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Churof’s mailbox.

I try not to think about her, about Amy. But here she comes anyway. The way I’d tortured myself, yesterday. Amy wanting to dance across the plaza underneath Cinderella’s castle. Her taking my arm despite my objections. The camera wobbling as I try to dance, less than gracefully, while not dropping the thing. The passers-by smiling and nodding, thinking they know what’s up. God. Hung over. Fire in my belly. I need to get to Dallas. I stumble away from the window and take the piss I’ve been needing to since before I woke up. I stand there a long time. I flush: I still have water pressure, at least. Electricity. Check. Water. Check. How long is all this supposed to last after the apocalypse? No, don’t think like that. Quarantine. Once I go far I’ll plop out of this nightmare bubble. Plop.
    I shake myself dry and go in look of appropriate attire. It’s balmy here in Texas, even in the middle of winter. But that doesn’t mean it won’t get colder as I go north. I decide that dressing in layers is the best way to go. T-shirt, long sleeve flannel. Thermal tights and then jeans. I pack all the skiing clothes from our trip up to Colorado that I had missed the previous day. I grab a few jackets and my heavy coat. Can’t have enough, really.

After I am done, after everything from yesterday is packed up, I survey my work. I survey the street. I am hesitant. The grasp that this place has on reality, on being a real thing already seems tenuous, like I am the only spectator, the last thumbtack holding it on the board. What happens when I leave this place again? Will it simply disappear?
    I take my time getting behind the wheel of the Beast. I take my time starting the engine up. I take my time shifting into first and edge the Beast down the street. I stop for longer than I need to at the stop sign, which now is any stop at all, really. I stop and I look in the oversized rear view mirror. I look and feel myself tearing up. C’mon man, pull it together. I take out the phone, turn it on. I call Amy. “ You’ve reached the voicemail of Amy Seager, junior partner specializing in-”  I feel like going back for the rest of it. I feel like being the ultimate example of one of those people you see on TV, a hoarder. I feel like finding an eighteen wheeler and moving my whole neighborhood with me. A fleet of 18 wheelers a hundred deep chained one to the next: move not just my street but my whole neighborhood. Everything. Surround myself. C’mon, c’mon, this is not the way a man should think. A man should now be striking out, not so much as a glance in the rear view. What is this? Tears? Get on with it Cholo. Get on with it cabron. You can’t afford this. Get on with it, or just get out of your truck and put it in neutral and lie down on the very street and let the back dualie wheels run over you. Might as well if you don’t go right now. Hit the gas motherfucker. Fucking pussy. ALRIGHT! FUCK! Yay for motherfucking pep talks.
    I wipe a flannel sleeve across my eyes as I pick up speed. The nondescript houses begin passing with greater frequency. I find I can do it, I can ignore stop signs, blow through intersections. A few minutes later I’m at the main intersection with the Wally World and the strip mall. I stop in the mostly empty Wal-Mart lot. I break down. Yes, I admit, I break down. You’d do the same in my situation, non-existent omnipresent reader. You’d do the same if you were down here and not up there. I break down for a good five minutes thinking of Disney and National Lampoon and Amy and then wipe a sleeve that comes away smeared with snot. I get out huffing air and walk towards Wally World.

I am on a mission. There are tick marks left on this checklist. There are grocery carts all around, still full of plastic bags of groceries spoiling in the sun. There’s a car with its trunk still open, front door still open. There’s a flash of colored pattern that catches my eye. I go in to take