Zeke Made a Few Calls (On the Day the Earth Exploded)
Zeke Made a Few Calls
(On the Day the Earth Exploded)
Pauline Pressler was pruning her roses on the morning of the day the planet exploded. Her Washington Glories looked a bit shabby and the Pistachio Snipwitches (a pale green Knock Out) had some dead canes. Thank goodness for Rosario’s Garden Gloves, Pauline thought. (She’s been pricked before.) She was retrieving her “fallen soldiers” when she got a call from Zeke.
“Pauline? Zeke.”
Zeke was the mayor of Strubville, an incorporated town of mostly senior citizens and their families, founded by Casper Johann Strub in 1974.
“Hi, Zeke, how you doin’?”
“Fine, fine, same as you, I hope. Listen, I just wanted to call and make sure y’all know about the Earth explodin’ and all that business.”
“We know, Zeke, we know. Thanks for your concern. Burt’s got his headphones connected to a divine rod or some such contraption, listenin’ to the ground all day, the crazy sumbitch. And I’m going to take a shower and listen to some Maria Muldaur.”
“But…”
“We’ll be fine, Zeke, don’t you worry.”
“Do you want me to send Reverend Hank around? I can send Reverend Hank around if you want me to.”
“No, Zeke. Thank you anyways. It’s been real swell knowing you.”
“Alright then, Pauline. I appreciate all your support over the years, and I hope to see you spry as ever on the other side.”
The two disconnected and never spoke to each other again, although they did see each other later that evening. It had been rumored that Zeke and Pauline used to be involved in a little pushing and shoving match going on back in the day, which is something one doesn’t want scurrying around in their imagination box, so let’s move on to more important matters.
Zeke sat in his office, mopping his forehead with a couple of Wendy’s napkins. It was only 9:30 in the morning, but it was warming up quickly. He looked around the small room the local government provided him, knowing it would be his last day in the hallowed place. The dusky brown paneled walls held his shotgun collection and gazing over them made Zeke’s mind go dark. None of this silliness, Zeke, he thought. Zeke picked up the phone’s handset and punched auto-dial #7—his son.
“Hey, Pop,” Calvin Hennington called loudly at his phone, which was on the kitchen counter; he was changing his daughter’s diaper. Hannah Hennington had no idea the Earth was scheduled to explode later in the evening, but she did know she made a poopy mess. “When are you coming over? I got the smoker going, and Linda’s out getting the booze. Ol’ Man Barnett is giving it all away today.”
“Well, son, I got a few more calls to make. Official duty and all that.”
“You don’t need to worry about work, Pop. No one’s gonna fault you for taking this one day off.”
“I know it, I know it. I wanted to say goodbye to some folk, show ’em my ’preciation.”
“Okay, but don’t be too late. Hannah wants to play with her grandpa.”
“Alright, son. Kiss her for me, and I’ll be seein’ y’all shortly.”
And with that, Zeke hung up the clunky office telephone and let out a long and exasperated sigh. All of his staff, including Margie, the receptionist, and nearly all the police department, were gone—had been for several days. Many of the townspeople had packed up and traveled to a more scenic part of the country to spend their last days. Zeke and his family decided to stay and celebrate life with one last barbecue. He took a beer from the mini fridge behind his desk and held the cold bottle against his face, deciding whether to pop it open or not.
Mary-Alice Covington had already drunk her beer. She started each morning with a tall glass of Miller High Life; she said it put her in the mood to dance. Mary-Alice didn’t dance anymore; at eighty-two and with an artificial hip, it wasn’t a good idea. But she did maneuver her broom around the front porch in such a rhythmical way that it reminded her of the times she danced with the young boys in Vietnam in 1969. She was momentarily lost in memories of “Crimson & Clover” when the phone in her apron pocket announced a call.
“Hello? How do I do this? Can you hear me? Who is it?”
“Mary-Alice, it’s me, Mayor Zeke. How are you, darlin’?”
“Zeke? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mary-Alice. How you holdin’ up?”
“Oh, well I guess I’m doing just fine, Zeke. Are you running again?”
“Ha ha. It’s not why I’m calling, dear. I guess I wanted to know how you were doin’ with all the hoo-haw going on later today.”
“What is it, Zeke? What’s going on?”
“About the… you know, the big… Haven’t you heard what’s happenin’ this evening?”
“Well, yes, my grandson is coming over for dinner, and we’re going to watch a movie on the tee-vee.”
“Oh. Sounds real nice, Mary-Alice. Real nice. I hope you and Jeremy have a wonderful time together.”
“Thank you, Zeke. You know he’s twenty-two now.”
“Is he? Well, I’ll be. They grow up so dang fast, don’t they? I sure do hope we get to talk again real soon. Say hi to Jeremy for me and you both have a nice evening.”
“I will, Zeke. Thank you for calling.” Zeke heard her say, “Such a sweet man,” before she disconnected. He carefully rested the receiver on the cradle and started to weep. He took a vintage Winchester Model 12 shotgun from the rack on the wall and loaded it with four shells before replacing it in the display. After composing himself, he opened the bottle of beer.
Zeke decided a change of scenery and a break from calling people would do him good, so he left the mayor’s office and took Pillman’s Trail through the woods. He called Reverend Hank on his cell phone and sipped his beer while he walked.
“Hello, Zeke. How are you on this fine final day?”
“Well, Hank, I’ll tell you. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me thinks this can’t really be the end, and another part is accepting of the fact that we’re all going to be blown to smithereens.”
“Yes, it is a strange feeling, I’ll give you that.”
“Have you been visitin’ a lot of folk these days?”
“It’s quite a shame, Zeke. Most of the people I’ve talked to have abandoned the Lord. I’ve felt it coming for many years from a lot of my parishioners, but I guess this was the last straw.”
“Hmm. It’s downright sad to think we’re all alone. How do you feel about all this, Hank?”
“I can’t answer to that, Zeke. I truly can’t. It’s like asking me to throw away my most comfortable jeans or burn my favorite book.”
“Well, don’t let Trudy Simms see you without your jeans! Ha ha.”
“Ha ha. She is a lustful one, bless her soul.”
“Reverend, it’s been a dang huge honor to call you my friend. What’s it been? Forty-five, forty-six years?”
“Somethin’ along those lines.”
“Well, I honestly want to tell you I ’preciate your friendship and what you’ve done for this community. You’re a good man, Hank.”
“Back at you, Zeke.”
“Say hi to Tammy and the kids. I hope we can somehow chew the fat again like we used to, maybe in some other place.”
“I wish you peace, my friend, and to you and yours an eternity of happiness.”
After Zeke’s chat with the reverend, he recalled the time, almost forty years ago in 2001, when he and Hank and their respective girlfriends went to the mountains for a few days. All four of them, recent high school graduates, engaged in mildly debaucherous and, some would say, immoral recreations. It was only after returning that they learned of the events of November 11th and the aftermath of the terrorist attacks. Zeke directed his future endeavors toward social service, and Hank selected a more pious route.
Zeke walked in silence for a while, listening to the insects and the birds, picking up a few items of litter along the way, without realizing where his feet were leading him.
The cemetery’s grass hadn’t been mowed or weeded in the past few weeks. Zeke didn’t think much of this; a lot of town maintenance had gone undone. He put the litter and his beer bottle in a sidewalk trash bin and headed toward his wife’s gravesite. Laura Hennington had been buried in Davis Grant Memorial Gardens for nearly ten years, and this was the first time Zeke carried no flowers for her.
There was a stillness in the air that belied the massive, destructive cacophony to come. Zeke sat on the grass beside his wife’s headstone and pulled out the tall grass around its base. Usually, he would talk her ear off during his visits, but today his words were few—too many thoughts to contend with on this day; besides, his wife could always read his mind.
Laura’s cancer was swift and devastating—forty-two days from diagnosis to mortuary. Her oncologist, a young woman in her late twenties, cried when giving them the test results. Dr. Jasmine Woo—that was her name. Zeke took out his phone and called her. There was no answer, and there was no prompt to leave a voicemail, but Zeke left one anyway, to be heard by the grasshoppers and the larks.
“Hi, Dr. Jasmine. It’s Zeke Hennington. Just wanted to wish you a happy day and hope you’re with your family and you all transition in peace, and thank you again for lookin’ after my wife. Bye now.”
Transition in Peace was the new viral phrase that caught on after the panic subsided following the announcement of the planet’s upcoming big bang. Zeke wasn’t fond of it, but he couldn’t think of anything better.
The mayor of Strubville looked around at the markers in the surrounding grass. A few were extravagant monstrosities, most were modest memorials, and several were humble, brick-sized stones bearing only a surname and a date. An idea came to Zeke’s mind, slowly and deliberately, like an old freight train. He brushed the grass and debris from Laura’s headstone and stood up.
“I guess I’ll be seein’ you later tonight. Take care, honey.”
Zeke remained standing in the mid-morning heat, looking down at his wife’s grave. He recalled the time he had proposed to her. It was on Halloween, and they had gone to a costume party dressed as John Lennon and Yoko Ono. (Laura was Yoko.) As they walked home, with children running around them in makeup and masks, he stopped her and revealed the ring he had been concealing the entire evening.
“Oh, Yoko. Imagine being married and having little goblins of our own.”
It wasn’t even a question, and Laura’s embrace and her “Oh, my love” sufficiently served as an affirmative answer.
Zeke had entered the cemetery in a depressive state, and he left with an uplifting plan. Now, on the walk back to his office, he needed to implement the various necessary building blocks to achieve his goal. Zeke suddenly felt blissful on the last day of his life, and he wanted others to experience a similar feeling as well.
The birds and the bees and the rest of the woodland animals were carrying on at a more elevated volume than when Zeke first walked the path a mere fifteen minutes before. Was it possible they were celebrating his new idea and feeling his excitement? Or did they possess a sixth sense regarding end-of-world mechanics and were in full panic mode?
Zeke called his son again.
“Hi, Pop. Are you on your way?”
“Son, I need you to help me with something first. Is Linda back?”
“Yeah, she’s home. But…”
“Change of plans, Cal. I need you to meet me at the municipal maintenance depot over on Buckley Avenue. And bring your truck with the hitch.”
“What’s going on?”
It took several minutes and much cajoling, but Calvin agreed to meet his father at the assigned location. A half-hour later, Zeke was explaining his plan to his son, and they loaded up and made their way to the Davis Grant Memorial Gardens.
Calvin Hennington unloaded the two massive mowers from the trailer while his father topped off the gas-powered trimmers and blowers. The two men worked for two and a half sweaty hours, but when they were done, the cemetery looked neatly manicured, and the smell of cut grass made them pause in appreciation of their labor.
“Thank you, son.”
“You got it, Pop.”
Cal loaded up the equipment and headed back home to finish cooking. Zeke took the trail through the woods back to his office. The last step was to invite everyone.
Back at his desk, Zeke used the mayoral messaging system to mass email every resident of Strubville. Of course, only roughly twenty percent still resided in town and would be able to attend, and Zeke had no idea how many of them would show up. But he sighed and composed the note and hit send:
Hi everyone, it’s Mayor Zeke. Pardon my interruption on this sorrow
filled day but I had an idea I think might make us all feel a wee bit better.
I’d like to invite everyone within range of Strubville to all meet at the
Davis Grant cemetery for one last party. Bring the kids, bring food and
drink, or just bring yourself. Let’s all go out surrounded by our family and
friends, past and present. I’d really love it if you could come but I understand
if you don’t.
Let’s all meet at 6 o’clock this evening or whenever you can make it before
the, you know. I’ll be at the front entrance. Look for my truck. Hope to see
my fellow citizens and friends!
Let’s do this together.
Zeke
Ezekiel Jasper Hennington
City of Strubville - Office of the Mayor
515 North Main Street, Strubville TX 66107
Office: (327) 397-5600 / Fax: (327) 397-5633
If Margie’s cat escapes again, call her cell: (714) 211-6466
After emailing whoever was left in town, Zeke said goodbye to his desk and his office, but before he left, he got the Winchester down and unloaded it. He locked the shells in the top right drawer of his desk. Next, he bolted the front door and drove home to enjoy the last shower he would ever have.
Mayor Zeke arrived at Calvin and Linda’s cozy home just as his granddaughter woke from her afternoon nap. Cal had relayed his father’s plan to his wife (she also received the email), and she was fully on board with the idea. While Hannah had slept, they cooked everything they had in the house, in case someone arrived hungry.
For the next few hours, life appeared normal in the younger Hennington household. Mom and Dad prepared the food, singing along to the music on the kitchen speaker. Grandpa was playing with the little one—Hannah being oblivious to the fact that she would never see another birthday, never step foot in a school, never know how to count past three.
However, at 5:30 p.m., things got real, as the expression goes. There was a group hug, and everyone said what they had to say to each other in case there wasn’t a chance to do so later. Hannah was confused by the tears from the grownups but decided to concentrate on the buttons attached to her grandfather’s shirt. There were no rueful comments, no desperate pleadings to an invisible spirit, no last-minute confessions. When all seemed satisfied, they wiped their faces and smiled at each other. Zeke marked the beginning of the end by saying what was necessary to say.
“Well, let’s pack up the truck.”
The Davis Grant Memorial Gardens looked peaceful. Zeke opened the main gates and propped each side open with a brick. Cal and Linda and Hannah and Zeke made their way to the familiar gravesite and spread out a large blanket. While Linda watched the baby, Zeke and his son made several trips back to his vehicle, unloading food and coolers and lawn chairs.
Aaron Madison was the first Strubvillian to arrive, carrying two six-packs of his favorite beer and a photo of his girlfriend, Patty. She wasn’t deceased; she had flown to San Francisco to be with her family. Aaron wasn’t invited. Minutes later, several more people showed up, each with blankets or chairs, carrying bags of chips or pies or Frisbees or soccer balls. Every new arrival was greeted with a hug and a slap on the back by Zeke.
By 7 p.m., no fewer than sixty residents populated the sacred grounds in familial subgroups settled around their departed loved ones. By 7:30, the number exceeded one hundred. Zeke couldn’t personally greet everyone, so a wave and a smile and a thumbs up had to suffice.
Surprisingly, there was a party atmosphere. Somebody had brought a portable speaker, and classic rock tunes could be heard bouncing off the bulkier headstones. Others brought grills and charcoal. Children ran around with sparklers or played tag. Older couples slow-danced in the fading sunlight. Games of badminton and touch football and catch sprang up organically. Some people practiced yoga to calm their minds, while others drank excessively with no fear of a morning-after hangover. Someone started a small bonfire, and a group of teenagers roasted marshmallows in a post-carnal celebration.
Zeke was filled with immense pride looking over his townsfolk. With less than an hour of life left, he wanted the warmth in his heart to be the last thing his old body felt. When Reverend Hank came over, Zeke embraced his closest friend with a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I miss Laura so much, Hank.”
“I know. I do too.”
“Will I see her again?”
“We’re all going to be together in paradise in a short while.”
“Do you really believe that, Hank?”
Hank looked into the mayor’s eyes, now gleaming with tears.
“I’ve got no fucking clue.”
In total, Zeke made 173 calls that day, you know, before the Earth exploded. After all, it was an election year. He spoke with people he hadn’t talked to in a while, which in itself is a good thing to do on the last day of your life. He was spending his remaining time with his family, and he thought he couldn’t ask for anything more. He tried to recollect some of the most wonderful moments from his long life, but Hannah wanted to play. As the sun set, Zeke picked up his granddaughter, and she grasped both of his thumbs.
“She’s getting big, Cal.”
“Yeah, Pop.”
Cal and Linda hugged each other, looking at their young child with her grandpa. They waited.
They didn’t need to wait long.
“Hey, Hannah darlin’. Do you want to see a big boom-boom?”
Zeke raised his eyebrows and made a funny but melancholic expression. Before he turned her around to witness the end, she giggled and touched his freshly shaven face with her tiny hand.
