Page 218 of The End of the World As We Know It
And yet, for all his hate, he still kept the Plymouth in the garage. Still made sure it had an up-to-date battery, even while its exterior dulled and rusted. As if he knew one day the world might fall apart while his own, far more compliant Honda happened to be in the shop.
Honestly, he’s amazed he managed to drive the Plymouththisfar. All these hills. All that shifting. He wouldn’t be surprised if the stress of operating the damn thing contributed to his feeling so sick.
So, maybe I’ll be impulsive one more time and just leave the stupid thing here. Walk and go find a new one. One better suited for me.
No doubt there are thousands of other working cars he can find nearby. After all, the world is ending.
That thought gives him a strange, giddy thrill.
The world is ending.
Right now, I might be the last man on earth. Like Vincent Price in that stupid movie. Or like Burgess Meredith. Time enough at last.
No one to live for but myself.
Before he knows it, he’s crying. Hot tears searing his face.
He stumbles out of the car, screaming.
“Hello?! Is anyone else alive? HELLO?!”
Oblivion answers back. Not even an echo. Just that strange,unplaceable noise coming from far, far away. Maybe electricity cycling through damaged power lines?
He scrambles onto the hood of the Plymouth. “HELLOOOO?! ANYBODY?!”
The sun beats down. And the wind curls like heat off a cooling body. And the clouds are boiling, bleached brains, except for that mostly straight line cutting through them, dividing them into crumbling hemispheres.
Right before the vertiginous fear of a man lost at sea can overtake him, off in the distance, light blinks off of metal. He squints.
Several hills away, across an intersecting road. A vehicle speeding past. He can’t be sure, but it looks like a van. A splash of unnaturally vibrant green.
Not the last man after all.
Instantly, he regrets his screaming. He holds his breath until the van disappears over the horizon.
I need to calm down, he tells himself.I’m overstressed. Psychosomatic sickness or not, Ididjust have a fainting episode. That was real.
“Yeah,” he says to himself. “Just need to get my strength back. Then… we’ll find a new car and… go on an adventure. Like Bilbo.”
He knows just what will help settle his heart.
Before he’d oh-so-impulsively abandoned his apartment in Phoenix and hit the road, he’d thrown all the supplies he could into the Plymouth’s trunk. Canned food, sodas, jackets and shirts (folded neatly), boots. All very practical. All veryhim.He only allowed himself one extraneous item, which he’d had to pull out from the depths of his closet, behind his suits and ties and dress shirts.
He retrieves it from the trunk now. A soft, plain three-ring binder. Stuffed with pages tucked into individual clear plastic pouches.
Each page is covered in art.
His art.
Drawings of his favorite heroes. His favorite villains. Characters from Tolkien. Herbert. Bradbury. Kirby and Ditko and Adams. Some done in pencil. Some in ink.
It’s an impressive collection. No need to be modest about it. He’s quite talented. He could’ve pursued a career as an illustrator or a comic book artist if he were a bolder, braver, more reckless man. More like his dad, in other words. Instead, he’d settled for something far more practical. And it was a good thing he did. As any good lawyer understands: settling is always the wisest thing to do.
He hasn’t added anything new to the notebook in a while, but he still likes to look at it during times of stress. It helps him feel moored to some secret, truer self. One that manages to survive despite the daily deluge of statutes and case law and legal briefs and discovery demands and forensic reports. Ironic, he supposes, considering these drawings are mostly of other people’s creations. That’s always been a big part of the appeal, though. He prefers playing in those kinds of sandboxes, where the rules are already in place. Creating your own work is just so messy. So… unsettling.
That said, whenever he’s feeling particularly ambitious, thereisone original character in his notebook. Several drawings and physical studies, tucked all the way in the back.
The SuperLawyer.
