Week of the Comet

Every now and then, don't they just get on your nerves?

I'm talking about people. People standing behind you at the deli, yapping on their cell phones. People with leafblowers. Bad drivers who can sour a routine drive to work by cutting you off or driving mid-lane (they're talking .. phones, too. Or texting each other.) The workers who've been tearing up the street for the past two months to lay new water pipes. The friends who call and call with tearful romantic dramas. Then there are the people at work who make you wish you could take a vacation -- not because you have someplace to go, but because you just want to get away from *them.*

I used to love a certain genre of sci-fi movie -- the kind where everyone on the planet is killed off except for a handful of people. There was a movie called "Night of the Comet" that I saw when I was young. It was about two teenaged girls who manage to survive after a comet passes earth and turns everyone they know into little piles of chalk dust. I loved that film! There were others, too. Stephen King's "The Stand." And recently, "I Legend." But in these films, there's always another force to contend with. Usually flesh-eating zombies. Or in the case of "The Stand," a mean guy with horns and a tail who sets up shop in Vegas. Avoiding flesh-eating zombies and the Devil will suck all the fun of having the planet all to yourself.

I used to imagine being one of the last people on the planet. But not forever, only for a little while, just to give me time to regroup. In my scenario, aliens would come to earth and transport the entire population onto their ship. Of course, because even the scientific methods of the most advanced civilization has a small margin of error, they'd miss a few heads. Like me and a handful of others. Of course, the others would be located in Kansas City, Maui, and some small bunksville in the Appalachian mountains, so they're not going to get in my hair. Maybe the aliens would post a sign on the city limits sign: "Dear Earthlings We Might Have Missed: We have taken your people for seven earth days. They will be returned to you unharmed after experimentation is complete. They will remember nothing. Have a nonthreatening week and remember to consume all perishable items first. Love, Zygor and Cystos. P.S. Don't tell anyone we were here."

Aw, wasn't that nice of them to give you the heads up?

I know that I'd do after the Happy Dance. I'd pop into one of those small electric cars that I see displayed on a lot on Lamar Boulevard (I don't know who buys these other than people who live in retirement communities) and use that as my transportation. First thing we do is ... eat all the sushi! Fish goes bad really fast. Ah, but where to go? Tokyo, Kyoto, Ichiban, Uchi? Kenichi has the best atmosphere, and it's always packed. That's why I never go there to begin with. What fun -- to be able to handle all those cool, sharp knives and make my own specialty rolls. I'll bet I'd suck at it; I'd probably end up with something that resembles an hor d'oeuvre from one of those creepy 1950's recipe books. Ah, watch those fingers, though -- ain't no one at the walk-in clinic to stitch me up if I get overly-zealous and accidentally cut off a digit.

A trip to Whole Foods is next. In my most beautiful fantasies, I imagine getting a coveted parking place on the store level. Pushing my cart down the aisles without having to navigate my way around the hippies who are mesmerized by the dazzling array of spelt breads and fish oil caplets. Look what we have here ... organic salad mix. White Israeli cheese. Handmade chocolates. Those tiny little tarts behind glass -- key lime, lemon meringue, chocolate cheesecake. Oh yes .... all MINE. I'd lavish every last carton of blueberries on top of the heap. Needless to say, check-out's a breeze and no one tries to sell me a recycling bag.

Nights can get lonely without other people around. Nights can get really dull. A trip to the movie theatre could be fun. Imagine seeing your favorite first-run film all by yourself. Accompanied only by your Whole Foods organic sodas and chocolate bars. But ... figuring out how to work all that equipment could turn out to be a pain in the ass; why waste an entire week just for two hours of titillation? That's why I'd tool down to the weird little DVD rental place on South Congress. The one I never go to because their late fees are too ridiculous to mention, and Blockbuster always gives me a free walk on those. I'd pick out every arcane documentary I'd ever wanted to see. The entire collection of "The Outer Limits." Hey, it's been a while since I've seen a John Hughes film. Let's get some of those, eh?

It's every woman's dream to have the mall to herself for just one day. Sure, I could do that. But I could also putter around from one expensive specialty boutique to another -- the places where the S.A.'s don't bother to ask if they can help me with anything. It's like they can see through my wallet and into the strip of my debit card, and they know that I don't have the kind of financial juice to buy a pair of $500 jeans. But now? Yes, I'll try those on, please. And everything else that's ridiculously cost-prohibitive. I'll even try on that $900 crystal-studded bikini. Without my underwear on. Yes, it's true. I'd do it.

In my gaudy, sparkling bikini, I'd kayak around Town Lake. I'd bring along a few big bags of rubber duckies and set them out randomly. When the rest of the people get back, they're going to really wonder about those, aren't they? Ah, privacy! Isn't this just the bliss? No shrieking kids. No dogs off-the-leash to leave a trail of turds in my wake. No gaggle of tourists lined up on the Congress Avenue bridge watching for those damned bats. I'd get a bird's eye view of the suckers when they flew out at nightfall. Without the gratuitous catcalls. Then I could take a detour to Taniguchi Japanese Gardens and splash around with the giant coi. Poor things need to be fed. Aw, here big guys -- I'll share my spelt bread.

Now might also be the time to get some writing done. I know just the place to do that. I'd grab my laptop and zip down to the Capitol and park in the Lt. Governor's designated space, right in front. Then I'd go to the house chambers and take a seat in back of the podium, in one of the Comfortable Chairs. I'd hammer out a chapter or two there. If perhaps this ever gets published, I'll have a good story behind it. On my way out, I'd take a leisurely tour of the rotunda. Maybe blow raspberries at some of the portraits just for shits and giggles. Hey, it's not like anyone's looking, right?

I'd go to every museum and art gallery that I previously bypassed before because I saw a long line snaking out the door.

Speaking of laptops, now might be the time to go to the Apple store and play with all the newest computers, iPods and iPhones without some pesky salesperson hovering over my shoulder. That would kill a lot of time. Of course, this would mean going to the mall. I don't like malls. It has nothing to do with crowds, I just dislike them. But since I'm already there, I'd probably take a nap on that high-dollar memory foam mattress at Macy's. Just to see how that works out for me.

You know what else I'd do? I'd take my week to respond to the months of text messages, emails and cell phone calls that I hadn't replied to. Because everyone else is on a big spaceship dressed in orange gowns no doubt consuming small tasteless green cubes for dinner, no one's around to respond. But hey, that's what voicemail is for. There'd be a couple of people ... let's just say I'd be tempted to eschew alien instruction and leave them a message: "Hey, jackass, how's the brain probe going? I'm sewing raw shrimp into your curtains right now. Take some pictures of the galaxy with your cell phone for me, eh?"

After about a week, I think I'd be ready to face the rest of civilization again. Wouldn't you? You'd probably miss your friends and family. But for every menace driver on the road and loud cell phone yapper, there are those people in your community who you might not know very well, but who you'd miss if you didn't see their faces. These are the people who keep you fed and watered. There's the pharmacist at the corner drugstore -- I've been going to that drugstore for almost twenty years now -- and the happy grill chef working behind the soda fountain who makes the best burgers in Austin. I'd miss the tinkling bell of the paletta vendor who passes by under my porch each afternoon. I'd really miss that a lot.

There's also Jason the sandwich guy. He works at the neighborhood market. Maybe he doesn't think much of his job, but I do. Using regular store-brand bread and Boarshead turkey, the man makes some of the finest sandwiches I've ever tasted. The guys at the local coffee shop. The start making my usual iced coffee drink as soon as they see me come through the door. In my neighborhood, everyone knows me by name. Doesn't that feel good -- to know that people know you? To feel that fond appreciation for them?

idiot traffic, leaf-blowers, and school crossing guards are a small price to pay for the comfort that other humans provide. Maybe I'll pass on my Week of the Comet. I wouldn't have any idea how to make an iced latte.





If you had a Week of the Comet, what would *you* do? Aside from those close to you, who do you think that you'd miss if you were alone on the planet? What's your favorite "Where Have All the People Gone?"-style movie?


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