The End of the World

         When the zombie apocalypse finally arrived, it turned out to not be that big a deal. All of the former presidents, even Jackson and Nixon, walked back into the White House like it was still theirs and just started arguing. The legislature was worse. Apparently no one could agree on what the constitution meant. Not even the guys who wrote it. The government shut down for three days though, so I guess that was cool.

         On the third day Dad packed a bag and headed back to Memphis. He had gotten a call from Grandma Burnie saying that she was being haunted by her bat-shit crazy sisters Rosie, Connie and Marcie and that they were driving her nuts. I don’t envy him, having to take care of four old women. Think of all of the old lady smell in that house. Think of the dead lady smell. Everyone’s grandparents were coming back and making demands, great grandparents too. Great-great grandparents are just happy to meet you.

         On the fifth day Pop-pop came to the house, Grandpa Joe Tiernen. I offered him a coke. The dead don’t drink but I was trying to be polite. I offered him leftover ham and mashed potatoes. The dead don’t eat either.

         We sat in silence for a while in the Tv room with the Tv turned off. I had always liked Pop-pop; he was the best. I looked up and smiled but he didn’t smile back. I tried to pretend that I wasn’t holding my breath but I think he knew. It was so quiet.

         I asked him if he had been back to visit Grandma Joan, his wife still living up in Floral Park. He didn’t answer. We sat some more.

         I was about to stand up but then he told me that he didn’t like the way I was living my life. He had looked down from heaven, he said, all this time. He wept every time I cursed and lied and every time I was with a girl I didn’t really love. He’d seen the guys I’d been with too. He was angry about that. He said that there were no sodomites in heaven. I replied that this was because they were all in Cool Heaven. It didn’t help his mood. I got fed up and asked him what heaven was like. I asked him what God was like. I asked him if he’d met Pope John Paul. Pop-pop got quiet again then. His face seemed to fold up as he frowned and looked at the floor. He couldn’t remember, he said. He repeated that a few times, quietly, to himself. “I can’t remember.”

         Pop-pop started to cry then. He used to be so cool.