Surface Temperature, Part 1 of 4

Many years ago, I wrote this short story, "Surface Temperature" -- I think I was 18 or 19, or something like that. It's mostly bad, but there's something charming about it, sort of, maybe. It's a bit heavy-handed. Lately, I've felt the need to go back and read things I wrote long ago--maybe it has something to do with turning 30. Or maybe not. So, for what it's worth, part 1 of 4:

Hiroshima happened on an ordinary day. This morning when the sky was blood red from dawn, I could see it wasn't going to be an ordinary day, and that's why I didn't worry. I woke up fast and hot − night sweats, except the air was cold. I opened the east-facing window and the air smelled of wet rust. There were no yard sale signs posted, as usual. There were no women walking dogs, as usual. There were no metal-detecting tourists on the beach, as usual.

Work started in forty minutes and I was only half prepared for the hours ahead. I work at the Save-A-Lot on A1A. I am a bag boy. I studied at the University of Southern Florida for four years. I have a bachelor’s degree in advanced mathematics, but don't ask me to recount the list of events that promoted me to bag boy. It's a very short list.

I force myself into the bathroom and cough up some phlegm into the sink, (ahh…Florida mornings.) The hot water is steaming my nasal passages open and my eyes are still foggy from sleep. My face in the mirror looks like a frightened mouth gaping open. The steam rises from the fake porcelain to surround my head in a smoky wreath. It smells like a dirty mixture of ocean water and all-you-can-eat seafood buffets. It’s that smell that Floridians know too well. The smell that arouses the tourists attached sentiment. I gather up enough of myself to begin the day. Half a stale everything bagel and a fifteen minute walk later the glowing Save-A-Lot neon casts red light across my face and I can feel it's warmth.

What people allow themselves to buy when they're on vacation--every cart looks the same: half a gallon of skim milk, one tub kool-aid powder, several ice cream flavors, lunch meat, Wonder bread, tortilla chips, mild salsa, Chips Ahoy! Cookies, and salad dressing (no salad ingredients.) I make sure to bag the bread separately. The tourists seem to like that and they always ask for plastic.

The registers were beeping at their usual random intervals when all of a sudden they began to beep in unison, one after another like a giant bar code countdown. Only the beeping continued, and the freezer case when out with an almost silent whimper. Babies quit crying and mothers quit sorting through coupons. Everything in the entire supermarket stopped and we all stood there silently listening to the countdown of the laser registers. Five, four, three, two, one, and then even they stopped. The radio in the store buzzed static like it does during a hurricane. We began to look out the windows and up at the sky. There was nothing. It was clear and empty only the blood red that I woke up to was gone, now it was a loose striped olive color. The air blew through the aisles and smelled like sweet rotting fruit.

I started to walk out into the parking lot; most of the customers were already on their way outside. We stood there in the strangely empty lot staring up at the sky, looking for it, waiting for it. A seagull flew in a growing spiral above our heads. There was an incredible flash of light, like God taking a picture of us. There were smoke circles in the sky high above; an atmospheric crystal pond − and someone had tossed an atomic pebble into the center. The greenness of the sky faded to yellow, then burned orange, then was black. The smoke lifted upwards, away from us and wind blew plastic bags around our feet in miniature tornadoes.

Then there was the noise of a thousand freight trains skidding to a cold dead halt − the noise of a dozen hurricanes thundering in over the coastline in one fatal swoop − the noise of a massive herd of charging bison − the noise of a cheering crowd − the noise of one hundred Fourth of Julys. Then the cry of a tiny baby, strapped into a car seat. She stretched her arms and legs out as far as they could reach, reaching with every bit of sacred life inside of her. The child screamed with such innocent terror − it was the sound that all of us would have made, if we could have made any sound at all. We were thrown to the ground. As I lay there listening to the nuclear holocaust above us my mind raced to find a conclusion. I tried to think of something that would set my mind − not at ease − but in a still quiet place. I tried to remember my mother. I tried to remember my first love. I tore through all my experiences trying to find something that would give me the courage to die. I could think of nothing.