A Casket for Two and Wood for a Rocket

Hunger… it rumbles in Rita’s tummy like the eerie growl of a cat making its unduly presence known. It’s a powerful presence that brings with it a reminder of the significance of Its current endeavor.

At 15 bucks an hour, part-time work hasn't done much for Rita, but by maintaining a diet of mac and cheese and canned beans, It could scrape some money there for the increased bills. Financial aid already barely made rent, so the money wasn’t gonna come from there… which left just one choice when It took up the project.

The hardware store is, to put it delicately, decrepit. Since the owner's passing, only half the lights inside have been kept lit during business hours, external maintenance has slowly declined, and supplies have dwindled- wood being the only constant. But wood's all Rita needs- in fact, It prefers it.

The plan was simple as it was humble, in Rita’s own opinion. It would park the car at the back of the parking lot, completely inconspicuous. Then It’d go inside, shop around as one normally would- look for what It needs, loop around a few times- till eventually It’d loop by the exits, and, well…

With an empty stomach, no money, and no identifying documents, Rita walks into the hardware store.

…

The air of the lecture hall stuffs its way into Rita’s airway, bringing with it the epidemic of odor that tears its way up the nasal cavity. The keyboards click-clack to the tune of the professor’s melody, the lights buzz with stagnant electricity ready to breach its glass container and tear through all the fleshy conductors that fill the room- yet the one that conquers all these violations of its senses is the hot stench of pizza and beer from the breath of one that sits next to her.

This is bad as it is, but it can be argued that it covers the stench of B.O. that he most definitely reeks of, which can’t be said for the one that’s on Rita’s other side, who most definitely needs a shower.

The bags of flesh are everywhere, sitting throughout the room in repeating intervals, each slot fill-

REEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

…

REEEEEEEEEEE!!!

Every alarm in Rita's mechanical body sounds, as the hot grip of an employee closes around Its arm.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls at Rita.

“Xavier! Stop that now,” a second employee’s shout echoes down the hall, followed by his footsteps.

Rita shuts Its eyes and forces its vocal cords to vibrate, “I-i’m j-just shopping. I’m just shopping. I’m jus-”

“Bullshit!”

“Xavier!”

“This bitch is piling two by fours like a fucked-up game of jenga on her cart!”

“Xavier! We do not denigrate the customer!" The warm, perfumed presence of the other employee enters Rita’s senses, overwhelming the scent of wood chips and smoke wafting off the grip on its arm. 

It dares to open its eyes again. The first thing that sticks out is the flashing blue and pink mohawk that “Xavier” is topped by. His face is a mess of piercings, trimmed eyebrows, and wispy patches of mis-shaved facial hair. There is also the matter that the tips of his mohawk reach only Rita’s nose.

“I sincerely apologize for my brother- he is overly protective of our father's shop. Ever since he passed-" 

"Stop- TALKING!" Xavier barks at his brother.

"Ahh, of course, pardon my forwardness- I just find myself so..."

His brother's glare quiets him, and he seems to readjust himself. It's almost funny, like a chihuahua keeping a wolf in line. He poses in front of Rita, his mscular physique taking up quite a bit of space between them. 

His hair is in a classy sidepart, kept together by a barely visible gel. Unlike his brother, who sports grimy overalls and what used to be a white shirt, he's wearing a white dress shirt underneath a vest and slacks. All this to say, it's very obvious to Rita that they perform different roles within the shop. His perfume is also entoxicatingly delightful, like the aroma of a flower. It wonders if It could pick him and take a closer sniff.

"And, ah, dearest customer, how may we be of assistance today? My name is Herbert and this is my young brother Xavier," his voice is gentle in spite of its depth and his pose unassuming in spite of his size. 

"This is obviously a thief! No single person would need all those two by fours!"

"Xaiver, please. Let the customer speak," Herbert speaks firmly but with no sense of confrontation in his voice.

"I uhhh..." Rita fumbles with Its thoughts...unable to form a coherent thought after the back-and-forth between the brothers. Their so clashing personalities mix and take presence in its thoughts over any half-baked lies it may have prepared. It doesn't help that Herbert is very close and It feels like if It loses Its balance, It may clasp onto his strong arms to keep Itself up.

So under the heat of interrogation, It starts with what comes most naturally: the truth, "I'm working on a personal project."

"Of course! And what may that be?" Xavier backs up, letting his brother take over- but not so much as to leave them alone. His eyes remain entirely on Rita.

"I'm building a, umm- s-something tall. It's like, an- ummm. it's umm, well it's um kind of hard to explain- I-" 

It hadn't prepared for this- for It never could have conceived having to explain the project to someone else. So, It stands there contemplating: what's close enough? What appliance or tool is close enough in appearance to waive any further need for explanation? What's tall enough? Pathetically pondering, praying for a save.

"Sometimes," Herbert interrupts Its train of thought, "it's easier to explain what it does?"

"It's umm... well, give me... a minute," It says quietly, as It hurriedly tries to recall why It even wants to do this. 

...

REEEEEEEEE!!!!

Rita freezes, wrench in one hand, other hand elbow deep in the crevice between the wall and the stove. Normally It'd ignore any interruption to Its work, but phone alerts have had a heavy presence on Its mind as of late. Delicately, Rita extricates Its hand from the back of the machine, just for the mix of disappointment and surprise (disurprisement?) of seeing "Dad" on the caller ID.

It's late- not for Rita, of course not- but late for him. 3 AM is healthy a time as any to be figuring out how to siphon gas from your stove into a tank, not so much for a check-in from the old man.

REEEEEEEEE!!!!

Maybe its the time, maybe the looming shadow of The Great Big Wave, or just the feeling It gets seeing the picture of Dad washing the dishes under the caller ID- for one reason or the other, It picks up the call...

...

...and It waits.

A silent prayer that everything will be alright- just like it used to.

"Ri-ta?" His gruff voice is just as warm as Rita remembers.

It barely manages to swallow the lump in Its throat, "Dad?"

There's a moment of silence where he makes no comment on Its new voice modulator, "heyyy, uh, how are you?"

"Good! Doing good. Working on a project, actually," It interrupts him, hoping to prevent addressing Its new voice.

It nearly sighs in relief when he takes the bait, "This late? I figured you'd be out partying and picking u- um..."

"Nope. Just figuring out the inner workings of a stove."

"Ah. Yes, well..."

And there it is. Less a prayer, more an impossible wall to climb- the silence that underlines their every sentence now flaunts their estrangement.

"W-why are you up this late, dad?" Rita tries.

"I've been trying to get a hold of you for a few weeks now, and um, there's, well, there's something I've been trying to tell you."

"Uh-huh." It has a feeling It's not gonna like what's coming.

"And well, here goes. I know that college has changed you, and maybe you feel like you can't, but I want- was hoping that- uh wanted to know if you want to come home."

"Go home?"

"Yes- erm, I don't know if you know this- I don't know how you wouldn't, but well-

"Yes, dad, I'm aware of the flood warning."

"Flood warning? Is that what they're telling you kids? It's not just a flood warning, son, it's the end times. They're saying we've got a year left."

"Closer to 11 months now."

"And I want you to come home."

It doesn't surprise Rita, not one bit. Of course the old man would want something like that. It imagines, for just one second, being back home. Having a hot meal three times a day, having some spare change for once, having free time to do whatever It wants, and the only thing It'd cost would be Dad's discretion.

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Look. I know that you think you've changed-

"I haven't"

"-bu- exactly! Deep down you're still my baby, and I- 

"Dad."

"-want you to come home and- 

"Dad."

"- be with your family."

"Dad!"

"I mean, who gives a damn about school!"

"I do!" It shouts.

Silence.

"I give a damn. I want to finish my degree."

"Ri-..., it doesn't matter any more. There's nothing that it'll be good for anymore."

"Yeah? Well maybe you should consider that I'm not doing this FOR anything, Dad. Have you thought of that? That I'm doing this because I want to? For me?"

"..."

He says nothing and Rita takes a deep breath. It feels something coming, and since Dad had his say, it's only fair that It gets to too.

"Look... I'm balls deep into this stove thing, and- and, um, if all you've called for is to- to tell me you want to turn the house into our casket, then my answer is that I really don't care. I'm out here trying to fucking siphon gas out of the stove for a project, and you're telling me I should just... what? Wait to die at your house? My life JUST got started- hell- I'm not even out of school yet!"

Oh god.

"My life hasn't even started, I just barely found out who I am- WHAT I am. I'm SO close to finishing my degree- to getting an internship, and- and- and- I."

It catches Its breath.

"And, I refuse. What? I should go play family with you just because the world is quote-unquote ending? And what? In your perfect vision for the perfect last days before the apocalypse, you would have us do nothing? What'll I even do? Sit in my room and wait for you so we can have dinner together?"

"Ri-

"N-n-n-n-n-nno! No! Shut up! It's MY life- whether it lasts 60 more years, or just 11 months, and you mean to tell me to go rot with you? Well, since you're asking me what I think, I think that's stupid! That's a stupid idea and even worse that you thought for one second that this was something I would want!"

It takes a deep breath.

"I'm not going to fucking die. I- I've got this plan. I'm going to survive the- the "Great Big Wave", or whatever the hell. And that'll be the beginning of my life. I'm going to jump over that motherfucker and continue existing while the rest of humanity lays beneath my feet- and THAT! THAT WILL BE THE BEGINNING OF MY LIFE, ASSHOLE. And I won't spare you a fucking thought afterward."

Its breath is ragged and heavy, and the world blurs, and It thinks maybe doing work under the influence wasn't the best plan, but It blocks out whatever Dad's saying and it makes it all worth it. To hear him grovel... there could be no taller high.

Right when he starts crying, Rita hangs up, and plugs the gas tank into the valves behind the stove. The meter atop the tank lights up, finally, and there's the soft hissing of gas flowing through the pipes.

Once the tanks are full.... the fun begins. Quickly, quickly, It straps them to Its back, like a backpack, only very heavy, but that's okay. It's broad shoulders were made for this- steel carrying steel, It tells Itself, as It steps into the boots. Rugged, messy steel- scraps soldered together to create an exterior for the rocket, cover Its legs all the way up to the knee. It's hard to bend down, so It awkwardly squats down to properly plug the tanks into the boots and make sure they're fully strapped in.

And, finally, It's ready.

Many nights It'd spent smoking from the porch staring at the night sky, not with the glassy-eyed disregard for the world It'd thought of as a child, but as a prayer. A prayer, a hope, that something would intervene in Its life, that something, anything, would save It.

It steps onto the ledge of the porch, and gives the boots one last look over, before peering to the abyss- the unconquerable nothing that stared back when It begged for something to save It.

It leaps...

...and for a moment It lets Itself fall,

to feel the rush of the wind in Its ears,

to feel the abyss calling,

and it's beautiful, and dark and it's nothing, just like It.

And for a moment It imagines letting Itself go all the way, becoming one with the dark pavement below,

but It wants to be something.

It presses the button.

There's a loud crack that overloads It's auditory processing system, and there's a rush as it zooms upward, and everything turns into a dark paste that flows beside It. There's the same rush the hit Rita as It fell, only this time it's exhilirating. The rush pumps It full of adrenaline, it's a loud, heavy metal song that makes Rita want to scream and jump, instead of the soothing lullaby from earlier.

And all of a sudden it's over, the song ends, and time seems to freeze as Rita can see around It. And even though It's nowhere near them, even though they continue to stare down on It, promise in their eyes, billions of miles away, being this far from the void below, Rita feels like It's a part of them, like if It reached up It could touch one, and be granted a miracle.

Rita reaches up...

and gravity pulls It down.

It again lets Itself fall, waving goodbye to the stars, before turning and activating a controlled boost from the rockets. Like this, It continues in a controlled freefall, preventing Itself from reaching too high a velocity. 

Right when It reaches the porch, It sets off one last boost, just to catch Itself from less of a jump, but It must've miscalculated somewhere, because the porch frumbles beneath It's feet, and Rita spirals into the neighboring complex.

 There's screaming and crying and all sorts of other alarms going off in the background, but Rita finally lies down and cackles, and as Its vision fades to black, It can only marvel at how beautiful it is to be a star.

...

It's the image of the stars that get Rita to react.

"It's, um, a launchpad."

"A launchpad?" Herbert repeats, surprise and confusion in his voice.

"Yes. For a rocket." Rita affirms directly.

He's taken aback by the request, "Well- um, I-I'm afraid that's quite more than we can supply for. Have you considered speaking to an industrial supplier?"

"Uh-ummm, no. What are those like?"

"I think they would be friendlier to the request of a corporate project."

"N-no it's um..." Rita begins to panic. It hadn't thought how they'd react to the truth. Better said, It had, but It had forgotten in the desperation for something to say.

It bumbles nervously, trying to find the right words to say, the right combination that'll allow It to fix it.

"I just... I really need this wood," It says defeatedly.

There's a moment of silence. Rita keeps its eyes from the employee- embarrassed at Its display of insecurity and stupidity, and how obvious It must look that It's lying about something. 

But Herbert says nothing, "Very well. Will that be all?"

"Huh?" Rita looks up from its stupor, and finds no judgment- but not openness either. His face reads only patience and a hint of resolve and Rita can tell he's grown weary of It.

"Yeah...that, that will be all," It squeaks out, unable to drag this out any longer.

"Very well then, let me help you with that," and before It can say another word, Herbert's pushing the cart toward the cash register.

They quietly march toward the front of the store, Herbert pushing the cart ahead, with Rita and Xavier following. The wheels on the metal cart screech in resignation to the neat pile of two by fours that weigh on it, but Herbert says nothing. He pushes the cart in a slow and constant manner, so as to keep the pile of wood from falling over.

For Rita, it's as if It never had a chance. It was caught before It could gather enough wood, before It could decide what more It needed. Before It could even truly get a grip on everything that was available, before It could properly form words to explain the project, before It could come up with a lie, before It could take off- It was nipped right at the bud. If It were human, It would surely cry, but from Its grief- the only identifiable action that Its body screams for is to take the cart and run.

 So, as they walk by the doors, Rita pictures it: shoving Herbert to the side- with enough force to peel his fingers from the steel holds of the cart, to make him fall onto the floor, then wrestling with Xavier to get him away just enough for It to take control of the cart and run. 

Of course, much of the wood would fall over in its rush to the car- and Xavier and Herbert would not so quickly let it take their merchandise. It'd take more than a shove to get them to let It take the wood. It'd take violence. It'd have to beat them- force its tons of weight onto them to keep the thought of them having a chance against It from their heads. Brute violence, thrashing of the limbs like some meat monstrosity. 

Herbert reaches the checkout lane, "well then let me just-"

"ah umm, I uhh forgot my," It starts out trying to force some emotion, apologeticness? Eagerness?  It doesn't know but it tries, until it realizes how stupid it all is- how thin the facade that any of this would happen is.

 So, It finishes with nothing, without pretense, "I forgot my wallet. I forgot my... forgot my wallet."

It runs out, not giving them the chance to continue the facade of customer service. It doesn't think it could've tolerated another earnest response from Herbert. 

It walks all the way to the back of the parking lot, where It'd left the car excitedly in the name of conspicuity. It rests Its head against the hot, sticky steering wheel and thinks of tearing out of the parking lot, the wheels screeching and sparking against the sharp, forceful curves It'd bend the steering wheel at. Of violently swerving the car until the pent-up rage that seems to form knots in all Its muscles dissipates.

Rita sighs, blowing away the fantasy of anger- of retribution against the world. It has no right to protest any of what just happened. It had been decided before it even began. 

It puts the car in reverse, and checks the mirrors, before gently guiding the car out of the parking lot.

...

It looks at the bill with the eyes of a fish- there is misunderstanding, dullness, and a twinge of fear. The red mat it calls "hair" spills over its shoulders and hangs over the paper, and for a moment its able to pray that the hair blocks some part of the paper, that when moved it will clear everything up as a misunderstanding- that somehow by moving the hair there will be one less decimal place.

But no such thing happens, just the reveal of an additional sixty-seven cents of debt, and it pierces through the wall of stillness that'd come over it. 

And all crumbles and is swallowed by the wave.