. The question was, what was I doing with her? She didn’t relate to people in the normal way—showing interest in what they did, offering something of herself… she didn’t do any of that.

The knot that had been in my stomach for weeks unclenched. I was done with her, I realized, and I was relieved.

“Did you hear my new song?” Deirdre asked after the concert.

“Yeah, I heard it.” I started walking. I wanted to get away from the adoring crowds. “That was an awful thing for us. I don’t appreciate you capitalizing on our suffering.”

Deirdre’s mouth fell open. “I thought you’d like it,” she said.

“No,” I said, stopping to face her. “I didn’t like it. And I may have lost my best friends over you.”

Deirdre glared razors. “That’s right, your friends.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You think I don’t see the expression on their faces when they’re talking to me?”

“What expression?” I said.

She balled her fists on her hips and got right in my face. “The one that says there’s an inside joke that I’m not getting, because I’m it. ‘Look at the stupid little whore, she thinks she’s our friend.’”

I looked at Deirdre, at her bulging, furious eyes and marveled at how utterly mismatched we were. How had I missed that before?

I hadn’t missed it, I’d just ignored it. I loved the idea of Deirdre so much that I’d blocked out the actuality of Deirdre. It wasn’t just Deirdre’s music that was perfect for the times; Deirdre herself was perfect for the times. Dark and violent. Unpredictable. Infused with primordial energy. I, on the other hand, was not of these times. I was a great water beast, trying to dance the Watusi on fins. There seemed no better time to end things—Deirdre was furious at me anyway. She’d probably thank me at this point.

“I think it might be best if we stopped seeing each other,” I said.

Deirdre’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “What? We’re just having a fucking argument.”

“It’s more than that,” I said, feeling self-conscious about having this conversation in public. I paused while two girls with dyed white hair passed. “We’re just very different. We like different things. We see things differently.”

“Different, huh?”

I nodded.

She stood with her arms folded, staring at the sidewalk. “Fine. Get your skinny ass out of my sight before I cut your throat.”

“No problem,” I said. I turned to go.

“For once I try to do the right thing,” she called after me. “I pick the stable guy, not the bomber dude. And what happens?” It sounded like she was crying, but I didn’t turn to look. I just kept walking.

You’ll overlook a great many flaws in a woman if she’s famous, and has a great body. Actually, either quality alone might lead you to overlook a great many flaws, but together … together she could be a complete psychopath and you might overlook it. Which is what I’d done, and those were my excuses.