There is reason to seek adventure

This is part of a story started by Keith, written in my absence, and which I am continuing.

Honestly, our life seems to make much more sense through the allegory of a post-apocalyptic zombiescape.

The last thing I gave you before I left was a tube of anti-Infection cream. I'd bought an extra store of it, knowing that it might be hard to come by if the rosy assertion that there were no Infected on Easter Island turned out not to be true.

But I'd forgotten about the stringent quarantine procedures at the airport -- nothing could go on board that might be used to spread Infection in-flight. I watched as the security guard, whose disgruntled demeanor seemed to ooze resentment against the daily tide of those who were getting out, pulled it out of my bag and put it in a bin of things left behind.

They must raid the hoard at night, I thought, looking at a pile of still-edible fruit, no doubt smuggled in from less toxic agricultural regions, a bottle of wine, a pair of toe-nail clippers that doubled as a Swiss army knife, hair brushes, mascara, combs, mouth wash -- anything that could transmit infection -- a still sealed container of industrialized milk, the kind you couldn't get in the city.

Anti-Infection cream had never really been proven to do anything but slow the spread of the disease -- if Infected you might have hours of gradual decline into madness, watching the muscles die one by one while your mind stayed relatively lucid -- but I bought a tube of it anyway,as a sort of a good luck charm, or morbid reminder of what awaited me if I stayed.

I packed in a hurry. I was never good at planning things, and in those final days all I could manage was to lie on my back, in the bathtub, on the couch, on the few sparse green patches in between the barbed-wire fence enclaves that stood in for parks.

I forgot the tubes until the last minute. I had left them on our dirty bathroom sink, so overrun with the cockroaches who had long ago succumbed to a virulent strain of (non-communicable to humans) Infection that made eradicating them impossible.

I fit everything I could into my duffel bag. Our living room was a wreck, as I made piles of things I would need, things I wouldn't need, things I would miss too much to leave behind. I knew I wouldn't need the knee-high survival boots, once a distinguished brown leather, now splashed with blood, muck, the acid remnants from rain storms, laced with dirty shoe laces and held together with safety pins. But, I tried to fit them anyway. They had to stay behind, I realized, along with most of my clothes, my books and all my cooking equipment.

Food had become easier to come by lately -- my government job paid better than any of the activist work I'd been doing, plus we got access to military commissaries because of my very low level security clearance. But even when we had to scavenge the shelves of our Brooklyn neighborhood's only grocery store for dried beans and cabbage, a rare green delicacy that was still available because of its long shelf life, cooking equipment had always been easy to find.

I had pilfered much of it from the sidewalk as apartments once inhabited became tombs to the Infected, and then reclaimed in turn by cut-throat landlords, who wouldn't let a few undead lower the market rates on their real estate investments.

But I didn't want any of it now. I wanted to leave it all behind, and let it rot in the mildewing kitchen that faced the garbage-strewn courtyard out back. I took a handful of pictures, almost exclusively of you and me, clothes, a painting of our cat, a couple books I couldn't bear to part with, and my journals, torn and falling apart, with my scrawling, manic handwriting inside.

That morning as I brushed my teeth for the last time under the dim glimmer of a yellow, bare bulb in the bathroom, I remembered the tube on the sink. I had already sealed my duffel bag with duct tape, so I shoved it in between the flame thrower and the emergency tourniquet in my carry on. I was unwilling to put either out of immediate reach into my checked baggage.

Those had to go too, the disinterested security guard said as he methodically unpacked what I had so carefully crammed into the limited space.

I shrugged. It didn't seem to matter now -- the airport was the only place I could think of where security was tight enough to make them seem unnecessary.

And by the time I got off the plane, I wouldn't need them anymore.

The security guard began chucking the forbidden items into the bin behind him. When he got to the anti-Infection cream, I hesitated.

It seemed silly to throw it away. It was brand new, and you might need it.

I could still see you, behind the chainlink maze of security checkpoints. You were standing there, impotent and sad, watching the scene as I made the final preparations to leave you.

I asked the security guard if I could pass it back to you.

There was no going back for me, he said.

But, I flashed him a pleading look and he picked up the tube, shuffling toward the gate. He whispered something to another uniformed guard, who walked it to the next checkpoint.

I watched as one by one they passed it back.

I waved at you -- trying to communicate in hand signals that they were bringing you something.

Anti-Infection cream. I didn't know what you must be thinking that that was all I could muster as a farewell.

It would be okay, I told myself. You'll come. You'll have to.

We'll be happier far away -- having adventures together.

Either that or I'll end up the unwitting victim of some medical experiments on Easter Island. The panic rose in me for a second -- it had been known to happen. To think that there was really a job there for me, in a place where the Infected had been kept at bay, where there was water and clear skies, all seemed too good to be true.

I could be doing something really stupid, I thought.

I didn't care.

I looked at your face again, drawn and far away, and then thought of the apartment, the sky-high buildings rimmed with electronic fence, of the crowded trains full of the possibly Infected, but mostly just unpleasant commuters, wearing face masks and trying not to touch one another even on cars pushed to the brim with bodies.

I thought of tomorrow and the day after and the day after that walking a seemingly endless line, doing the same, repetitive tasks, keeping the horror at bay with a few brilliant moments, when I would see the sun leaking through the branches of the trees as I lay on my back, when the sunset wasn't obliterated by the black, acrid smoke of Infected fires, when I would visit my statue and look at the miracle of the improbable.

I thought of holding my breath through hours of monotonous PR work -- writing copy for the government I had spent years organizing against. I thought of what my life would be, a series of conversations held in virtual space -- surfing the Internet for more and more disturbing stories of social injustice, hoping that one would wake me up enough to care.

I thought of you -- slouching and sad, embittered by years of disappointment, waiting for the moment when it would all pay off.

And I turned and walked toward the gate.

The leveling out

If there is one law of the universe that I would like to believe holds sway over all else, it is that things come back to us. Good things, bad things, things we have forgotten or buried, people and places, the inevitable disguised as the unexpected, will all eventually seep their way back into our lives as coherent flashes of justice meted out with just enough irony to knock us on our ass.

I tell myself this as much from experience as instinct -- or perhaps a truly idealistic belief that things will work out, because they must.

And by work out, I mean, bring into focus the contradictions that left unchecked would render the search for satisfying narrative resolution utterly meaningless.

I say all this knowing how ridiculous it sounds -- knowing that if there were any kind of karmic justice in the world things would have turned out better for so many people, and worse for so many more, knowing that what cynicism didn't come to me naturally through halfhearted adolescent detachment, has been instilled in me over years spent pushing rocks up hills at the behest of crusty old men who had long since replaced repetitious compulsion with genuine struggle.

And still, things -- personal, seismic and otherwise -- seem to be coming to cosmic fruition this week.

If I were the kind of person that paid attention to the movement of the heavens as bellwether for why certain things work out when they do, I would guess that the planets are facing off in a cosmic dance of opposites, in which things are being pulled apart and forced to reconvene at eye level.

I am too lazy, however, to really make a concerted effort to try to predict via the heavens the moments when cosmic disruption will occur, so instead I often try to see my way to end of things, to guess -- or more often, will -- how it will all turn out.

I am always wrong.

This week, in particular, the ways in which I have been wrong stick in my throat and weigh me down with realizations long held at bay by sheer will power and/or self delusion.

But resolutions, unpleasant or otherwise, are hard to come by.

And there is a certain satisfaction at recognizing that the hand of fate -- or blind narrative irony, whichever -- that push our lives in the unexpected directions they take, may, indeed, be more powerful than the childlike fantasies we build for ourselves.