Brontosaurus: Epilogue (Goodnight, Chignik)

The first thing I see are the pictures, on my computer monitor. The burned, flaky flesh. The ashy smoke and glowing embers. The atomic breath of wind that swept across the snowy, wet tundra. The caribou. Fields and fields of dead caribou. Thousands of them, hairless and rotting, charred tongues hanging disconnected from jaw-sockets that used to be called mouths.
The first time, well, one of the first times... it was the words I heard first, on the AM radio. The words, “plane,” “terrorist,” and “tower.” Now it was the pictures. Pictures of dead fucking caribou.

I remember when I got almost no reaction from the first person I saw, my upstairs neighbor Chris. “Alaska?” He said with a half-smile, expecting a punchline. Something about Sarah Palin and Russia, probably, right? Some kind of funny political anecdote. I don’t know, why did the chicken cross the road? To kill a quarter-million American civilians. Snare drum. Laugh track. “But seriously, folks...”
Anchorage, Alaska. The city in which I was born. 250,000 people. Killed. In an instant. November 22, 2009.

I remember a lot of things from the first hour. At first, I remember feeling delusional and unable to function. Numb from the weight of a crushing thought, slowly becoming reality. Do I know anyone there? I was fucking born there, but I didn’t know if our family still kept in touch. How do I not fucking know that? I feel ill.

Then I remember Chignik. I’m told by my parents that I once lived there. A fishing village and hatchery, basically, with one school, where the sidewalks are made of rotting lumber. My father taught swimming lessons to grade schoolers in the fish hatchery, or at least that’s what I remember from a photograph. That’s what I tell people. Chignik is an anecdote. I look at John King’s CNN interactive map of radiation fallout patterns and blast zones. Chignik isn’t even large enough to be marked on the map, so I have to rely on my own faulty memories to guesstimate where Chignik is geographically in that big backwards-R of a state. Yep, Chignik’s in the danger zone. I had always kind of wanted to go back there and see it for myself. Now it’s Hiroshima. Do people visit Hiroshima? People must visit Hiroshima. But that was 64 years ago.
I am 27 years old. I can feel the cancer in my chest. We are all dying. That’s why we were born. I feel like I need to fuck someone.

When the immediate visceral shock of the loss of one thousand people, two-hundred and fifty times, begins to wear off, you start thinking about the rest of the world. What does this mean? Is this the first of many? Did that newspaper article say North Korea could reach Seattle? Or was it just Canada? I start scanning the internet for answers, and only then do I remember to call my parents.
Come to think of it, isn’t there a nuclear launch site in Cheyenne? That’s 45 minutes from here. Fuck. I fucking know people there. I need to talk to them. Do they fucking know already? What if we start firing back? Has it started already? I scan the sky for signs. I feel stupid.

My father tells me he wants me to come home. I can’t. That’s not my home anymore. But this isn’t my home either. Home is where the heart is, and my heart wandered off into the desert years ago to kill himself. He took a bottle of rum and a portable stereo playing Tom Waits tunes and a noose. He said he was going to hang himself from a tree in the desert like Judas Iscariot. I didn’t try to stop him.

I wonder about Cheyenne and George. They’re in the military. I remember joking with Cheyenne about trading her desert-camo designed to blend with Iraq’s deserts for something more fitting for North Korea’s landscape. I don’t really talk to Cheyenne anymore.

I decide to visit Marla. She’ll have something to say, some kind of song to play. The world is ending, let’s all get high and listen to records. Marla’s arms are warm and tight when I knock on their door. “You look beautiful,” I say. I always say it. It’s always true. Today, people have died, wars have begun, people’s families are gone, but the deep green of Marla’s eyes still shimmer. I can see my reflection. She’s been crying. Her hair is down, the way I like it best. She looks like a religious icon in a stained-glass window, all unnatural colors and perfect smooth white skin. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine making love to her on her kitchen floor, running my fingers along her thigh, pressing my lips against her neck, sliding my tongue around her teeth.
Eyes open. Pulse normal.

There are packed bags in both bedroom doorways. Thanksgiving is in four days, anyway. Everyone was preparing to go home, whether nuclear holocaust was occuring or not. Today is the 46th anniversay of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Anchorage is the new John F. Kennedy. Today is the new yesterday. Ashes on the collar are the new blood on the sleeve.

11-22. 11/22. 11.22. Eleven-twenty-two. 11:22. eleventwentytwo. 1122. Eleven.Twenty.Two. 11/22. 11/22. elvntntytw. ehntwo. eeehttwttw.

I look around. These are my friends. This is my life. I love them. I love them, I love my country, I love my family, and we are sad. We are angry. We are sick.
Marla’s roommate gets up and takes her cell phone to her room. I wonder who she is talking to. I haven’t been listening. I didn’t even realize she had called someone. Marla is asking me what I’m going to do. Am I still coming home with her for Thanksgiving? Yes. This is the proper way to panic about the end of the world. Be with loved ones, or rather, your loved one’s loved ones. Liked ones. Tolerated ones. Go somewhere safe and calming. Eat turkey. I kiss her mouth and tell her it’s okay. I’m talking to myself.
Who am I talking to? Who is reading these words? Is there anyone listening to us? Are we listening to us? Is this our great war? Will we look regal in black and white in someone’s text book someday? Will we have retirement parties and make toasts and age gracefully? Where are our suburbs? Where are our gated communities? Our social security?

Goodbye, yellow brick road.
Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, peace.
Goodnight, pale green stars on the ceiling.
Goodnight, Anchorage. Goodnight, Chignik.
Goodnight, caribou.

I remember Peter Jennings, and how he started smoking again after 9/11 after many years clean and sober, and soon after died of lung cancer. I step outside the apartment door, into the frigid air. I can see my breath. Someone is standing in the courtyard with his back to me, balancing on an icy concrete bench. I can see his breath as well. It’s begun to snow again.
I step onto the grass and look up at the sky. The wind blows, and the sun peeks from beneath a cloud. I look for God. Death and that pale horse. So far, no sign.
I spin on my heels and open my mouth, drawing in a sharp jab of cold air, and glow in the horrible, burning daylight of my own desperation.
Today would be a fine day. If it wasn’t for the fucking wind.