found drama

Hole up in the apartment.  Close the doors.  Lock them.  Bar them.  Push the tables and chairs up against them.  Patrol the windows.  Get all the knives out of the drawers and butcher’s blocks.  Where are the guns?  The city is half on fire.  The rooftops that are not ablaze are covered with the militants and dilettantes.  The televisions stations are out but you can hear the broadcasts in your mind.  Mayhem and terror, invasion and destruction.  This is not about conquest.  You picture yourself running from roof to roof, picking off the raiders one by one until the bombs start to drop.  You picture yourself a hero.  But you’re not.  You’re sitting stuck in that apartment with your partner.  It’s all you can do not to scream, not to give yourself away.  But you can’t contain the rant and before you can stop yourself, you are parading through a diatribe about forgiveness.  The incantation summons the figure of a bearded, breasted Christ but he sticks around only long enough to make the both of you uncomfortable.   Just the same, his presence serves as a signal and you run downstairs, down three flights, just in time to see the building door hanging open on its hinges and to hear the voices of the looters descending into the basement.  You flip on the lights and call out to them.  But your voice cracks and you are unarmed.

About Rob Friesel