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I
spend a lot of time thinking about the end of the world.
I figure, what with global warming, Islamic extremists, and the ever-increasing
threat of gay marriage, the rapture is due any moment now. I reckon I
should be prepared, just in case the day of reckoning is soon upon us.
The perfect scenario, in the event of the Apocalypse, requires notice.
A sudden, devastating attack leaves no room for enjoyment. It is with
this principle that I, your attractive narrator, will explicate my vision.
It is one of those summer nights when the world is almost standing still.
Love blooms without consequence, and young lovers can be seen walking
hand in hand across the island of Manhattan. The time is seven pm.
On television, the President abruptly addresses the nation. “My
fellow Americans,” he speaks somberly, “a grave day is upon
us. Our worst fear has been realized; our enemies abroad have waged an
attack on our great nation.” The details are unimportant, and the
body of the speech will be omitted. Almost in tears, he finishes, “I
ask you to remain calm, and pray to God for your salvation. God bless
you, and God bless America.” At this awesome moment, the nation
realizes that there are only three hours left for life on the planet.
Most people, in this situation, get to their knees and pray. It would
be difficult to look death in the face and not try one last time to save
oneself. Not for me. As a student of philosophy, I refuse to believe in
that stuff. I have read Pascal a dozen times; he says it is logically
a better wager to believe in God, just in case he exists. But, as any
undergraduate would tell you, there are an infinite number of possible
Gods. It would be humiliating to recite a Hail Mary on this, the Day of
Judgment, just to find out you should have been performing Salah. It is
for this reason that I choose the best possible god; I profess my faith
to Dionysus, the God of madness.
I live in New York City, so naturally I have a lot to work with. I start
my journey with a walk to the 50’s. There is a fine cigar store
on Madison Avenue that makes a wonderful first stop.
As I walk up Madison I see wonderful sights. I see flocks of Christians
yelling at flocks of Jews. I scream to them, “Get over it,”
but they don’t listen. I also see the streets lined with flaming
cars and young people running with televisions and computers. Finally
I arrive at the cigar store, which is deserted and dark. I pick up a trashcan
and hurl it through the window. After successfully looting the place,
I light my first cigar with the hundred-dollar bill that I stole from
the register “just for fun.” The time is eight pm.
My next quest is to the Museum of Modern Art. I know that the skeptical
among my readers will ask, “why not the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
The stuffy art in that institution is dead. Modern art is the only living
form, and that is why I head west toward 6th Avenue. As I arrive, I see
many intellectuals slowly taking their last look at the great works around
them (as intellectuals, they have denied the existence of God, and thus
have nothing to pray to). Unfortunately for them, I am not here to be
passive. My first attack is on Cézanne. I spit on The Bather.
Then that scam Starry Night gets ripped off of the wall and my
well-polished Johnston & Murphy goes through its magnificent blues
and yellows. There is a three-panel Monet entitled Reflections of
Clouds on the Water Lily Pond. After a moment of reflection, I use
the frame from the Van Gogh painting to bash each panel into bits.
When I approach the Jackson Pollock room, I take in the anger with which
he painted. This anger is unleashed upon his drip paintings, which I rip
off the wall and throw onto the floor. When they are all piled together,
I stomp and jump and kick until Jackson Pollock is just a memory. With
my anger released, I go to Salvadore Dali’s The Persistence
of Memory. Suffice it to say, it persists no more. I go easy on Matisse,
only lighting his paintings on fire as I walk by.
Finally I arrive at the true catalyst of my desire. There is a room with
Roy Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl and all thirty-two of Warhol’s
Campbell’s Soup Cans. I test Lichtenstein’s painting,
which features a young girl saying, “I don’t care! I’d
rather sink -- than call Brad for help!” by carrying it to the bathroom
and dousing it in the sink. Sure enough, she did not call for Brad. Now
to the Warhols. As I carefully remove them, I toss the top row, Tomato
through Beef Broth, against the opposite wall, which holds Gold Marilyn
Monroe; unlike their aluminum counterparts, these cans cannot withstand
the impact. The second row, Chicken Gumbo through Scotch Broth, get slashed
with a pocketknife. I stack the final two rows, Bean with Bacon through
Minestrone and Chicken Vegetable through Turkey Vegetable, into a kindling
structure and use the remains of Cream of Asparagus and Pepper Pot as
initial tinder to begin a bonfire. With this inferno I light my second
cigar. At this point the alarms start blaring, and I figure it is about
time to get out of there. On my way out I grab Panel for Edwin R.
Campbell 1, 2, and 3, by Vasily Kandinsky, to bring with me for the
rest of my way. I save Kandinsky because his art is, at least, something
I can relate to and understand. The time is nine pm.
In my final hour I smoke my cigar and walk to the 59th Street Bridge.
It was mentioned in that great Simon and Garfunkel song (Feeling Groovy),
and also it acted as backdrop to a memorable scene in Manhattan;
it is for these pop-cultural references that I decide to spend my last
moments on Earth there. Thankfully, this is an entertaining sight, not
only for its beauty but also for the thousands of jumpers plunging to
their deaths. Desperate people, both young and old, are hurling themselves
into the East River for one ultimate moment of exhilaration. Amid the
screaming a voice is heard bellowing, “You bastards aren’t
going to get this son of a bitch.” Inevitably, a splash followed.
Tired of holding the three Kandinskys, I hurl them into the river, too.
I continue smoking my cigar and watching the world self-destruct. The
time is nine thirty pm.
I have thus far painted a picture without melody, but music has, in fact,
been reserved for the very final moments. I remove my clothes and belt
out a spirited rendition of Cole Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave.”
We’re all alone. No chaperone can get our number. The world’s
in slumber; let’s misbehave. There’s something wild about
you child that’s so contagious. Let’s be outrageous; let’s
misbehave. When Adam won Eve’s hand, he wouldn’t stand for
teasin.’ He didn’t care about those apples out of season.
They say the spring means just one thing to little lovers. We’re
not abovers; let’s misbehave! For the instrumental parts, I
whistle. I am actually a terrific whistler. The time is nine forty-five
pm.
As I light my third and final cigar, I realize that my throat has been
badly damaged. I hold back the coughs, however, so as to not spoil my
evening. As I stare off into the night sky, I think back on my life of
debauchery. “I sure have been quite a bad-ass,” I think to
myself. Just as I am accepting the fatality of the situation, I see a
rocket ship shooting above the bridge. I wave my cigar to the lucky men
who occupy that fleeting vessel of salvation. As I replace the cigar into
my chapped lips, I notice the ship seems to be turning around. Wait, it
couldn’t be. Could it? It seems to be turning around and coming
straight towards me. It is! It is coming towards me!
The rocket ship lands on 58th street and the hydraulic door hinges open
with a “shhhhh” sound. Standing in the entryway is the President
of the United States. “Daniel,” he says, “why don’t
you join us? There’s enough room and supplies, and all the great
American minds are here; Bob Dylan, Steve Jobs, Woody Allen, Bill Clinton,
Paul Simon, Stephen Colbert, Stan Lee, the guys who made YouTube…even
J.D. Salinger managed to make it!”
“I guess I’ll come.” I responded, “but one thing;
are there any women?” [B]
DANIEL C. METZ
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