Rapture

A letter from the beginning of the end.
  October 30, 2003

(Inspired by Rapture Letters, found via wood s lot.)

Dear Mary,

It is almost noon as I write this in my deserted office building, and I must say that I am content.  New York has quieted down considerably after the confusion of the first few days.  We have hot water again.  I'm sure you are doing well in San Francisco.  After all, if you believe the news, our cities are among the least affected by the Event.  Big surprise there, eh?  I try to picture the streets you walk now, the empty cable cars, Union Square without its usual mid-day crowds, the Mission all quiet and stark—it was the Mission that got hit the hardest, wasn't it?  All those Mexicans, Guatemalans and others who used to serve us tacos, or clean our apartments—what we wouldn't do to trade places with them now!  I'd laugh at the irony if it didn't depress me so.

The Castro must still be bustling, although perhaps a bit subdued.  In Pacific Heights and Russian Hill and other yuppy elevations they are probably scatching their heads and figuring out how they failed to buy their way out of this one.  Chinatown must be a riot, although I can't decide in which sense.

Here, we've had days of sunshine, but the air is cold and the leaves are turning.  Now that things are back to normal, I am almost relieved to walk down the streets and see the crowds diminished as they are, although I do feel an occasional pang of shame and fear.  I look at the people around me and see an ocean of misery ready to spill.  I see my fear reflected in their eyes.  We all hope for the best but deep down, I feel that the worst has happened and we are merely waiting for the coming tsunami to crash.  Everyone remaining is by definition a lost soul, and that both repulses me and draws me to them, even as I realize I share in their fate.  That's human nature for you.  I keep thinking of the ones who made it, the taken ones.  I mourn them, admire them, envy and even hate them a little—all at once.  I sometimes rage, sometimes grumble; I say that they probably went to meet a terrible end and good riddance, those sanctimonious bastards, but I wish for nothing more in my life than to join them.

This is silly, of course.  We cannot know with certainty if the vanished five hundred million people really were taken up to Heaven by Jesus Christ in an act of Rapture.  (Can you believe so many made it?)  Yet what other explanations are there?  All of them were Christian, most of them openly devout, lots of them the usual suspects with a few surprises here and there.  The punk-rock guy across the hall from me is gone.  He used to drive me nuts with his music and loud sex at three a.m., even though I thought he was cute.  I would have never pegged him for a saved soul.

Surprises go both ways, it seems.  Have you seen that funny bit on the news a couple of days ago?  Some big-shot televangelist got pelted with eggs by his followers at a Baptist convention; they grew mad when God had failed to collect them.  Actually, most of them just packed their bags and tried to leave town quietly, including the preacher.  Some righteous unbelievers from his flock recognized him on the street, though, and ran him through town.  The police intervened.  I hadn't laughed this hard in a long time.  What a waste of eggs.

Was there much looting in San Francisco?  There was a little here but for the most part, people have stayed calm and orderly.  I think if a comet were hurtling at us through space we would truly act like the end of the world were nigh.  But there are no strange lights in the sky, no omens except the missing one twelfth of the world population, so we can still hope.  Maybe nothing bad happened.  Maybe it will all work out—for us, that is, not for the divine plan.  Which outcome would you prefer?

I haven't said anything about faith yet; that's because there isn't much to say.  I stand where I've always stood as long as other explanations are available.  The same hope that keeps people from looting keeps me from believing, perverse as it sounds.  It's funny to see your heart trade places with your brain in denying religion.  Can you blame me, though, knowing that accepting the obvious will lead to the ultimate despair?  I simply can't stand to think that we've been given the key just as they changed the lock on us.  Anything but that!

So I sit here in my deserted office building, Mary, and I write you letters, and I keep wishing with all my strength for all to be well, while my mind contemplates fire and brimstone.  I hope this reaches you safe and sound.  Or gets returned because you aren't there.

Love always,
Jessica

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