Running up the lane, Arthur had nearly reached his house. He didn't notice how cold it had suddenly become, he didn't notice the wind, he didn't notice the sudden irrational squall of rain. He didn't notice anything but the caterpillar bulldozer crawling over the rubble that had been his home.
"You barbarians!" he yelled. "I'll sue the council for every penny it's got! I'll have you hung, drawn and quartered! And whipped! And boiled . . . until . . . until . . . until you've had enough."
Ford was running after him very fast. Very very fast.
"And then I will do it again!" yelled Arthur. "And when I've finished I will take all the little bits, and I will jump on them!"
Arthur didn't notice that the men were running from the bulldozers, he didn't notice that Mr. Prosser was staring hectically into the sky. What Mr. Prosser had noticed was that huge yellow somethings were screaming through the clouds. Impossibly huge yellow somethings.
"And I will carry on jumping on them," yelled Arthur, still running, "until I get blisters, or I can think of anything even more unpleasant to do, and then . . ."
Arthur tripped, and fell headlong, rolled and landed flat on his back. At last he noticed that something was going on. His finger shot upward.
"What the hell's that?" he shrieked.
Whatever it was raced across the sky in its monstrous yellowness, tore the sky apart with mind-boggling noise and leaped off into the distance leaving the gaping air to shut behind it with a bang that drove your ears six feet into your skull.
Another one followed and did exactly the same thing only louder.
It's difficult to say exactly what the people on the surface of the planet were doing now, because they didn't really know what they were doing themselves. None of it made a lot of sense--running into houses, running out of houses, howling noiselessly at the noise. All around the world city streets exploded with people, cars skidded into each other as the noise fell on them and then rolled off like a tidal wave over hills and valleys, deserts and oceans, seeming to flatten everything it hit.
Only one man stood and watched the sky, stood with terrible sadness in his eyes and rubber bungs in his ears. He knew exactly what was happening and had known ever since his Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic had started winking in the dead of night beside his pillow and wakened him with a start. It was what he had waited for all these years, but when he had deciphered the signal patter sitting alone in his small dark room, a coldness had gripped him and squeezed his heart. Of all the races in all of the Galaxy who could have come and said a big hello to planet Earth, he thought, didn't it just have to be the Vogons.
Still, he knew what he had to do. As the Vogon craft screamed through the air high above him he opened his satchel. He threw away a copy of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, he threw away a copy of Godspell: he wouldn't need them where he was going. Everything was ready, everything was prepared.
He knew where his towel was.
Ford is the only person prepared for the Vogons. He has his towel and knows what's about to happen. Everyone else is doing what people do in time of unsuspected disaster--panicking. That's a normal and natural human response to imminent annihilation. Running around, screaming incoherently.
Welcome to Friday night. The Vogon Polar Vortex has shifted away from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It is a balmy 18 degrees outside. If that statement seems ridiculous to you, then you have never experienced a week of sub-zero, arctic wind chills. When I stepped outside after work this afternoon, I thought I was in Florida again. (Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but it felt pretty damn warm.)
This has felt like a really long week. It started with wonderful news--my inclusion in the top 5 nominees for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula. The week could have ended there for me. Instead, I had to teach and work and work and work some more. In between working, I had to write my annual evaluation narrative for the English Department, which meant several days of collecting, collating, and composing. Through all this, cold. Bone-crunching cold.
The world has not ended. Tonight, I will go out to dinner with my family to celebrate my nomination. I'll order a few drinks. Eat some poutine. Relax for the first time in about five days. This weekend, I have nothing to do. Since I returned from Florida, I've been away every weekend, for my daughter's Honors Band concert, for a performance at the Calumet Theatre. This weekend will be normal. McDonald's tomorrow morning with my family. Playing the pipe organ for church tomorrow afternoon. Church Sunday morning. Lesson planning and grading Sunday afternoon. Sunday dinner with my family.
And then another crazy, crazy week begins.
I'm not asking for sympathy. I'm just thinking back to about a month ago, Remembering my son, strolling through the streets of the Hollywood Studios at Walt Disney World, swinging his arms in time to the piped-in Christmas music, singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." It seems like a fever dream now.
Saint Marty is ready for his close-up, Mister Disney.
Please vote for me for 2019/2020 Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula at the link below:
Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula voting
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