Doom

Doom

Brandon Figliolino

A man prophesied my death one day in July. It occurred early in the morning, when the weather was temperate. Rays of sunlight poked through clouds, shining down on the brick sidewalks in Boulder, glistening off the windows of the historic structures that lined the streets. I was walking towards the courthouse—a behemoth neoclassical building made of limestone that rose above downtown. My shadow was my only companion.

I passed a tall office building and entered a narrow alley. Flanked by brick walls covered with vines that draped over whimsical arches, the alley was a shortcut I took with high frequency. My shoes clapped against the brick, echoing off the walls.  I exited the alley, humming to myself. I took a right. Hands in my pockets, I meandered slow and steady, taking in the sights.

It was then I saw him.  

He stumbled out of a thicket of trees, just off a neighborhood street, where houses looked like the settings of fairytales. Swaying on unsteady feet, he walked towards me. When he grinned, I could see his yellowing teeth. The bottoms of his jeans were frayed, and his untied shoelaces flapped wildly with each step he took.

“Good morning!” he bellowed across the street to me. His hand waved with the enthusiasm of a child getting to pick a story for reading time.

“Hello!” I said back. I reciprocated his wave.

Eyes fixed on me, he hurried across the street, not bothering to look for oncoming cars. His unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt flapped as he ran. One across, he clutched his knees with his hands.

“Are you okay?” I asked him, adjusting the strap of my messenger bag.

“Yes! Yes!”

I could smell the remnants of alcohol on his breath.

He rose up and brushed his mangy, long blond hair out of his eyes. “Can I tell you something? It’s really important!” His enthusiasm didn’t cease; despite the fact he was out of breath from running.

I nodded. “Sure.”

He held up both hands in front of him. “They are coming, and we have to be prepared.”

I looked at him, confused.

“Who, exactly is coming?”

His eyes widened in animated panic. “The aliens!” he shouted, waving his arms above his head. “They are coming to destroy us!”

I bit my lip, letting him continue.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, though.” He shook his head, still smiling. “You see those mountains over there?” He pointed west, towards the majestic mountains that flanked the edge of the city. “The flatirons will save everyone! Aliens don’t stand a chance with the flatirons protecting us!”

I had no inclination how mountains would protect anyone from an alien attack, though, I haven’t the slightest idea what an attack would look like, aside from what I’d seen in terrible sci-fi movies.

“That’s really good to know, thanks!” I said.

There was silence for a moment, an awkward pause. I wasn’t sure if the man was finished speaking. I took a step.

It was then that he burst into a heavy laughter. “Just kidding! We are all DOOMED!” He slapped his knee with his hand.

I too began to laugh, though I tried to halt it.

His laughter subsided. “Ah, well, have a good day!” He gave me another wave and skipped back across the street, whistling.

I stood for a moment, my face scrunched, my mind wondering what I’d just witnessed. Had this prophet just foretold my demise, and that of the entire planet?

Highly unlikely.

Obviously.

I do admire the attitude and the enthusiasm of this false prophet. He believed that the world was going to end, but that didn’t stop him from smiling. Neither did it keep him from waving good morning to a stranger. The thought of death didn’t unsettle him; it only made him more excited about living.

We all should take note and show that sort of enthusiasm for our time, because one day, it may end, and the flatirons, as magical as they are, won’t be able to stop it.

So say hello to someone you don’t know! Smile often, and pass along stories of aliens, and of the quirky people you meet. It’ll make the world a better place.