And in this universe a fish on the planet Earth crawled from the ooze. And that fish begat many sons and those begat many more. And one of those sons, after being begat many times, decided that they should name themselves homo sapiens, because they figured if they were wise enough to name themselves then they were a very wise being indeed.

And these homo sapiens began living together and they invented civilizations. And they got hungry and invented farming and irrigation. And some decided that they wanted what others had and invented war. And some thought it would be a good idea to keep a record of all this and invented writing. And some wondered where they came from and where they were going when they died and invented God.

And everything ran its course for a very long time. Civilizations came and civilizations went.  New and better Gods defeated old and weaker Gods. Languages came and languages went, and, with them, the writings of once great civilizations went also. And there was always war.

Then one day the Earth decided to fall back into the Sun, and all the civilizations that had existed and the wars that were fought and the writings that recorded all of it were lost, and none of it had ever mattered.

The man in the backseat, unmoved and uncaring, sat amidst the surrounding pandemonium. His Cuban filled the car with smoke and the heavy scent of sweet tobacco. He flicked ash on his shoes. His eyes were lifeless, dead.

This is some shit, eh, called the driver. His eyes flicked untrustingly to the stalwart in his care. The man took another drag, illuminating his face and allowing the driver his first glimpse. He didn’t repeat the question.

Estamos aquí, he said, speeding onto the landing strip. They pulled alongside the plane, propellers running, stopping in a cloud of dust. The driver grabbed his belongings and got out, met by the man in the backseat who now stood between him and the plane.

You promised me a ticket out of here, goddammit, cried the driver.

No I didn’t, he replied. The shot pierced the driver’s left lung and flung him to the ground. He would die in a few hours and wouldn’t be found for several days. His belongings fluttered pointlessly to the ground.

He looked down at the city as they flew over it. The revolution’s advance was marked by fire and smoke. Though he couldn’t see from here he knew it was full of mayhem, destruction, and death. Blood ran in the streets that night. The people were nearly upon the capital. He lit another cigar. The pilot eyed him suspiciously.

A few days in we all knew what was happening. Couldn’t stop it, though. Suicide rate quadrupled overnight. I don’t know why. Seems worse to die in nothingness than live in nothingness. My girlfriend killed herself. Threw herself off the balcony of our third floor apartment. Fall wasn’t nearly enough to kill her. I found her several hours later and held her hand as she died. I probably could have called for an ambulance and saved her life, but why bother.

The prophets tell stories. They say there’s mutants; zombies and vampires and werewolves. Say they travel in packs at night. Ripping people apart and eating their flesh. It comforts people. Makes them think somebody somewhere has shit worse off than they do.

God is dead. I saw it happen. He went down in a blaze of gunfire. Fucker came pretty loaded, too. We all thought he was going to make it, but in the end none of us will. After us what will there be? We’re the last of a dying breed. These are just meaningless words on meaningless paper. Fuck it.

I don’t remember the conversation leading up to it but I remember what it was I said: “Well, that’s why I fucked someone else.”

Tears filled his eyes and even before he blinked them back I had already forgotten what I said. He didn’t want me to see him cry; but, to me, he was the strange things in me like caring enough about someone to let them hurt me. To let them see me cry. The things I was afraid to show anyone else.

I knew I should hug him. Tell him that I was sorry and that I didn’t mean what I said and everything was going to be OK. But how could I? Not with all these people around us. I just couldn’t do it.

“Hey” I said in my best consoling voice and immediately laughed. It was like when I came out to my parents and couldn’t stop laughing. Such a huge weight off my shoulders. That’s why I loved seeing him cry so much.

“What?” his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK,” he said, and we both knew it wasn’t.

So if you’re going to compete against me get your entries in by February 28th at midnight. Not that you stand a chance against me. Just kidding. I never win these things.

Really, a lot of what he told him made sense. He did need to work harder in school. He should show more aptitude for sports. His mother was kind of a slut. The boy agreed with most of what his dad told him. It was the beatings that went along with it that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him.

He leveled the gun, the one his dad had threatened him with so many times. It was heavier than he remembered, more cumbersome in his hand. “Dad?” he said in a loud, certain voice. He had never been more sure of anything in his life. And then he blew his fucking brains out.

He turned away and for the first time noticed that the foundation to his house was crooked.

I thought maybe it could be about a guy who had a life-altering or maybe just strange conversation with some shady character. Or maybe not. Also, the NYT crossword puzzle is hard. Maybe I should take a break from writing and focus on getting published? I don’t know. I need some life-altering change myself.

*     *     *

“How’ve you been the last eight years, Josh?”

“Oh. I’m OK, Paul. You know?”

He doesn’t look it. He looks like shit. He looks like whatever shit shits.

“That’s good. You look,” I try to say it immediately but I pause to think of the word, “good. Everything going well for you?”

His only response to my patronizing is to smile. He is all the things that I couldn’t protect while growing up. The dumb kid that followed me down a stupid road but didn’t follow when I left it. I never went past the basics. Marijuana and shrooms did it for me, and I sold to stupid college kids to earn money for my undergrads. But I grew the fuck up. Josh never did. He loved it too much. He loved the glamor. But it was a gateway to hell for him, to robberies and stints in jail and, seemingly now, having the shit kicked out of him.

“…and she was loved by everyone, especially her children, some of them, no doubt, welcoming her to heaven…”

I don’t personally know her pastor and I realize he’s trying to give a good speech but he sounds like a callous asshole. I can’t help but hear him blame me when he talks about the other dead kids. Just the two of us left.  Jesus Christ, I had a hard enough time. Was I supposed to be responsible for everyone else, too?

Whenever I see him I’m amazed that he’s as old as he is. I still see that six year old boy, cuddling against me in bed as I read him a story. Giving him a bath and getting him ready for church on Sunday. Church on mother-fucking Sunday. Jesus, what a joke.

“…who has asked to give a speech in remembrance of his mother…”

Josh steps forward and gives a speech. He tells everyone what a beautiful and loving woman she was. How dedicated she was to her church and her family. About always being there for everyone whenever she was needed. He chokes up or laughs at all the appropriate moments. He’s so good even I almost forget how mom and him were always at each others throats, especially after dad died. What an actor.

After the services and the dinner at her house for what is left of her friends, we sit around the kitchen, lit from a chandelier our parents bought when they got married. Only about every third light still burns and we can barely make each other out, but that’s probably for the best.

“You know, I did my god-damned best to protect you. I know I fucked up but I got out of all that. I tried, you know?”

“I know, Paul.”

“Really, Josh. What can I do? Am I too late to help?”

“Paul, it’s OK.”

And he means it. It’s OK. Both of us know we’ll never see each other again. There’s no family left to die to keep us meeting up at random, decade-long intervals.

“Jesus. Why did you have to get older than 6?” I ask, and it’s the closest I’ll ever get to telling him I love him.

Not wanting his neighbors to accidentally happen by and see his young visitor waiting outside, he made his way quickly to the door, finishing up a last bit of cleaning here and there as he scurried along. He saw his visitor out the peep-hole, body parts wildly out of proportion like one of those carnival mirrors and standing in a feigned posture of nonchalance. He was late, like usual, but that would be forgiven. This type of thing was easily forgiven. He opened the door and quickly turned on his heels.

“Come in, come in,” he called, bumbling down the hallway and turning into the study, the second door on the left. ”Make sure the door is shut!”

“The door is shut,” he replied.

“Good, that’s all I ask.”

“Where did you go?” his visitor called as he removed his shoes and placed them in the shoe rack beneath a sign asking visitors to indulge in the occupants’ Hawaiian tradition of shoelessness.

“Study. Make sure you’ve shut the door!”

“I’ve shut it.”

“Good, good. It needs to be shut.”

The visitor lilted down the hall, admiring all the objects along the way that unadulterated money bought. When he reached the study he leaned against the framing and peered around. His host was fumbling over the dry bar. The visitor regarded him disgustedly but apathetically, watching the bulk of his sagging frame preclude his efforts to mix drinks. He looked around the room and admired its contents in the way that those who have nothing do.

“Ah, good,” said the host, turning to his young visitor.  ”You’ve shut the door, I hope?”

“I’ve shut it. It’s closed.”

“Good. Well, should we start?” he said, handing his young visitor a drink and leaning in to kiss him.

*     *     *

“Bikes?” he asks.

Without looking up or pointing the man behind the counter says, “back there.”

Detective McGuffin looks at the bent-over man as he walks past him and bends low and turns himself sideways to navigate the narrow aisleway. He holds up a picture of the bike and inhales on his cigar and uses the foot end to illuminate the picture. Its the only light in the building as the sun doesn’t dare come back here and McGuffin thinks he probably shouldn’t have either. The bike isn’t there; he didn’t expect it to be.

“Particular model you’re looking for?” the owner of the pawn shop asks, still not looking up.

“No. Thanks.” McGuffin replies, flashing his most believable smile.

McGuffin leaves the shop and pauses momentarily on the threshhold and squints as his eyes adjust to the sun. He throws his cigar, Cuban and only half-smoked, in the corner and steps on it absentmindedly and turns the corner and gets in his car. He makes a couple of notes on a steno pad sitting among half-eaten cheeseburgers and day-old french fries. When he looks up he sees the store owner in the rear-view mirror and watches as he tries to fake nonchalance and pace about. McGuffin starts the engine and puts it in drive and leaves.

“What is this time?” her voice crackles.

“Murder,” McGuffin replies.

“It’s always a murder.”

“Actually this time it’s a stolen bike.”

He holds the phone to his ear and makes a right turn on 17th and waits for her reply and when she doesn’t he says, “Brett? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. A bike? Who the hell hires a private detective to find a bike?”

“I don’t know. This guy does.”

“Yeah? Is he hoping to put the guy away for life?”

Detective McGuffin pulls up to the next pawn shop and looks at the dilapidation. He parks in the gravel lot behind the building and turns off the car and rolls down the window to air out the smell of stale fried foods.

“He says he don’t care about prosecuting. Says he just wants the bike back.”

“Jesus Christ. People are sick. You know that?”

He grunts his agreement and hangs up. Every phone call McGuffin has ends the same way. He hasn’t said goodbye in years.

He stands at the door without knocking or acknowledging his presence to the clerk behind the counter but he looks up anyway and buzzes McGuffin in.

“Bikes?”

“No, sir,” the clerk replies. “What model you looking for?’

“Do you have bikes or don’t you?”

“I just fucking told you we didn’t, old man.”

McGuffin sighs and leaves and walks back to his car. Someone has parked in front of him blocking his exit. He leans over and looks in the window.

“This your car?” the man asks.

“Yep. My car.”

“And did you patronize Mexicano Comida?” he says and points to the shitty little hole-in-the-wall to the side of the pawn shop.

“Mm. No. No Mexicano Comida.”

“Uh huh. Did you notice that sign when you parked there?”

McGuffin looks and sees a sign indicating the parking is for Mexicano Comida, only, on penalty of impounding.

“That sign?” McGuffin asks.

“That fucking sign.”

McGuffin sighs and takes the steno pad out of his car and a Coke that’s become more water than Coke and walks to the bus stop to wait for the bus. It wasn’t his car, just as the bike didn’t belong to the guy who hired McGuffin but that doesn’t mean they have any less affection for the thing.

“Jesus,” he thinks, “God-damned hot day for a trench coat.”