Side of the Road

Based on a true story. Not even joking. I seem to run into a lot of insane people. 

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Transcript

It seemed a futile gesture. A full year and I’d debated with myself why I even cared. It certainly wasn’t doing my back any favors, and I wasn’t sure if it was, well, doing anything any favors. And that was kind of the point, right? I wanted it to be something good, something impactful, but there was nothing left to have an impact on. Nobody and nothing that would have cared, anyway.

I guess I did. And that was the entire reason I leaned down once again to pick up the pipe. There were a thousand of its brethren littering the streets, and my back screamed in protest at my action. I needed to lie down, it said. I needed to give up. The screams were tempting, certainly, but then I was already halfway there to doing doing the little good deed. Sunk costs and all that. So there was a further symphony of pain as my hands clasped around the pipe, but the chorus softened as I straightened myself. Just a few feet off to the side of the road. The side of the road was less important, and even in my zealotry I wasn’t going to take it anywhere else, anywhere proper. The junkyard was everywhere, but there were hopefully some spaces that one day wouldn’t be. 

The pipe clattered on the concrete with an irate yell that mimicked the screech of my back in its indignity. Even the twisted metal did not respect my efforts. But why should I care if the world screamed at me? My eyes accidentally fell on the tower once again, a metallic middle finger made to flip off… you never really could be sure. Even when you’d invested your previous self into it. 

Something about energy or whatever. Calibration of ions, lifting of spirits. Hadn’t worked. Its ambition went too far. That was the simple truth, and we were left with a corpse of a world for our efforts. A familiar tale. I’d often dreamed of this outcome as a young man. Why? Because I felt like I could enjoy this, uninhibited. Some small amount of good without having anyone around to question it, make it seem like it was something that it wasn’t.

It was quiet, now that the screeching of my back and the metal had ended. Another bridge was clear. The foundations of the thing were looking a bit shaky, sure, but that was a good deed beyond my abilities. If there was someone else in this wasteland besides the few others holed up in the spire, then maybe, just maybe, they could drive a truck over the bridge safely. Because of me.

But no one was going to drive a truck over the bridge. There was never any reason to go from nowhere to nowhere, especially not while guzzling down fuel. If FOOD was a precious commodity now, then what was gasoline? I knew that stuff wasn’t stable. But I could lie to myself and feel good about it, think that even though I’d helped with the ultimate folly, I was still a good person. So I kept working.

There was another bridge three miles south. That would be high traffic area if there was ever a reclamation. I would head there. 

My ears perked to another screech. Not the pain in my boots, the glare of the sun, or the carving rust of the wind. It was a live screech. My heart immediately started pounding out of my chest. It was an animal screech of a sort I didn’t recognize. Almost… human.

That was… whatever it was, it probably wasn’t good. It reminded me of the singing out in the flaming trash heaps by the spire. Not quite the same, of course. The tone was more stable, the voice more free, but they both tilted on the precipice of humanity. 

A thin screech came hauling in from the opposite direction of the one I was pricking my ears to. Rubber on concrete. My dream come true, were it not for the audible grinding of the gears. A bicycle. He practically snuck up on me. 

He was a man. Like a real man. Not the screechers from the around the spire. He had a full face, eyes, mouth, clean facial hair, scraggly, stinky clothes. I know. Weird metrics to vouch for person-hood, but I had learned to be picky. He approached in the most casual way I could imagine, all of limbs relaxed and a bored look on his face, as though it were just another event to be meeting a person out in the eternal wasteland. 

“Was that your pipe?” He gestured to the stick of metal that I’d just hauled off the street. 

“I…” I choked on the dust in my throat. I’d started talking to myself early in the Last Days, but then quickly gotten myself out of the habit to save my sanity. But apparently it hadn’t saved my vocal cords. “I… um… sorry. My throat…” I gave a quick cough to jolt my larynx back into working shape. “Sorry. Who are you?”

“Name’s Steven. That your pipe?”

“What sort of question is that? Is that my pipe? Here I am, haven’t seen another living person in a year, and the first guy I meet asks me if some random pipe is mine.”

“Woah, man. Chill out. I just want to know if it’s your pipe.”

My gaze grew more and more insane. “My pipe?! Where have you been, man?”

“Around. I was working on a gas meter. That looks like just the pipe I’d need.”

“Gas meter? What are? You’ve got working gas?”

“So is it your pipe?”

“Are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? I need some context, man! What’s going on? Why would you be working on a gas meter? Is there another place with survivors? Why would you be recognizing property rights for random pipes out in the middle of the street? Are you…” I blinked vigorously, then did the classic move of pinching myself to check whether I’d locked myself in a dream. Nothing. The man was still there, the rust wind still blew, and none of my questions were answered. The man stared at me, and me at him.

“Fine,” I said. “Fine. It’s not my pipe. It’s random trash. I was getting it out of the road because I have some sick fantasy of there one day being cars out on the road again, and I wanted to make sure they had a smooth ride. I wanted to feel like I was doing something good. I know. It’s crazy. But! But! It’s less crazy than what you’re telling me. So. Will you answer my questions?”

“It’s not your pipe?”

“Yes! I have no claim on the pipe! What does it matter!?”

“Can I have it?”

“Are you a man or an automaton?! What is going on?”

“I just need the pipe for a gas gauge.”

“Fine! Take the pipe! Kill me with it if you want! Because that’s it, isn’t it? You want me disarmed so you can murder me and eat the muscles from my bones. That’s it. Finally. Good play driving me mad, you scum.”

“Whoa, whoa. What’s the overreaction? I just need the pipe for a gas gauge.”

“Sure. Whatever. Take it.” I handed over the metal piece to the maniac, who took it gingerly and then set it in his backpack. Sure enough, he didn’t turn around to beam me in the back of my head. Instead, he simply scampered off to the west. And he was gone.

That. That made no sense. Like less sense than the spire malfunctioning and destroying what I thought was the world. I just… 

 I thought about pursuing him for a second. I could probably track the little trail of sweat he was leaving on the ground, if I was fast enough. If he was even halfway right and was repairing or building a gas main, then that meant civilization, thoroughly cooked food, and walls strong enough to keep the rust winds out. It would be utter luxury in comparison to the present, but…

I couldn’t live with that madness, certainly. The man had looked at me, but he seemed to understand as little as a computer. It was as if to him the world had not even ended. Even if I could find the place he retreated to, could I even make a life with someone so obtuse? 

No. I couldn’t. So I continued my bleak crusade for another month, until more of the mad detritus of our utopia crashed upon me. The tower gleamed once again in all its macabre idealistic glory. And so the world that ended ended. But I was still alive.