A Little Sci-Fi story I wrote before we became a little sci-fi society.
The world was tired and thin. Winding down, it had no interest nor patience for Joe Foxwood, the last man on earth; and Joe knew it. Never the most popular kid at the dance, he knew very well what being ignored felt like. Years of suffering the indifference of an uncaring father, being overlooked by co-workers at the Raskill, Neveda Post Office, and jerking off to internet porn had worn at him, like rain and wind wore down a mountain. Although with Joe, perhaps it was more like how an ocean wore down a sand castle. It stripped him of everything except a dull craving for attention.
Now Joe was the most popular man on the planet, but nothing changed. Not really.
“I'm HERE!” As usual, nothing answered. Not even birds anymore. Just a silent midday sun and a faint breeze. The last two reminders that time kept moving on. He sat down on the corner of Laguna Ave. and Main Street, in front of the Maggie Moo's Ice Cream Parlor, and wept. Nothing noticed. He'd been crying so often these days, that Joe hardly noticed himself. A faint breeze ruffled his hair, but he could find no comfort in it.
The house was full of mannequins. He'd scoured all the local shops for them. Took him two whole days, or forever; he couldn't remember. He thought they'd give the place an aura of activity. Secretly, he hoped he might go a little crazy and the mannequins would talk to him. Maybe come alive and try to kill him. He didn't care. So long as they acknowledged him. Nothing. Joe was shit house crazy, but the mannequins only stood their ground. Ignoring him.
He'd taken to sleeping on the front porch, avoiding their blank stares and cold shoulders. Sometimes he'd scream at them for hours until his throat was raw and his body covered in sweat, but they didn't care. The hot summer breeze brought no relief on these nights and poor Joe would fall asleep, exhausted and mumbling, tears leaking from his eyes.
Today, the last day, Joe spent the morning making telephone calls. Sometimes, in the beginning, he'd get lucky and get an answering machine. He left all kinds of messages. Nasty, pleading, friendly invites for dinner and drinks. He figured he must have left a thousand messages by now.
“My legacy.”
But no luck today. The cell phones of the world were going the way of the dinosaurs. The way of man, he supposed. All the machines ignored Joe today.
Joe's last coherent idea — the last coherent idea ever formed — was wind chimes.
So he went shopping again. Spent the whole day scouring two towns for wind chimes. The music of the wind chimes. The music of the wind chimes. The thought repeated endlessly.
By late afternoon, Joe returned to the house with seventeen wind chimes. Ducks, moons, stars, sea shells, traditional 'chimes', and his favorite; a wind chime made of light blue glass, depicting a party. It had people dancing, little martini glasses that sparkled white and blue in the sun... it almost made him happy to just look at it.
He wept unconsciously as he approached the house. He did that so often these days, for no reason at all really. Even Joe ignored the tears.
“Fuck you!” He screamed at the mannequins inside. It was a shout of defiance that they refused to acknowledge. Never mind them. Joe got busy hanging his wind chimes. It took him almost two hours and was well past dark by the time he finished. Braving the house full of cold shoulders, he quickly went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of warm beer and ran back out to the porch. He sat on the top step, in the silent night and waited.
All night he waited, underneath a brilliant sky of cold starlight. All night. Not a single breeze. Not the faintest puff of wind. The chimes remained silent.
When the sun finally rose, it found Joe sitting on his porch, beer unopened. Weeping. No one was there to discover if he ever stopped. Not even a soft summer breeze.
