Apocalypse California
By H.G. Miller
It’s raining outside, and I just want to eat.
It’s been three weeks since the apocalypse started here in Southern California.
Some people will say that it really goes back to Darrell Issa, who’s failed bid to become Governor of California gave desperate Republicans a chance to put Arnold Schwarzenegger on the ballot.
Honestly, though, if you were going to blame something as trivial as that, then you’d have to go back to the day the dot-com boom ended, or perhaps the long series of poor spending decisions made by the democratic party when the budget was running on surplus, or even back to the debates and how Al Gore’s wooden persona allowed Gee Dubya to start slashing away the taxes that had our country in the black… it’s all connected – each bad decision leading to a set of worse options.
Whatever. We had a recall on our hands, and there wasn’t any stopping it.
So, I tried to enjoy the show. That’s all the recall was, right? Entertainment. I mean this is California. It’s what we do.
Then, something unfathomable happened – the public proved P.T. Barnum prophetic in biblical proportions. “We” the people of California elected an action star to run our government.
And, God noticed.
Four days later, I couldn’t go to the grocery store for food. Angry protestors chided me with insults and waved signs in my face. Something about wanting their insurance for free.
Free?
“Is this Canada?” I wondered to myself. Did I fall asleep on some cosmic voyage heading north? I’ve been paying for crummy insurance since I got out of college. Isn’t that the American way? I just wanted some bread.
That same day, the buses stopped running in LA. 500,000 citizens were stranded, and those full of entrepreneurial spirit could be found charging upwards of ten dollars for a ride across town.
Stranded and hungry... and, God was just beginning to toy with us.
Two weeks later, the hills were on fire, and the sun wavered behind a smoky haze. Ash drifted across the landscape, and those of us who were “safe” in the city kept on with our lives. We avoided the freeway gridlock and shopped at Mom & Pop stores for whatever grocery items would get us through the next couple of days.
I won’t say it’s the greatest hardship one can face, but this is the digital age and any inconvenience becomes magnified by however many extra stops are needed just to put together the ingredients for a sandwich.
Our lethargy has been exposed by the grocery strike. Nobody even knows what the real issues are.
“Something about five dollars, or something,” I’ve heard a number of times. “You know, you can get a lot of grocery stuff at TJ’s. Just make sure you get there before eight. They close at eight.”
So, we ignore the fight by avoiding it. After the election, we all know that making informed decisions isn’t our strong suit. The sky gets darker with smoke, and we just accept it.
Now, it’s Halloween night, and rain has started to fall. I’ve heard a few optimists say that the rain is a good thing. It will help subdue the fires in the hills. But, I know better. I haven’t read much of the Bible, but I know how a flood gets started.
This is the final act. God is done with us in California. We’ve proven that we can’t govern ourselves – can’t even choose respectable people to do it for us. We’ve handled the transportation strike by extorting the needy, handled the grocery strike with complete apathy.
Thousands of homes have been lost in the flames, and the only topic that elicits any passion in conversation is the debate about whether Shaq or Kobe is “more right” this time.
The rain has started, and it’s not going to stop. California will soon be gone. People will come to the Nevada coastline and gamble their money away while watching the sun set on suddenly smogless skies.
Or, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the rain will stop, and the buses will run and the grocery chains will all bustle again with the happy sounds of commerce while the cashiers frown about the new deductions on each pay stub (Honestly, they never seemed
that
happy, anyway).
Maybe then I can eat.