Table Of ContentWorld Enough and Time
By J.M. Snyder
This is the way the world ends. With salt.
It falls from an overcast sky the color of tarnished steel. Not in blizzards, and not all at once. It
started sometime in the early spring as a fine, steady sprinkle that stung when it fell, like dust
settling around you. I lie awake at night and hear it, insidious and deadly, like so much sand
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blowing against the window.
It gets in the air conditioner and burns out the motor. It rusts car engines and bridges and
buildings. It fills the lakes and streams and rivers until fish float belly up, dead and buoyed in
briny water. It drifts into curbs and alleyways, and everywhere you walk, you feel it crunch
beneath your feet. It gets in your hair. It gets in your food. It gets in your clothes and you can’t
get it out of the bed sheets—after a while you just give up trying. What’s the use? It still comes
down. Like the rains in the Bible, that steady, that unending. It covers the fields out in the
Midwest and chokes grass, trees, crops.
And it’s still coming down.
The zealots say it’s God’s punishment, like AIDS, only more blatant. The media and
weathermen don’t know what to make of it, but they keep telling us all about it on the six o’clock
news just the same. A few people think it’s a joke, one great big cosmic laugh they don’t quite
get, but they’ll go to their graves laughing.
Those who died after the first week didn’t laugh. They shriveled up like slugs do when you pour
salt over their slimy little bodies, all hollowed out and dried up inside because there isn’t enough
to drink. The water that comes out of the faucet tastes like sea water. You can’t purify it enough
to get all the salt out of it. Even bottled water from the store tastes salty. It gets into everything.
The poor died first, which wasn’t a pretty sight. Swarms of flies buzzing behind trashcans,
hovering over bums and winos and prostitutes who died where they fell on the streets. And I had
to pass them on the way to work. The first time it shocked me to see a man my dad’s age,
propped up against the bakery downtown, legs sprawled in an obscene manner. A few police
stood nearby, ringed around the scene with a line of yellow tape. When I asked what happened,
the officer in charge shook her head. “The salt. Don’t you know? This is only the beginning of
the end.”
Then she took off her cap, wiped her brow with her sleeve, and ran a hand over her hair in a half-
hearted attempt to get the salt out. I shielded my eyes because even with my sunglasses on, the
salt still managed to get behind them. It’s like rain pelting at you, only so fine you can’t see it for
looking, hard and dry. You never quite get used to the sensation.
* * *
Another two weeks and you can’t turn on the news without hearing the reports. A hundred dead
in L.A., mostly the very old and the very young. Thirty-five dead in Orlando. Twenty more in
Detroit. Overseas it’s just as bad, but this is America and we don’t hear about their tragedies
because we’re always too obsessed with our own. Who cares if half of Afghanistan dies? We
have our own dead and dying to worry about, thank you very much.
After the third week I stop going to work. Why bother? Everywhere I turn, people claim the
world is about to end and the last thing I want to do is waste what little time I may have left. So
when the alarm rings the next morning, I stay in bed.
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Then I start thinking. I’m still young, you know? The salt’s not bothering me like it does so
many others, but I live off carbonated drinks and fast food so I’m still doing okay. I don’t drink
the water, I buy frozen foods. I’m doing pretty good.
But I’m going to die, I know it. We all are, and it’s just a question of how. Those of us who don’t
die of thirst or high blood pressure or starvation, it’ll be something else. What will we do when
the people who put the soda into the cans don’t show up for work anymore? What happens when
the stores aren’t open and the trucks don’t make deliveries and we can’t buy food? Then we die,
those of us who managed to avoid the first pass. Welcome to the end of the world.
I come to a startling conclusion, there in my bed, listening to the salt pelt my window. I don’t
have much time left to make something of myself now, do I?
* * *
First thing I do is get out of bed. I ain’t dying on my back, unless it’s with an Adonis between
my legs and loving me so hard I’m screaming his name into the stars. That thought makes me
pick up the phone and dial my no-good boyfriend, a loser who’s cheated on me more times than I
can count. I’ve stayed with him only because I believed I would never find anyone better. Well,
it’s a little late but I think I should start looking, no?
“We’re through,” I tell Jack when he finally answers the phone.
He tries to act surprised. “What? Allan? Wait, baby—”
“Don’t baby me.” It feels good to finally get this out between us. “I’m not letting you fuck
around on me anymore.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long while. I think he’s fallen asleep; wouldn’t be the first time.
Then in a low, sexy voice, he purrs, “Listen, we can talk about it. Let me come over—”
“No.”
And because time’s slipping away, the salt’s still coming down and hitting my windows like
handfuls of dirt, I’m not getting any younger here and I’m going to die sooner than I ever
imagined, I hang up the phone. Fuck him.
I should’ve done that a long time ago.
* * *
So now what? I look in the fridge and see I’m down to one frozen meal—a box of Hot Pockets
suffering from a severe case of freezer burn. There’s a grocery down the street, right near the
subway where I’d catch the train if I still went to work, and since I don’t know when the people
who own it will decide to close up shop and head for the hills with everyone else who thinks they
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can outrun this thing, I pull on some clothes and take a walk.
The streets are jammed, cars and trucks twisted this way and that, chrome bikes with huge rusted
spots like leprosy eating into their pipes and spokes. People fleeing the city. Like that’s going to
do them any good. Hello? I want to tell them it’s salting everywhere, not just New York. It’s
probably worse out in the country.
Druggies and punks line the sidewalks, watching those of us who pass like they’re just waiting
for a chance to jump us, beat our heads in, take our money and run. Much good it’ll do them. A
few more weeks and it’s only going to be little pieces of green paper, that’s all. A few of the
bolder kids run at the cars, tear the handles to see if any doors are unlocked, and jump inside if
they are. People rush by me, jostling me, racing away. Women scream, babies cry, dogs howl
and bark and there’s laughter, alarms, smoke and breaking glass and over it all the steady patter
of salt hitting my head, my shoulders, my hands.
A snippet of song runs through my mind, over and over again, because I don’t know the lyrics.
Something about the end of the world and feeling fine. Surprisingly, I do.
Well, I don’t, not really, but I feel better than I have in a long time. Despite the riots around me.
Despite the cries and the screams and the sirens. I’m not going back to the office again, and I’ve
dumped that sack of shit boyfriend I’ve been carrying for too long. My immediate plans include
stocking up at the grocery and going home to lock myself up in my tiny condominium apartment
until I figure out just what the hell it is I’m going to do with what little I have left of my life.
Maybe that novel I’ve been dallying with will finally get written. No time like the present, eh?
Go me.
* * *
On my way into the grocery, I pass two guys who lean against the side of the building like
they’re the only things holding it up. They have to be brothers, two big beefcakes with tight jeans
and muscle shirts that show off the way their arms ripple when they move. They’re cute, don’t
get me wrong, but I don’t go for that type, the barrel chests, the quarterback thighs, the Popeye
forearms. Too much testosterone. I like my boys a little less meaty, if you know what I mean.
But they’re looking at me as I go by, so I smile and the younger one—he’s less built than his
brother and has softer eyes—he says, “Hey.”
Then they laugh. I flush like I used to when I was fifteen and in high school, walking past the
football team in the hall and hearing them cough the word queer into their hands as they
snickered behind my back. I hurry into the store.
There are three cops right inside the door, hands on their hips like they’re gunslingers from the
Old West. The girl behind the counter looks all of sixteen, young and terrified to be here. The
noises from the street carry through the thick windows and you can hear squealing brakes, car
alarms, wild cackling laughter like someone finds this all immensely humorous. The people
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inside the store huddle together as if this is a haven, and even the cops don’t look eager to leave.
I grab one of those hand baskets… you know, the ones we’re all going to hell in? Yeah, those.
Mine’s blue and says Grosso’s along the side, the name of the grocery. I start down the dingy
aisles and there isn’t much left on the shelves but I grab what I can. A few boxes of rice—I
won’t need to add salt to the water when I boil it. Noodles. As many cans of tomato sauce as I
can carry. If nothing else, I’ll make spaghetti until I die. It’s one of the only dishes I can cook,
anyway.
I waver at the crackers, undecided between a box of saltines and a box of unsalted tops. Hmm…
it’s almost like a bad joke, isn’t it? Beside me someone reaches for the saltines and I look up
from the slim, strong hand to a young, boyish face framed with neat black hair along the jawline
and around the chin. The hair that curls from under his baseball cap looks like spilled ink against
the burnished gold of his skin.
Great, I think as I stare at him, at the smooth hair lining his face, the full lips, the dark eyes. I’ve
been searching for someone like you my whole life and when I finally find you, the world’s about
to end. Just my luck.
He glances at me with a slight frown on his face. “Hey,” he says, a little too loudly. He takes in
my lips, my eyes, my hair, and then looks back to my mouth because I run my tongue over my
upper lip unconsciously. He’s quite cute. And young, too, not as built as Hans and Frans outside,
and I know I’m staring but so what? A few more weeks it won’t matter anyway.
A few more weeks and we’ll both be dead.
He takes a step back from me, still frowning. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I smile a disarming grin and hope he doesn’t run, not now, not when we’ve just met. I
force a laugh and that makes him smile, too. “Well, except for the salt.”
“Yeah,” he says, a breathless rush. I’m just about to say something else, something I hope is
witty enough to get him to come back to my place and lie in my bed with me, we can take in the
end of the world together, when he turns away. Apparently I’m not that interesting to him.
Or he’s got other things on his mind, because he looks towards the front of the store where the
cops stand, and then back at the shelf full of Cheez-its and Ritz crackers and Little Debbie snack
cakes. He pats at his back pocket like he’s feeling for a wallet and then bends down for
something on a low shelf, and that’s when I see the gun shoved into his jeans. It rests along the
small of his back and his shirt pulls up just enough for me to get a glimpse of cold, hard steel;
then he stands again and it’s hidden from view.
Okay.
This time when he smiles at me, I’m the one to take a step back. He’s got a gun.
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“Take care,” I tell him. I hope he’s not thinking I saw the gun but I’m hurrying as fast as I can
from the aisle without trying to look suspicious, and I wonder if he’s going to pay for whatever it
is he’s getting or if he’s going to hold up the cashier or what. Then I tell myself I don’t care, I’m
just here for some frozen Bagel Bites and a pan of Healthy Choice lasagna and that’s it. I’ll think
about him later, when I’m alone and lying in my bed and touching myself, thinking I’d rather
have him with me, but he has a gun so I’m not even going to ask. These may be desperate times
and he may be sexy as hell, but I’m not that desperate. I’m not.
At least I don’t think I am. I keep moving away from him before I can change my mind.
* * *
The cashier’s hands tremble as she rings up my groceries. I’m sure she’s thinking I’m an idiot,
out at a time like this, in the salt and the riots and whatnot, just for a frozen pizza and some cans
of soda. I want to tell her I’m not that bad, really. I want to tell her not to worry, but I can’t find
the words. If worrying is what’s going to get her through this, then let her worry.
I also don’t tell her about the cute guy in aisle five with the pistol down his pants. We just won’t
go there.
I see him from the corner of my eye as she bags my things. He stands at the end of the line with
his arms full of saltines and beer and chips, and he keeps looking around like he’s got something
to hide. Yeah, I think, smiling as the cashier hands me first one large paper bag, then the next.
He’s got a gun, remember? So stop thinking he’s all that and just get your ass back to your
apartment, lock the door and get him out of your mind because, hello? He’s got a gun. As if I
could possibly forget that little fact.
When I turn, he catches my eye and grins. God, that smile’s like the sun, which we haven’t seen
since this damn storm started. How long has it been? You look up past the salt pouring down,
pouring, pouring, and all you see is gray, clouds covering the sun and the blue sky like someone
took a brush and painted away all the other colors.
For a moment I almost falter, almost—it would be so easy to just stand aside and wait for him to
check out, ask if he’s doing anything tonight, see if he’d like to come over. Carpe diem, and all
that shit. What’s he going to say, no? What else is there to do but sit and stare at the salt and
think that you’re going to die?
But it’s that gun. It clouds my mind like a fog and I can’t get around it. I don’t want to mess with
that. I don’t even know who the hell he is. Maybe he’s a bank robber, maybe a killer, maybe a
thief. Who knows? I’m just starting over again—late, but it’s better than never—and I can’t take
that chance.
Outside the first thing that hits me is the heat, then the salt. Always with the salt. Over the tops of
the bags in my hands, I see those brothers are still against the side of the building, and I don’t
want to pass them but I have no choice, do I? And how old am I? Too old to let these two guys
and their hot stares and their sniggered laughter scare me. So I heft the bags in my arms and
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don’t even look at them as I walk by.
And they fall into step with me, one on either side. Oh, shit.
“Hey there,” one of them says, the older one. He’s like granite beside me and he’s walking so
close, his arm brushes against mine with each step. Arms like that, they’d easily break me in
half.
When I turn to answer him, his brother on my other side asks, “You live around here?”
And all at once I know what’s going to happen. I can feel it like I can at night when I’m in the
bed and I can still feel the pitter-patter of the salt against my hands and face, a ghost inside the
house. With some sort of sixth sense I realize they’re going to jump me. They see what I’ve
bought and they’re thinking I have money and they’re going to knock me down and rob me
blind. But I only live a few blocks away. I keep telling myself this. I can make it that far.
“Not far,” I answer, turning to look at him. I don’t like this. Have I said that yet?
But they’ve got their system down pat. When I’m looking at one, the other speaks. Now the first
one says, “You know he lives around here, Mike. He’s walking, ain’t he?”
His hand touches my elbow to make me look back at him, which I do.
“You said we weren’t using names,” Mike says, sounding pissed. He takes my other elbow as I
try to shake his brother off me. “Jesus, Rob, what if he says something?”
“Okay, guys?” I ask. This isn’t funny. This is downright uncomfortable and now they’re both
touching me and I can’t do shit because my arms are full with the two big bags from the store
and I’m just a stone’s throw away from my condo—this isn’t funny in the least. “Look, you want
money? I have some, you can take it. Come on now…”
We pass an alley and without warning Rob swerves into the dark maw, Mike right behind him,
me in between these two and squirming to get free. “Okay, stop,” I tell them, trying to pull away.
I dig my feet in but I just slide in the salt that’s built up over the sidewalk, and I tell myself I’m
not going to panic. That’s what they want. I won’t panic, I won’t scream, I won’t…
One of them knocks away my bags and grabs my arms, pins them behind my back. It’s filthy in
this alley; my feet kick against trash cans and topple discarded boxes. I try to look over my
shoulder at the light, the people passing by, so close and they’re not listening to me, no one looks
as I cry out for help and it’s just another day in New York, isn’t it? Just another party going on
back here that they aren’t invited to and they don’t want to crash. I struggle against the hard arms
and twist when I feel strong hands on my belt, my crotch. God, no, I pray. Why can’t I be dead?
Don’t let this happen to me, please God no.
Then my pants are down around my knees and the guy with my arms, he bends me over a nearby
dumpster, shoving my face into hot plastic covered in salt. Everywhere there’s salt—it burns my
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eyes, fills my nostrils, my ears, my mouth. I feel a leg between mine, someone kicking my feet
apart, harsh hands groping at my ass and my balls and forcing my legs open. I hear a zipper,
impossibly loud amid the shuffles and grunts, and then something damp and hard touches me,
rubs along my leg. I tell myself I’m not here, I’m still at the store, I’m at home watching the TV.
I’m anywhere but here, please help me, God—
Then there’s a metallic click, the kind you hear in movies when the good guys draw their pistols.
“Get your fucking hands off him.”
And there’s nothing breathless about that voice now.
Between my legs, the fingers stop poking. They freeze for an instant, then start a slow rub as if
trying to get back up to their previous frenzy. I don’t move. I can’t see a thing with my head
down among these trash bags and I have no idea where that gun is aimed at.
“Am I not speaking English?” this new voice asks.
It’s the guy from the grocery store, the cute one with the gun that was in his pants and is now
pointing in this direction. “Let me say it slow. Little words so you can understand.”
Then he starts to enunciate like he’s speaking to a child. I want to tell him hurry it up, my butt is
in the air here, these aren’t guys you fuck around with, but he’s the one with the gun, right? So I
keep quiet. “Get your hands off his ass or I’ll shoot.”
It’s not working. I still feel those thick fingers between my legs and at any minute one will shove
up in me, I’m almost sure of it. And God please, that’s not something I want right now. You
listening? I pray. I hope someone is.
“You think I’m joking?” the guy asks.
Then the gun goes off in his hand, oh so motherfucking loud.
Now those hands disappear from my body, and the guy holding me down lets go with a strangled
scream. “My face!”
I wonder just how good a shot this other punk is if he got him in the face and he can still talk
about it. I glance up and see the side of his cheek is open, bloody and raw, and he’s standing so
close to the wall I’m thinking the kid hit the bricks and the shrapnel’s what’s torn him up. “Jesus,
Rob my face, my face!”
Rob steps away from me and I raise my head just enough to see that baseball cap backlit by the
daylight from the street and the barrel of the gun aimed this way, at me, the light shining off the
barrel, and then I don’t want to see anymore. I close my eyes and pray he doesn’t hit me by
mistake. I pray he doesn’t shoot again. I feel grains of salt hitting my naked butt, my back, and
please please please tell me this is going to be over soon. Please.
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Another shot, this one not so loud. I think it’s because I’ve already gone deaf, my ears ringing
with the echo from the first shot. This one hits somewhere between the brothers and one of them
falls to the ground, gripping his shoulder. I think it’s Rob. I don’t think he’s been hit directly
either but at least he’s down and away from me, even though I still feel the phantoms of his
fingers between my legs.
Then a third shot rings out, this one whizzing just inches over my bare ass. The guys scramble to
their feet and race off down the alley. Slowly my hearing comes back. I hear the hiss of soda
cans that burst when my groceries were knocked away and the shift of salt beneath my ear. The
gun’s safety clicks back into place. “You okay?”
God.
Ask me some other time. I push myself up slowly, not quite believing it’s all over. My knees feel
weak and there’s salt pressed into my lips, my cheeks, my forehead. “Fine,” I mumble. I bend
down and hike up my pants. It takes a few tries to get the zipper up and then my fingers fumble
with the button, they’re trembling and I can’t get it to close, I think it might be broken, so I
buckle my belt and is that guy still here? Can’t he just leave me alone now? What the hell’s he
waiting for, a fucking medal?
“You have a nice ass,” he tells me at the same moment I say, “Thanks.”
“God,” I sigh. “I don’t mean… I meant—”
“I know.” He sticks the gun into his jeans again, this time in the front, and when I see the handle
lying dark along his white T-shirt my knees give out and I fall to the ground, I can’t stand, oh
Jesus fucking Christ those guys were going to—no. I won’t think it. I won’t.
I pull my legs up to my chest and hug myself into as tight a ball as I possibly can. Never mind
the salt and dirt and trash beneath me. Never mind the dumpster against my back. In all the years
I lived in this toilet of a city, not once was I ever mugged or beaten or attacked, and just as the
world’s about to end I almost get raped. Raped! I don’t know if I should even bother to go to the
cops. What the hell will they say? They’ve got riots they’re trying to contain; they’re dying along
with the rest of us. Jesus.
The guy with the gun kneels down by me. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
His voice is soft and I wonder just how old he is because that cap makes him look impossibly
young but the hands that touch my arms are sure and strong and he has a man’s voice.
“Fine,” I whisper. I don’t trust myself to speak any louder. I’m shaking too hard.
He starts to pick up my groceries that litter the ground like discarded trash. The soda’s all over
the place and one of the boxes of rice is soaked through, uncooked noodles are scattered
everywhere, there’s a footprint in one of my microwave dinners. Shit. But he picks up what he
can, dusts off the salt, and sticks it in his grocery bag that’s sitting on the ground beside him. I
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don’t even have the energy to stop him.
When all my stuff’s in his bag, he stands up and takes my arm. “Come on.” His voice is still so
soft, so gentle. I let him help me up. “I’ll take you home. Come on.”
His arm slips around my waist and I don’t want to lean against him but I remember those guys
and their hands on me, holding me down, and I tremble so bad I can’t walk without his support.
If he hadn’t come along—
Don’t think about that, my mind whispers.
Okay. I won’t.
* * *
He comes into my apartment like he lives here, too, just walks in and closes the door behind him,
setting the grocery bag on the chair by the phone. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asks,
as if this is his place and I’m the one visiting.
I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I’m not. I’m still shaking inside and I feel
grubby hands all over me. When I move away from him and stumble over my own feet, he
reaches out for my arm. “Don’t touch me.”
It comes out harsher than I intended and he frowns at me, almost a pout. I turn away from those
eyes, those lips. “I need to take a shower.”
“Okay,” he says. I keep one hand on the wall to steady myself. “Where do you want me to put
your stuff?”
I point at the kitchen as I pass by it. I hear him gather up the bag, a rustle of paper, and then I’m
in the bathroom, locking the door on him and the groceries and the rest of the world.
In the shower I let the hot water sting my body. I have to turn it up as high as it’ll go because the
salt clogs the faucet otherwise, but right now it feels so good pelting me, tiny, tiny grains in the
water that blast at me, scour away the memory of those guys in the alley. I try to think again of
what might have happened if this kid didn’t come along but my mind shuts down. It doesn’t want
to go there. I don’t blame it.
When I get out, I dress in jeans and a T-shirt. Though I’m fully dressed, part of me feels cold and
naked, as though I’m still outside with my ass still in the air in the middle of the day, right off the
crowded street and no one even looked at me. No one but that boy with the gun and I didn’t even
get his name. I wonder if he just left my groceries on the counter and left.
He didn’t.
The counter’s empty; he must’ve put everything away, because the brown paper bag he carried is
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