A Future Was Lost Yesterday
"So my mom joined a new group yesterday," Nina says.
After the incident with the yeller, the rest of your shift was uneventful. You still have the silver gun, because you never know when you might need one. One of your co-workers showed you how the safety worked and how to load and unload it, so it is now sitting comfortably in your jacket pocket. You think you might go to the gun range this weekend and practice shooting (it's never too late to learn a new skill).
Not all of your co-workers are that nice, however. One of them didn't show up just as the lunch crowd was rushing in, so you volunteered to stay on for another shift. You really shouldn't work more than eight hours, but you don't care. There really is nothing else to do during the day and it stops you from going out of your mind with boredom.
The sun sets at seven o'clock these days, so that's when the restaurant closes. Almost nobody eats out at night anymore; people rarely even leave their homes. Perhaps they are worried that it will be the last night, when the sun won't appear the next morning and everyone will finally know that it has gone away as well. Perhaps they stay inside to pray for the morning.
Not everyone stays inside though: both you and Nina and two other co-workers, Hector and Patrice, are in the parking lot sitting on top of your cars. It's become something of a tradition now: the closing shift will stay outside and drink and talk. Sometimes others will join you and you will all make a bonfire, but not tonight. Tonight, the four of you are just drinking beer and talking and looking up into the empty sky.
"What are they called?" you ask Nina.
"The Children of Cronus," Nina says. "She gave me one of their pamphlets. Apparently, they think that the Titan Cronus made the universe and is now eating it all up. 'He ate all the stars and will soon eat his mother Gaia, the earth itself.'"
"And let me guess," Hector says, "only they can save you from being eaten by this god, right? And how much is that going to cost you?"
"Two thousand," Nina says.
"Jesus," Patrice whispers. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Nina says. "She's using up my college fund, but I don't think I was going to use it anyway. Somehow, I can't see us lasting for another four years."
"You don't know that," Hector says. "I mean, when did the first star disappear? Three years ago?" He turns to you.
"Three years, five months," you say.
"So this has been going on for three years and five months," Hector says. "And still nobody knows what's happening. The stars might even still be there, but we just can't see them from here."
"If that was true, wouldn't satellites still be able to see them?" Patrica asks. They turn to you, the resident expert.
"No satellites have been able to detect any stars," you say. "They even took a Deep Field image with the Hubble and found nothing." It was called the Hubble Deep Null.
"See," Nina says. "It's not a problem."
"But, I mean, then why did it take so long in the beginning?" Hector says. "When it first began, only a few stars disappeared."
"And then more and more," Patrica says, "until nine months ago when, bang, they all go out."
"Like a cascading darkness," Nina says.
"I'm just saying," Hector says, "we don't know how long this will last. She's throwing money away at scam artists and cults and meanwhile, you're slaving away to buy food. It's not fair–"
"Fair?" Nina says. She stands up on the roof of her car, a blue Honda Accord nine years out of date. "My mom use to tell me that life wasn't fair. It didn't care who you were or what you wanted. You could be the most caring person in the world and life would still screw you over, because it just didn't care. And now, now my mom is running around scared out of her head because life has screwed us all and she can't take her own advice. She has to find a way out, a way to make life fair, so I'm letting her. Even if she throws away all of her money, I'll still let her." She takes a swig of beer and looks up at where the stars used to be. "Because she needs it. She needs a good lie." She sits down again. "Besides, at least this group is better than the last one she tried. They were a bunch of creeps."
"What were they called?" Patrice asks.
"They called themselves the 'Empty Set,'" Nina says, "but they wrote it down as some weird symbol. Shit, they were creepy. They kept going on and on about how we needed to destroy the world ourselves before it vanished. I think my mom was attracted to all the hush-hush secretiveness of it, but as soon as she heard that, she got out."
The others are silent. You drink your beer and look at them as they look up. Nina is the youngest, only a few years out of high school, while Hector is nearing thirty and Patrice is close to your age. You have no right to be here, talking to them, except for the fact that you are all trapped here in this world, hanging in empty space, wondering if you have a future at all or if it was sold away and all you have left is a handful of false hope and a dream of drinking stars.
Oh well. Tomorrow is another day.
You hope.
pl
After the incident with the yeller, the rest of your shift was uneventful. You still have the silver gun, because you never know when you might need one. One of your co-workers showed you how the safety worked and how to load and unload it, so it is now sitting comfortably in your jacket pocket. You think you might go to the gun range this weekend and practice shooting (it's never too late to learn a new skill).
Not all of your co-workers are that nice, however. One of them didn't show up just as the lunch crowd was rushing in, so you volunteered to stay on for another shift. You really shouldn't work more than eight hours, but you don't care. There really is nothing else to do during the day and it stops you from going out of your mind with boredom.
The sun sets at seven o'clock these days, so that's when the restaurant closes. Almost nobody eats out at night anymore; people rarely even leave their homes. Perhaps they are worried that it will be the last night, when the sun won't appear the next morning and everyone will finally know that it has gone away as well. Perhaps they stay inside to pray for the morning.
Not everyone stays inside though: both you and Nina and two other co-workers, Hector and Patrice, are in the parking lot sitting on top of your cars. It's become something of a tradition now: the closing shift will stay outside and drink and talk. Sometimes others will join you and you will all make a bonfire, but not tonight. Tonight, the four of you are just drinking beer and talking and looking up into the empty sky.
"What are they called?" you ask Nina.
"The Children of Cronus," Nina says. "She gave me one of their pamphlets. Apparently, they think that the Titan Cronus made the universe and is now eating it all up. 'He ate all the stars and will soon eat his mother Gaia, the earth itself.'"
"And let me guess," Hector says, "only they can save you from being eaten by this god, right? And how much is that going to cost you?"
"Two thousand," Nina says.
"Jesus," Patrice whispers. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Nina says. "She's using up my college fund, but I don't think I was going to use it anyway. Somehow, I can't see us lasting for another four years."
"You don't know that," Hector says. "I mean, when did the first star disappear? Three years ago?" He turns to you.
"Three years, five months," you say.
"So this has been going on for three years and five months," Hector says. "And still nobody knows what's happening. The stars might even still be there, but we just can't see them from here."
"If that was true, wouldn't satellites still be able to see them?" Patrica asks. They turn to you, the resident expert.
"No satellites have been able to detect any stars," you say. "They even took a Deep Field image with the Hubble and found nothing." It was called the Hubble Deep Null.
"See," Nina says. "It's not a problem."
"But, I mean, then why did it take so long in the beginning?" Hector says. "When it first began, only a few stars disappeared."
"And then more and more," Patrica says, "until nine months ago when, bang, they all go out."
"Like a cascading darkness," Nina says.
"I'm just saying," Hector says, "we don't know how long this will last. She's throwing money away at scam artists and cults and meanwhile, you're slaving away to buy food. It's not fair–"
"Fair?" Nina says. She stands up on the roof of her car, a blue Honda Accord nine years out of date. "My mom use to tell me that life wasn't fair. It didn't care who you were or what you wanted. You could be the most caring person in the world and life would still screw you over, because it just didn't care. And now, now my mom is running around scared out of her head because life has screwed us all and she can't take her own advice. She has to find a way out, a way to make life fair, so I'm letting her. Even if she throws away all of her money, I'll still let her." She takes a swig of beer and looks up at where the stars used to be. "Because she needs it. She needs a good lie." She sits down again. "Besides, at least this group is better than the last one she tried. They were a bunch of creeps."
"What were they called?" Patrice asks.
"They called themselves the 'Empty Set,'" Nina says, "but they wrote it down as some weird symbol. Shit, they were creepy. They kept going on and on about how we needed to destroy the world ourselves before it vanished. I think my mom was attracted to all the hush-hush secretiveness of it, but as soon as she heard that, she got out."
The others are silent. You drink your beer and look at them as they look up. Nina is the youngest, only a few years out of high school, while Hector is nearing thirty and Patrice is close to your age. You have no right to be here, talking to them, except for the fact that you are all trapped here in this world, hanging in empty space, wondering if you have a future at all or if it was sold away and all you have left is a handful of false hope and a dream of drinking stars.
Oh well. Tomorrow is another day.
You hope.
pl