I look up, I find what I have just spent the entire day looking for right here in my own apartment: another human being. This one is alive, standing in my living room, browsing my book collection, and wearing a gasmask.
7
THE MAN FROM JUPITER
There’s a man in my apartment. At least I think it’s a man. He could be from Jupiter. I wouldn’t put it past today. It’s hard to tell what’s going on under all the rubber of the gas mask he’s wearing.
The mask unnerves me more than the actual individual invading my apartment. It’s not the kind of mask I can imagine anyone handing out in the event of an emergency. It’s the kind with a menacing snout protruding from the place where his mouth should be. It’s the kind of mask you wear with malicious intent. When you know something I don’t. Or when you’re visiting from Jupiter.
I hold my breath until I realize I’m already dead if there’s something in the air. He’s looking through all the books on my shelf, turning them upside down and shaking them out like there might be money between the pages, and I’m wondering who has rightful ownership of any bills he finds. They’re my books. Odds are it’s my money he’s going to find. I should have thought of that ages ago.
There’s a pile of ripped up pages and hardbacks at his feet. When I happen upon him, he’s got a hardcover mystery novel in his hands that my father gave me as a birthday gift two years ago. I never read it.
The man doesn’t look surprised to see me, which is an odd thing to say, I know, considering the mask. His casual demeanor says he might have been expecting this. I wish someone had informed me I’d be having guests this evening. I’d have cleaned up a bit. Put on some pants. Regardless, I’m more than thrilled to see him. I can forgive the thievery. Basic looting is to be expected in the event of a natural disaster. My plan was to start robbing these folks sooner or later. I just hadn’t sorted out my priorities as quickly.
I’m hoping it’s someone I know. Maybe Doc Jones down in 118. He was overseas testing biological weapons, or something of the sort, about ten years back. I had needed to borrow a tie—I was taking Valerie to a show—and I stopped by his apartment to inquire about neckwear. I recall a gasmask just as eerie hanging on a mannequin dressed in military fatigues.
I hold up my hands in an act of surrender, though I’m not sure what I’m surrendering to. My intruder doesn’t appear to be armed.
“Mr. Jones?” I ask. I smile.
He drops the book. The mask tilts to the left, inspecting me.
There’s a name on his black jacket: Roderick.
“Do you know…”
A gun in his hand, he steps toward me.
“Whoa! Hey!”
He fires.
An arrow—not a bullet—slams into my left shoulder, vaulting me back into the door. I’m momentarily relieved I haven’t been shot. Then my vision begins to blur, and I wish it had been a bullet.
Roderick stops in his tracks, waiting, gun raised. I’m against the door, poking at the piece of metal tagged with a red, rubber stopper on the end. My arm is going numb. I look back at my assailant, and he’s doing that thing again he was doing right before he shot me, where he tilts his head, quizzical, like I’m the one from another fucking planet.
“The whole world’s dead, and you’re going to kill me?” Tired, I decide to slide down to the floor with my back against the door. “I’m sorry, Valerie. I’m so sorry.”
I’m feeling less and less of my arm. When Roderick gets close enough, he grumbles something like, “Identify yourself,” which he could have asked before shooting me with a poison arrow. I’d like to tell him I live here, but I opt to slam the business end of my boot into the section of his leg where the shin meets the ankle and another dart breezes through my hair, planting itself into the door.
Roderick stumbles back. I scamper into the kitchen. He comes charging around
7
THE MAN FROM JUPITER
There’s a man in my apartment. At least I think it’s a man. He could be from Jupiter. I wouldn’t put it past today. It’s hard to tell what’s going on under all the rubber of the gas mask he’s wearing.
The mask unnerves me more than the actual individual invading my apartment. It’s not the kind of mask I can imagine anyone handing out in the event of an emergency. It’s the kind with a menacing snout protruding from the place where his mouth should be. It’s the kind of mask you wear with malicious intent. When you know something I don’t. Or when you’re visiting from Jupiter.
I hold my breath until I realize I’m already dead if there’s something in the air. He’s looking through all the books on my shelf, turning them upside down and shaking them out like there might be money between the pages, and I’m wondering who has rightful ownership of any bills he finds. They’re my books. Odds are it’s my money he’s going to find. I should have thought of that ages ago.
There’s a pile of ripped up pages and hardbacks at his feet. When I happen upon him, he’s got a hardcover mystery novel in his hands that my father gave me as a birthday gift two years ago. I never read it.
The man doesn’t look surprised to see me, which is an odd thing to say, I know, considering the mask. His casual demeanor says he might have been expecting this. I wish someone had informed me I’d be having guests this evening. I’d have cleaned up a bit. Put on some pants. Regardless, I’m more than thrilled to see him. I can forgive the thievery. Basic looting is to be expected in the event of a natural disaster. My plan was to start robbing these folks sooner or later. I just hadn’t sorted out my priorities as quickly.
I’m hoping it’s someone I know. Maybe Doc Jones down in 118. He was overseas testing biological weapons, or something of the sort, about ten years back. I had needed to borrow a tie—I was taking Valerie to a show—and I stopped by his apartment to inquire about neckwear. I recall a gasmask just as eerie hanging on a mannequin dressed in military fatigues.
I hold up my hands in an act of surrender, though I’m not sure what I’m surrendering to. My intruder doesn’t appear to be armed.
“Mr. Jones?” I ask. I smile.
He drops the book. The mask tilts to the left, inspecting me.
There’s a name on his black jacket: Roderick.
“Do you know…”
A gun in his hand, he steps toward me.
“Whoa! Hey!”
He fires.
An arrow—not a bullet—slams into my left shoulder, vaulting me back into the door. I’m momentarily relieved I haven’t been shot. Then my vision begins to blur, and I wish it had been a bullet.
Roderick stops in his tracks, waiting, gun raised. I’m against the door, poking at the piece of metal tagged with a red, rubber stopper on the end. My arm is going numb. I look back at my assailant, and he’s doing that thing again he was doing right before he shot me, where he tilts his head, quizzical, like I’m the one from another fucking planet.
“The whole world’s dead, and you’re going to kill me?” Tired, I decide to slide down to the floor with my back against the door. “I’m sorry, Valerie. I’m so sorry.”
I’m feeling less and less of my arm. When Roderick gets close enough, he grumbles something like, “Identify yourself,” which he could have asked before shooting me with a poison arrow. I’d like to tell him I live here, but I opt to slam the business end of my boot into the section of his leg where the shin meets the ankle and another dart breezes through my hair, planting itself into the door.
Roderick stumbles back. I scamper into the kitchen. He comes charging around
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