Chapter 7: The Bad Day Two
Jean-Paul Sartre was the kind of man who slept well at night. He was the kind of man who would snuggle up with a good romance novel and just as his head would begin to rock to an inaudible lullaby, he would shut off his light. This sleep was not a satisfying one, for in many ways Sartre was already sleeping the “big sleep” all the time. He would revel in sweet myoclonus for several more minutes and then would go into a state similar to hibernation. This trait did not come in handy the night of the fire.
Young Billy did not sleep this evening. For he was new to this world and felt compelled to play with the novelty of no longer feeling sleepy. He’d had a long day of failing and he wanted to reflect on it. In the same way that many people grow irritated with themselves as they go over the sorted details of their earlier hours, Billy grew aroused. On this night in the new world, Billy reflected on his search for the bong, the blowjobs he gave, and the people he met. He liked to think of himself as a pirate of some sort, and this was not a new idea. Feeling like some sort of time-traveling pirate making it in the twenty-first century – and now the afterlife – had always been comforting. And now the fantasy was becoming more real. He was washing the make-up off of his face peach-fuzz and other pubescent symptoms when he began to become aware of an eerie glow outside of the window.
Jack and Bethany were just about to make love on their kitchen table when they heard the sirens begin to wail. They had been playing games with one another involving a large pack of red licorice and two hearts full of desire. An outsider might’ve thought them to look ridiculous with red dye 40 all over their faces.
Arrow was working some crossword puzzles, and quite well I might add, when she heard some disturbing noises outside of the apartment. She grew apprehensive at the thought of going downstairs to get her laundry if there were hoodlums around. As she paused from the cathartic scraping of her pencil against the newspaper to listen better, she realized this was not just hoodlums. It was the sound of her neighbors in a panic. The sound of her bedroom slippers curiously scuffing across the wood floor was like an opera of panic. Leaving the chain in lock mode, she opened the door to view what the chaos was. An old man noticed Arrow as he jogged by carrying several boxes. “Best get out, miss! Fire’s only one block away!”
There were squirrels fighting in the park nearby. Fortunately for onlookers, the afterlife was not like it was portrayed in The Sixth Sense, or else the tire tread marks would remain across their respective necks and feefs. At the smell of smoke, the acorn seemed silly and both squirrels began working together to travel in a direction they deemed safe.
People left their jobs without punching out. Of course this didn’t matter since they didn’t have to be there to begin with. In a city already full of lost souls trying to comfort themselves, all comfort was about to vanish.
Somehow through the madness and running, word spread that there were boats on loading docks in the harbor ready to take people to a neighboring area. Word spread that the boats would be the most efficient method of evacuation. And people pushed and they shoved. And their need for survival was surprising in terms of how they were already dead. Arrow walked along with the masses. Before she left, she evaluated the worth of those efforts. She very nearly stayed and sat in her apartment just to see what would happen. She wondered if she would’ve been able to feel the pain of burning to… death? But Arrow was also the kind of woman who typically kept on trucking. And so she did. And suitcase in hand, she walked along towards the harbor.
Billy was shaking Sartre furiously. If only the bong were near, it could perhaps lend itself to waking him. “We need to evacuate, you old prick! You adopt me, bring me here, and abandon me now? I am sure as fuck not staying here with you to experiment with this fuck. I’m outta here in five fucking minutes to fucking leave and fucking live even fucking if fucking I’m dead. FUCK!”
Sartre would not wake up. Billy began to cry the first tears in years that hadn’t caused a flow of mascara to run down his cheeks. Angry, the little twink began to flee without Sartre. As he reached the street and was about to be pulled into the current of people moving to the east, Billy brandished his fists at the sky. “WHY, SARTRE? WHY!!!??”
Within two hours, most people had found their way to ships. Not knowing where they were going or knowing who was driving (captaining?) the boat, everyone sat covered in blankets. Billy was so distraught that it caused him to not even notice Jack sitting near him. The stars shown brightly over the sea they were coasting out into. Why didn’t Billy’s moogle rod explode from being away from Sartre? Love
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