Michelle Tea - Black Wave

The same pickup truck kept circling the block until finally the topless boy with the peace flag hopped onto the bed and a cheer rang through the crowd. Bystanders leaped from the curb and joined him. Now it truly was a parade. The strangers clutched at each other in the back of the pickup, unbalanced from the beers they still carried or the bumpy motion of the truck or both. They arranged themselves around flag boy, smack in the middle, his flag lifted above him like a kite hoping to catch some wind. It looks like Les Miserables, Michelle overheard the comment of a passing gay man.

Beatrice stopped by again, asking if Michelle would like to take a walk down the block.

I’m Okay, Michelle assured her boss.

Go have a look, Beatrice insisted. There’s nothing to do here.

Michelle made it as far as the bar and grill a few doors down, the crowd growing thicker and yeastier around her as she cleaved into the heart of it. She turned and shoved her way back to the bookstore, dodging open flames and sloshing pint glasses. Too Overwhelming, she told Beatrice, and resumed her post in the kiosk. A tall, red-faced man burst through the glass doors.

How much is that book? he demanded. The Australia book? You know they just blew up the Sydney Opera House? He shook a handheld communication device at Michelle. It just happened. How much for the book? Australia is being decimated. You know the whole country was founded by criminals, it’s like some time-coded genetic switch got flipped on and they’re blowing everything up! How much for it?

It’s Not For Sale, Michelle said. She hated the man. It’s Not For Sale. It’s A Memorial.

Oh. He deflated. His lower lip sagged down in a pout. But I want it, he whined.

Michelle shrugged. I Just Work Here.

No, really, he pushed. I want to buy it and then walk around and have everyone out there sign it, to commemorate the evening.

You’re Kidding, Michelle said, wishing Joey were there. Where was Joey? Joey would love this. Like A Yearbook?

Exactly! The man brightened, hopeful. Like a souvenir.

You Got To Talk To The Boss, Michelle said. I Can’t Help You.

The man squinted his bloodshot eyes at her. You just could’ve had a really great sale, he snapped, and stormed away from the kiosk. He paused at the door and dunked his hand into the display window, grabbing the Australia book and pushing back into the throng, the volume held tightly to his chest. Michelle scanned the kiosk for a replacement for the window display. A book of black-and-white photographs from the punk years, No Future , the title like a blast of spray paint across the cover. She slid it into the plastic book prop where the Australia book once sat.

That’s what’s wrong with this country, a voice shot out of nowhere. Maybe the whole planet. Michelle craned her head around. There was a longhair crouched down in the sci-fi stack, sitting on the floor by the pile of Star Trek paperbacks. Long hair and oversized pervert eyeglasses. They think it’s a goddamn sporting event out there, he grumbled. This is precisely why everyone hates us. America. What’s with the flags, already?

Yes, Michelle said, grateful for the sudden presence of someone she agreed with. She shook her head up and down, her fried blue hair bobbing in stiff waves around her head. She wanted to tell him he could pocket a few of the Star Trek books and she would look the other way, but he seemed so moral she wasn’t sure how he’d take it, so she just gave him a lot of room instead.

In the morning a terrible sound woke Michelle up on her futon. A blast and a howl and another blast and a thump. Michelle lay in bed, a warm dread moving through her body. The noises were so loud Michelle could still feel their echoes clotting her ears like cotton. She kneeled on her futon and tugged the worn string that lifted the blinds. Behold the rottweiler. Behold the mess of it, flung around the apartment. Behind him sprawled the man, behold his dreads fanned across the floor, his face gone. There was his gun. Michelle immediately wanted it.

Uh-oh. Is this how shit went nuts? When people start hoarding the guns of the suicided? Michelle had once read the phrase The way you do anything is the way you do everything inside a Buddhism book on the Self-Help shelves of the bookstore back in San Francisco. It had resonated with her. The way she did anything was the way she did everything. She did everything sloppily, thoughtlessly, with anxiety. She did everything alcoholically, selfishly. The desire for the gun, the man’s still-warm fingers draped across it on the floor, made Michelle ask herself questions. How did she want to spend the next year of her life? Did she want to live in fear? In fear of her neighbors, of other people, of humanity?

She did not want to live in fear. A gun could help her accomplish this. With a gun, she could afford to risk being kind to people. If she had misjudged their intentions she could simply kill them. Could she? Could she kill someone? Michelle’s heart said yes. She could totally kill someone. Michelle had always known this about herself. Still, she was a good person. And she’d be a better person if she had a gun.

In the supply closet out in the hallway Michelle grabbed a ladder and dragged it back to her apartment. It was a new world, one in which extreme acts of bravery and self-protection should not be shrunk from. She hoisted the ladder between the two windows. Michelle had always known her apartment was much too close to her neighbor’s, but it was still a surprise to see the ladder bridge the distance so easily. She began to climb onto it, but the slight wobble brought her gaze down to the darkened alley and she felt dizzy. She paused for a moment and breathed, her eyes closed. In every apocalypse movie she had ever seen, people needed guns. She began again her crawling and was soon at the window, puzzling how to leap into the apartment without landing on the dog. Michelle aimed for a square of linoleum sticky with blood and placed her bare foot upon it. She was in.

Michelle was fine. Fine with a pulse of sadness, with a hint of the unreal, but she was fine. Michelle recognized it to be, not the denial Joey had diagnosed her with, but a sort of fast-acting acceptance. Michelle was resilient and adaptable. Once again she was in the moment. A place people paid money to try to get to, people sat in silence for days at a time, people fasted to achieve a state that came naturally to Michelle. She was fortunate. She felt internally equipped for the end of the world. She would be one of the lucky ones.

Michelle lifted the warm gun from the linoleum, the faceless man’s fingers sliding off it smoothly. Chekhov’s gun, Michelle thought. What was that famous bit of writerly advice? If in the first act there is a pistol upon the wall then by the second act it should be fired? Was she going to have to use this thing? And also, was the safety on? Of course not, it had just killed its master. The man’s face looked like strawberry rhubarb pie, chunky and reddish purple. Michelle did not know where the safety was, she would have to search guns on AOL. She would find an instructional video and learn how not to kill herself.

Bringing the gun back over the ladder was a challenge. She needed a backpack or something. The man’s rickety cabinets were held shut with bungee cords, and in a fit of inspiration Michelle went for one. The cabinets flung open, spilling dog treats everywhere, a variety. The man had loved his dog. Michelle felt regret and respect for the both of them and wished they could each have a proper burial, but supposed such things weren’t possible. The paramedics were busy carting off dead celebrities and the cops were all stationed outside the shops on Rodeo Drive, Melrose Avenue, and Hollywood Boulevard. Michelle had seen the pictures of them in full riot gear, guns drawn, looking ready to fight off zombies. Probably the man and his dog would begin to molder, and Michelle would become as accustomed to the smell of it as she had the stink of the cows on the highway.