—IT’S THE END OF WORLD AS WE KNOW IT, AND I FEEL FINE

 

 

Let’s Dance

 

The three Bulimics huddled together over the fire, huffing up smoke like woebegone junkies while trying to channel Buddha. It was a good time to purge, but then it was always the perfect moment to purge, no matter the actual hour.

Behind them, the whole globe glowed, the entire planet enflamed, every country alit, afire, except theirs, though unruly winds were swinging their wily arms their way.

“We should consider eating something,” one said.

“I have half a cashew,” another one said.

So, being friends, the Bulimics shared the nut, which was actually a legume, but diced it up to near-powder, though they quickly coughed up the dust upon swallowing.

“That stung like a bitch,” one said.

“It weighed a ton,” another one said. “And I’d already had breakfast.”

“We might be lost causes,” the third one said, stirring the fire with a crooked, arthritic twig.

“Why do you think we hate food so much?” one asked, as if only talking to the flames.

“Because we’re doomed regardless. Because other people, in so many other countries, are starving right now.”

“Because, Duh,” said the third one. “Because we have body issues, and it’s important to be thin, especially during Armageddon. We’re Americans first, right? And Zombies might not find us too attractive or appetizing if we look like coat racks or scarecrows. Duh.”

Though they stoked no wood on the burnt-out heap, the flares grew enormous, like the too-massive biceps of Hercules.

 A flock of shadows stutter-stepped toward them, snarling, frothing, as if they were both famished and furious. As if they were an omen that should have been noticed decades before.

When the Zombies finally reached the firepit, rather than munching on the alive-flesh before them, they hugged the Bulimics, then, at last, they went for their necks as Zombies are wont to do, when constipated or in a pinch.

But nothing happened. No one died, not anyone who hadn’t already been dead. The flames flickered like seductive Flamenco dancers curling on a dancefloor during their finale, and so the Bulimics and Zombies slow-danced for hours more, until the wood turned to cinder and sparked, spitting out truncated sounds like Pop! Pop! Pick! Pop! Pick! Blip!

One of the Bulimics hummed Peaches and Herb’s, Reunited, while another sang Bowie, in a whisper, Young Americans, then, Let’s Dance.  

Hearing these sounds and verses, the Zombies became even more languid, entranced or bored, somewhat sexually aroused perhaps, because they understood for once, that this was the end of everything, the end of the world, and yet it seemed like there was more time, if only they could just hold on, hold on to whomever was next to them, ask, What’s the matter? ask for help, ask, Are we really all that different?