Not Andersen Prunty

My pants make me depressed. They make me feel sad and fat. I stop in the middle of the room and summon Rugby, my bodyguard. I sling an arm over his shoulder, my legs weak. I beg him to call the tailor to come and alter my pants. Rugby goes outside and constructs a mammoth fire in the front yard. I collapse to the floor, staring down at my pants. The tailors arrive by bus. A whole fleet of tailors run from the bus and invade the house. They say the carpenter has the worst looking house on the block and the same could be said for the tailors’ clothes. They are all ill-fitting. Binding. Too loose. Voluminous, in some cases. And their selection is poor. Logo t- shirts and jeans. Out of date clothes that look they were purchased from a second-hand store. I have little faith in them. They prop me up and take measurements. A man with an outgrown mohawk, wearing a denim skirt with a flag embroidered across the chest pulls out a pair of scissors and snips the air.

They set to work.

I black out.

When I wake up, I’m sweaty and famished. I’m in my bed. I toss back the covers and hop out. I feel refreshed. There is a definite spring in my step. I look down at my newly tailored pants. They are very sleek. Almost a part of me.

When I get downstairs, I find Rugby entertaining the tailors. He explains to me the great sacrifice they all went through to reconstruct my pants. One by one, the tailors lift their shirts and drop their pants and I see missing flesh and hair. As I squat down to test the give in the pants I realize their sacrifice was worth it and, looking at them, I see they are all smiling, proud of their craft.

The children are the first to go outside. We, the parents, can’t keep them in anymore. Besides, we’re all curious how it is out there.

Our son and daughter charge through the yard and right into the street. We don’t have to worry. There isn’t any traffic anymore. My wife and I watch them through the big living room window.

“Huh, look at em go,” my wife says.

“Go lock the door,” I say.

“What?” she says.

“We don’t know what’s out there. Can’t have them bringing it back in. They’re tainted.”

She does it, begrudgingly, shoulders slumped. I can tell she’s struggling inwardly, feeling like a bad parent.

I walk over to her, place a hand on her shoulder, and say, “This doesn’t make you a bad parent.” Her eyes are still glazed with doubt, so I say, “I’ll get the wine,” and she perks up considerably.

We get completely trashed. Other than an occasional beer or glass of wine at dinner, we’ve tried to keep drinking to a minimum unless the kids are at their grandparents’. Their grandparents are all dead now. They were the first to go.

There are now a lot of children in the yard and streets. Our boy, Aiden, smashes out the window on my wife’s car parked in the driveway. He has a girl with him. I don’t recognize her. They’re both smoking and holding bottles of beer.

“Huh, looks like Aiden’s already got himself a girlfriend,” I say.

“He’s too young for that kind of thing,” my wife says.

“Relax. They don’t have a future anyway.”

By nightfall, the fires become more visible. Looking down our once quiet street, a house burns here and there. In the distance, the city is an orange glow.

“We really should unlock the doors,” my wife says.

“Nonsense,” I say. “I’m tired and wasted. I wouldn’t feel safe.”

Deeper into the night, most of the streetlamps have been pulled down or shattered by rocks and assorted debris. We’ve been locked inside so long, I’m envious of the chaos and fun they’re having. It’s all my imagination at this point. I can’t actually see anything.

I lower the blinds and say, “I think it’s time for bed.”

My wife and I retreat to the bedroom and have the wildest, best sex we’ve had since we were dating. We fall asleep shellacked in sweat and various other bodily substances and I think, I don’t want to wake up.

We are woken up by the shattering of windows. Or, at least, I am. My wife may have taken too much of the wrong thing and might be dead. I don’t know.

The bedroom is darker than it’s ever been but I can sense someone standing in the doorway.

“Aiden? Katrina?”

“Yes, Father?” they both slur.

“It’s your world now. We’re leaving it to you.”

“It’s garbage. We have to redo everything.”

“Well,” I say, “I guess it worked okay for us … or something.”

Those are my last words.

We’re in the mountains. Just the two of us. Dusk. Gray, not black. The insect sounds are everywhere. The bright green trees drip with early summer heat. We’re dressed up. Clean. Smell great. We’ve escaped from a gathering. We can hear the laughter, the glasses clinking. Fun and conversations being had. Neither of us hate it, but we don’t want to be anywhere except here. In the distance, thunder rumbles. The sky turns purple from lightning we cannot see. Now is our time. We could go back into the gathering, surround ourselves with beaming smiles under the white fairy lights.

Or we could run.

Deeper into the woods, away from the storm, into the darkness, and wait for it. Wait to get caught. Out in it.

I imagine the others, the storm forcing them inside, their night ruined.

But I’m here with you, outside, in the dark, waiting for the storm to break over us.