20th Century Has Ended Here by Misha Firer
Hedonistic full-time preoccupation: teens and twenties
squandered on chasing after hyper-real orgasm, probing exotic cuisines, re-arranging
material possessions. Slowly but sure deteriorating into semi-depression and
infertility. Extra zeroes after coma on the virtual account is spent on purchasing
surpass children from undeveloped nations.
Stage two. Wrapped in seventeen layers of corporate clothes, the colored
offspring of surrogate parents half-globe removed are rolled down Avenue
of America, accompanied by Dogs That Never Bite, sterile and amorphous, more
beautiful that their owners.
The twenty first century sample (read: average) town consists of fortresses,
isolated by alarm system, cable TV, Internet and stark-naked fear. Aggression
has been filtered into safe passive aggressiveness. Cars are military-looking
SUVs, mobile, GPS-equipped extension of the house-fortress. It's when you
can't believe a smile, because it's always a polite front, a pretentious
mask. It's when a branch fallen off the tree in the backyard provides fodder
for conversation for a day or two. It's when people pray to God, in whom
they don't trust, to be inflicted with pain: physical (twisted ankle, lacerated
chin, colon cancer), emotional (broken heart, caring for fellow creatures)
just to elevate this non-existence. Welcome to B., California, just your
archetypical American middle-class town.
I used to believe, a naïve boor, that my girlfriend is different. That
she is an idealist rather than consumerist, a kind-hearted person instead
of a self-absorbed, family-orientist versus isolationist. My subsequent disillusionment
contributed to Prozac success as a business venture.
Tonight I go to watch my girlfriend, who has recently had her sixth abortion,
perform in her girl-power rock band for the crowd of about a dozen friends.
Here I stand, my hands in my pockets watching the drummer's ever-lingering
smile, the singer, shaking and singing off the key about her feminist pride,
safe sex and a line of asshole boyfriends. And my girlfriend twisting and
turning with a bass guitar strapped over her shoulder, her mouth wide open,
eyes sparks of pure pleasure, just enjoying it ("it's better than coke" she
likes to explain her reason for playing music).
The applause recedes into unmemorable past, and we have our barbeque. We
proceed eating well into the night. Tomorrow will be discussions about the
most successful diets and sports exercises, but tonight we are eating, we
are eating and retching and eating more. We are thinking about having an
orgy, but for some cultural reason we are afraid of human contact, afraid
of connection. Perhaps there's not much alcohol. Not enough recreational
drugs.
We never have enough.
My girlfriend and I stand aside and unfashionably smoke. She talks about
Mexico, organic food, grad school, corporate job. I also think about other
places, but from this vantage point all places look dull, look the same.
We make love in the back room. Insipidness drains out of the party revelers.
Having consumed hundreds of dollars worth of booze we bring ourselves to
the level where we can actually have fun, enjoy ourselves. But still there's
a gaping hole inside: something terribly important is missing.
But what is it that we miss?
I search for an answer, but it's just not there. I can only ask myself.
Can't go beyond formulating the question. Backup plans pop up: having a child,
launching a company, moving abroad. Perhaps I can talk my girlfriend into
quitting her abortion thing and settling down. But when I look into her eyes
I see another wanna-be foreign-baby exporter. She's got enough money.
And she is eager to waste the remnants of her youth and early middle age
on chasing after oblivion.
Maybe it's the faith thing. But it would be too easy an explanation. I can
be certain only of certain things. Like biology. Like myself. We kill our
cigarettes and re-join the partiers. We are murdering the night for the renewal
of dullness next afternoon.
I love you, I tell my girlfriend as trivially as I possibly can.
That's cool! For some reason she gets all excited. That's so cool, she says.
Misha Firer
Misha Firer, 25, was born in Ulyanovsk, Russia and now lives in Oakland, California.
Last year he published more that thirty short stories both in print and online,
two of which were nominated for Pushcart Awards.
