Cynthia Hawkins

Meltdown

     Half-past nineand Ruby decided thirty-minutes late was late enough. Ten-minuteslate would hardly be suspect, but thirty. Celine and Sal wouldstand together, two thick old women standing shoulder to softshoulder and hip to hip tapping their shoes in sync, the way theydo when they're collectively mad at Ruby. They'd press togetherand become one sputtering lecture that ends with a deep "wewon’t tell Harry this time." They never do. Usuallythe morning news on the all-news channel ran an entertainmentsegment from nine to nine-thirty, something easy to walk awayfrom. But as Ruby sat on the tattered ottoman with pen and notebookin hand that morning, Hollywood was pre-empted by a twitchy, wind-blownreporter standing to the side of a highway. He pushed a fingeragainst his ear and squinted as he tried to hear the news anchor,smug at the station on split-screen trying to be heard. "Jim¼ Jim? Have you spoken with any of the investigators?"

     "Spoken with¼ um, what was that?"

     "Investigators."

     "No. No, theyhaven't been available for comments as of yet."

     The field-reporter'sside of the split-screen collapsed making room for the anchorto take over the space. "There you have it. The origin ofthe strange configurations of lights in the sky outside of Mesquite,Texas that have appeared two nights in a row remains a mystery.No one knows," he reported solemnly, "if the lightswill appear on the Texas horizon again tonight."

     With her boundnotebook opened to a blank page, Ruby pecked at the paper withher pen, writing in small, staccato strokes, "Mesquite, Texas.Lights, unexplained. Not alien. A warning. The sparks of a combustiblesociety. We're about to blow." She was compiling a book ofnews flashes, facts, drawings, and bad poetry, all of which pointed,as she figured, to the eminent end of the world. The field-reporterreappeared on-screen interviewing a local in a backward-turnedhat with his finger resting on the bridge of his nose, "amicroscopic implant they monitor my bodily functions and whereaboutswith."

     Ruby leaned tothe television to turn the volume down with a knob she had toreinsert in its former hole just over the small circle of a speaker.She looked up at the cat clock, moving its eyes, ticking out theseconds with its tail. Half-past nine. Ruby clamped her teethtogether, curled her lips away from them, and gave the clock herbest growl punctuated with a quick snap of teeth. "Conspiringagainst me, you and the TV," she said shoving the notebookand pen in the backpack. Balancing the bag on her knees, she heldher breath for a second, closed her eyes, sniffed at the oatmealburnt to its pan on the roll-away microwave cart that served asa kitchen counter. This was her moment of gathering up all strengthand speed that, when summoned, she imagined sprawling throughher limbs made tense with anticipation for the big run. It wassomething she did now and then to stay in top form. Always intraining. She opened her eyes to the stopwatch hanging from herneck by a cord, clutched in her hand. She circled her thumb overthe "go" button. "Ready. Set. Bingo!" Shepopped up from the ottoman. The watch ticked and bobbed againsther stomach. She fumbled for the straps of the backpack, tookthem in hand with the stopwatch swinging from her neck, pendulum-like,side to side. The shag carpet always proved a resistance to herrubber-soled, unlaced sneakers that flopped against her heels.She almost stepped out of them, but she recovered her balanceand the slipping-off shoes with tight, curled up toes pressingand pushing the shoes back into place. She tripped past the frontdoor, shut it, and jingled the ring of keys to the lock. "I'llhave to shave a few seconds off for this," she said as shelocked the door and dropped the keys in the deep pocket of hercarpenter pants. "If the world’s gonna end, no senselocking your door."

     "What wasthat?" At the foot of the stairs, below Ruby, an elderlywoman tucked into a matted fur coat called up to her.

     "Nothing,Mrs. Ellerby," she answered, pounding the steps on her waydown.

     "Careful there,girl. You’ll bust on through." Mrs. Ellerby pressedwith a delicate palm her shoulder-length white hair that curvedup at the ends as a row of oversized rings clicked together.

     "No time!"Ruby raced past Mrs. Ellerby, brushing fur with her bare arm,and out the front door of the apartment building. She could hearMrs. Ellerby straining her voice to say loudly, "You’llnever beat twelve-and-a-half! That was your best yet!"

     Ruby blinked awaysun and scrubbed at her inch-long hair as she ran with the backpackdangling off her shoulder and the stopwatch bobbing. She ran pastthe short row of older homes with their wide front porches andgum trees and oaks stretching over the street to meet the outreachinglimbs on the other side. It was the middle of May. Ruby rose andfell with the concrete sidewalk that had cracked and buckled inwaves. Her arms began to glow with sweat. On the same street,houses quickly gave way to small, one story businesses, some boardedup. She ran past the whir of a dozen washers and dryers at thelaundromat with the door propped wide open. She made way for acar that honked and sped by with the twang of Hank Williams momentarilysmothering out all other sounds. To her left, the ice cream shopwas not yet opened. She could see Jack, as she ran past, in ared shirt moving behind the counter inside, moving between thefat yellow letters of "Jack D’s Ice Cream" paintedon the picture window. To the right, just ahead, Dash's Fabrics.Ruby smashed the stopwatch to her chest and paused to pull theglass door back with a jingle.

     "Why, hereshe comes," Celine eased a plump elbow to the cutting tableas she watched Ruby slip across the linoleum, past bolts of fabricand through a backroom doorway. Sal, color-coordinating threadacross the room, set her work aside to join Celine. They lookedat each other and listened to the clatter of Ruby rushing downthe basement steps.

     "Think shebeat it?" Sal asked which was followed by a moan radiatingfrom somewhere beneath their feet.

     "Nope. She’llnever beat twelve-and-a-half, anyway."

     Sal nodded andwas on her way back to the threads when Celine caught the tieof her apron and pulled her back. "Come on, let’s getready now."

     "Oh, she neverlistens."

     "We're incharge when Harry's not here," Celine answered. "Comeon."

     They stood sideby side in their matching, high-waisted dresses. Ruby emergedfrom the back room to face them. Celine and Sal had opened theirmouths ready to begin berating when Ruby, with her hand pattingher bristled hair, interrupted. "I know I'm late," shesaid, "later than usual, but have you seen the news?"

     "What is itthis time?" Celine, for once, gave up on her lecture.

     "Lights,"Ruby said.

     "I betterget back to sorting," Sal said, smoothing her apron, resumingher spot at the rack of thread.

     "Lights!"Ruby threw her hands in the air and remembered the backpack pullingat her shoulder. She searched for her notebook and dropped herbag to the floor. "Lights outside of Mesquite, Texas. Atnight. Two nights in a row."

     "That's someoneplaying a trick." Celine crossed her arms.

     "Three weeksago, strange lights were reported outside of Reno," Rubyconsulted her notes, "and two weeks before that, outsideof Santa Fe." Sal, from her corner, went on to explain howthere used to be a strange light floating along the street shegrew up on close to the tracks. It was merely some dismemberedengineer, the ghost of him, searching for his limbs in the nightwith the glow of his lantern. "Ghosts are always lookingfor things, all over the place," Sal added. "It alwaysseems mysterious to us, but that's just what they do."

     "That's right,"Celine laughed, "just some ghosts about. Nothing strangeabout that, Ruby."

     "Hush,"Sal sulked a minute and gave Ruby a wink, "You should writea poem about that one." Celine and Sal thought Ruby was thebest poet there ever was. On slow days, they’d have her recitesome from her notebook, and Sal would say, "I'm not surewhat it means, but it's lovely dear."

     "Well, I'llhave no more of this being late," Celine lined up scissorson the counter. "Now, you have some half-off signs to putaround, so get to it."

     Studying the variouscolors of thread, Sal added, "and we won't tell Harry thistime."

     The only out-of-placelights illuminating the fields outside of Mesquite that nightwere those of the news crews along with their vans and satellitesand antennas. Ruby, sitting on the ottoman, curled her bare toesinto the deep-piled carpet and contemplated the developing sceneson the all-news channel. The strange lights had given way to thespectacle that was the full-fledged media. The second-shift reporter,a young woman with bobbed, blond hair and a red sash of a mouthhovering over the microphone, tried to appear comfortable in theheat that curled sweaty strands of hair to her cheeks. "Weare just ¼ waiting for the lights to reappear," shesaid. The reporter stared sternly into the camera for a wholeminute as Ruby stared back over her TV tray, a little suspicious-like,with a forkful of food teetering between fingers. The reporterlooked at the field behind her packed with the other news reporters,then up at the blank sky, then back at the camera. She swept wethair from her face and said, "It is unusually hot out heretonight." Ruby continued to eat, dipping squares of pancakesin the busted yolk of her eggs, sunny side up. The reporter continuedto speculate about the weather when suddenly, behind her, a manwith a "Where’s the beef?" T-shirt barely stretchedover his full belly ran by squeezing beer cans in his hands, beerand foam gushing out as he screamed, "We're all going todie!" Ruby slowly set her fork down on the plate freeingher fingers to needle through her hair as she bit her lip. Thereporter was about to comment when the hum of a machine beganand bands of interference scrolled over the TV screen warblingthe reporter's face and distorting her voice. It was coming fromthe first floor apartment.

     "Ruby, youhave to try something besides vanilla sooner or later." Jackwas always persuading Ruby, tempting her with other flavors, butshe would never budge. At first, he tried because it wasn't naturalto favor just one kind of ice-cream. But day after day, duringher fifteen-minute break from the fabric store, dissuading Rubyfrom vanilla became a challenge just for the sake of making someoneso stubborn change her mind. "Chocolate banana nut? Hmmm?"He stood behind his ice-cream counter, lifting an ice-cream sampleon a tiny, wooden paddle.

     "No thanks,Jack." Ruby stood opposite him, drumming her hands againstglass. "One scoop of vanilla, please."

     Jack frowned, defeatedagain, as he worked the metal scoop with a thin hand and a long,tattooed arm wiggling in the red sleeve of his "Jack D'sIce-Cream" T-shirt. She told him about the lights outsideof Mesquite and how nothing happened last night. Jack twistedhis brow in interest as she explained. With a flick of his finger,Jack gently knocked the cup of vanilla across the counter to Ruby."It's a sign of things to come, like a spark before a fire,"she explained, "I need to speed up my time, to the basement.It's the closest thing, you know. The nuclear shelter under thecourthouse is too far. Besides, I hear they haven't kept up withthe emergency supplies since the Cold War." This didn't surprisehim since he had heard it all before, recited in her poetry. "Alittle bundle of talent," he always called her, but onlybecause her poems seemed better than what he wiped off the bathroomstalls at night.

     While she slurpedice-cream off the spoon, licking it off her lips, she told Jackhow she was going to write a new poem about the lights, but shecouldn't keep her mind off of the neighbor below that she hadnever seen but had finally heard last night. In a matter of hours,she had filled the visual void of her first-floor neighbor withan image of him, something like a bleary-eyed, Sasquatch-likefigure. She tried to convince Jack that the neighbor was cuttingup bodies with an electric saw as she tried to watch the news.

     "Now, Ruby.Don't let that imagination of yours fly," Jack laughed.

     "That's whatI do, Jack," Ruby licked the last of her ice-cream off ofthe spoon. She looked over her shoulder, out of the window, atthe fabric store diagonal from them. "I mean, besides workingthere." She handed Jack the empty cup. "I sent a coupleof poems off--one for a national poetry prize and another to theNewsleader."

     "Somethingwill come of that, sure," he nodded, running his hands overhis tattoos. He was already thinking up a new flavor to offernext time, something irresistible.

     "A meteordrops like an acme weight on the planet," Ruby lowered herselfto the six-year-old standing with her on the front stoop of theapartment building. Pete had stopped playing his Game-boy to listenas he watched Ruby through a fringe of blond hair and held hisbreath. Ruby continued, "Pulverizes every Tom, Dick, andJanet. We’re all going to die,

damn it."

     "Ruby!"Mrs. Ellerby, standing by her car, dropped her cell phone throughher rolled-down window and rushed to the front porch, wobblingon her high-heels, fanning her hands by her sides like a littlebird. "I could hear you from over there, cussing at my littlegrandson like that."

     Ruby stood straightwith her palm to her back, the other touching her hair. "It’smy poem, the one I sent to a national contest."

     "They acceptprofanity?" Mrs. Ellerby took Pete’s hand and suckedher lower lip in just a little.

     "I suppose."

     "Hmm,"Mrs. Ellerby replied sharply, straightening the collar of herfur coat. She wore it year round, never seeming to be botheredby heat, to keep up an elite sort of appearance for her tenantswhom she visited regularly.

     "I’vebeen meaning to ask," Ruby said finally after consideringher basement dilemma all day, "do you think maybe I couldswitch apartments, to the one below? It has a basement, doesn'tit?"

     "What do youwant with a basement? You only have three belongings to your namethat I remember," Mrs. Ellerby said.

     "Three things,"Pete laughed.

     "I have morethan three."

     "Oh you aren'tcounting that old TV tray I gave you!" Mrs. Ellerby and Petelaughed together.

     "If you mustknow," Ruby sniffed, "I need a shelter, close by, foremergencies."

     Pete’s smileshrank to a thin line. "For meteors?"

     "Yes,"Ruby answered, "For meteors and more."

     "Fine by me,"Mrs. Ellerby examined the rings on her sprawled-out hand, "ifit's okay with Mr. Morris. You'll have to ask him."

     "Me?"

     "Well you’rethe one who wants it and he’s the one who lives there."

     "Me?"Ruby looked through the screen door to the first-floor tenant'sdoor. Then she whispered, "He was running some machine lastnight. It made interference on my TV."

     "Oh a quickturn of a fork could cause interference on that old thing,"she laughed through closed lips as Pete repeated "turn ofa fork" with a laugh, and then Mrs. Ellerby added more seriously,"You go complain to him if you want."

     "I don't wantto cause trouble. Look, I’m just saying," Ruby whisperedlower, "he's weird."

     "Bologna!"Mrs. Ellerby burst, "He’s harmless. You want that basement?You go ask him yourself." Mrs. Ellerby tilted Pete's faceto her with a finger and brushed his long bangs aside. "Wehave some other properties to visit."

     "One two three.One two three four five. One two. One two three." Ruby flippedthrough cards of buttons, taking inventory on a ledger pad thatmade her feel official. Sal was still at her thread rack, a weeklater, trying to decide what follows dark green in the color spectrum.Ruby had suggested blue, but Sal insisted on testing various colors,rearranging, staring, starting over. Celine was at the registerclicking up totals in rhythm to Ruby's verbal strings of numbers.

     "You know,"Sal hollered from her corner after the customer had gathered herpurchase and left, "I've been thinking about those lights."

     "There areno more lights. They never came back," Ruby continued, "Onetwo three ¼ "

     "Well, that'sa shame because I was thinking that they weren’t ghosts atall but maybe headlights."

     "What's thatSal?" Celine leaned to the counter, reading the morning papercrinkling between her hands. "What do you mean headlights?They'd of known that."

     "No, headlightsreflecting, like off the cows' eyes."

     "Well forevermore," Celine muttered.

     "No Sal, it’sjust a warning, about our society."

     "A spark beforea fire, I know." Sal stared at fistfuls of spooled threadand said to herself, "This khaki color, this might be theone."

     While Ruby wascounting, thumbing at buttons, she was thinking of the basementin the first floor apartment. She was thinking of sending Salto ask Mr. Morris, the tenant, when Celine gasped and held thepaper up to her face. "Ruby, get your butt over here!"Ruby sent the ledger fluttering to the floor beneath rows of buttonsand rushed to Celine at the register. She thought maybe it wassomething about lights. "This is you! The End! Youmade it!"

     "What's thehubbub?" Sal met Ruby and Celine at the counter and all threetwisted their necks for a view of the paper in Celine's fists,tightening with excitement, crushing the edges.

     "Look here,"Celine said, directing their attention to the lower corner ofthe last page of section "D" in the Newsleader."In the Poet’s Corner."

     "That's me.That's me." It was all Ruby could say with both hands cuppedto her neck and her mouth dropped crooked.

     "You madeit kid," Sal squeezed Ruby's shoulders and shook. "Next,a whole book of poems. You'll be famous like you always thought."

     "We all knewit," Celine interjected.

     "And you'llhave to sign all your books right here in Dash’s Fabrics,"Sal went on.

     "Oh, Harrywould like that," Celine nodded.

     "That's me,"Ruby said.

     "Well, whatare you waiting for? Read it to us." Celine shoved the paperat Ruby.

     With the newspaperin hand, Ruby walked over to the cutting table, climbing up ontop with her head near the florescent lights. "I should beup here for effect," she explained and Celine and Sal agreed.Ruby cleared her throat, straightened her skirt that hung allthe way to her shoes, and closed her eyes with an upturned face.When she opened them once more, her body loosened from a straightline to something like a warrior stance achieved with a littlejump on the table. She crouched just a little, feet apart, andlooked severely at Celine and Sal who suddenly felt for each othershands without looking away from Ruby’s thin, stern face.Ruby glanced now and then at the poem on the page and read deeply,"The End. By Ruby Marie Duncan ¼ Underground. Safe and sound. Food. There isfood in the shelter. We are not rude in the shelter. We broodfor food. But there is ¼ enough. I'm in a bad mood. The world is gone.Blown up like a firecracker only much much bigger – likea gigantic Black Cat. Boom! There are no more dogs on the earth,no more frogs, no more logs, not even Lincoln Logs. Just us undergroundin the shelter. Together forever. Pass the beanie-weenies please."Ruby stood straight again with her face warming with a shy grinas she looked at her shoes, waiting for the praise. Celine andSal dropped hands, and finally Sal said in awe, "It’slovely dear."

     "Lovely,"Celine added as she helped Ruby down with an outstretched hand.

     "I did it!"Ruby looked up at nothing and sighed. "I'm on my way."

     "Of courseyou are," Sal agreed throwing a one-armed hug around Ruby'sneck.

     Ruby had walkedup and down, up and down the flight of steps inside the apartmentbuilding. She pinched at her legs, pinched at her cheeks, pinchedat short strands of hair. With all the excitement the day before,she had forgotten to ask Sal to ask Mr. Morris. Ruby would stopin front of Mr. Morris' door on the first floor and go back upto her own, then come down again. She had her fame. Now she neededa basement. "Your apartment? May I have your apartment? Wouldn'tyou like to be upstairs? Wouldn't you? With a Murphy bed and aview?" Ruby whispered through barely parted lips. "Thisis ridiculous. He's harmless. Harmless." She stopped at hisdoor and examined the little brass "A" that was aboutto drop off and leave its clean, white outline. She knocked. Thehinges of the door rattled and squeaked as it opened with a jerk.

     "Yes?"Mr. Morris filled the gap between door and door frame. He wasalmost tall enough to duck under it. Two blood-shot eyes peeredthrough the long curls of hair that hung to the length of hislong beard. "Yes? What is it?" He almost growled. Heshook a little when he spoke as if it were an effort to speakat all.

     "I ¼ my name is Ruby Duncan. I live up-"

     "Ruby Duncan?"He opened the door a little wider.

     "Yes. I liveupstairs-"

     "Ruby Duncan?"

     "Yes. AndI wanted, well, Mrs. Ellerby said to ask-"

     "Ruby MarieDuncan?"

     "Yes,"Ruby answered again, struggling to finish without looking at him,"Would you switch apartments with me?"

     "You’rethe poet," he said, "from the paper."

     "Yeah,"she said, beginning to slouch again, "but, I wondered ifwe could switch apartments."

     "I read TheEnd," he said, "and I thought, hey, this is goodstuff. I taped it to the wall. And I highlighted your name withone of them yellow markers."

     Ruby stood straightagain. "What about switching?" At this point, she beganto think of what state he would leave his place, what she mightfind taped to the walls, or hidden behind them. But still, shehoped for a basement of her own. "Would you switch?"

     "You wanta basement, right? Like your poem talks about, a shelter. Well,I’m thinking now, that's why I need the one I got."

     "It's just¼ it’s a" she was going to say "justa poem." She was going to pretend it didn't mean anythingat all.

     "The way Isee it, your welcome to run down here and use it too. It'd beokay to have company anyhow, like your poem says. It says ¼ 'we.'"

     Ruby shut her eyesfor a second to the thought of this man and herself, survivorsof nuclear devastation, trapped in his basement, sharing a canof beans. Ruby nodded and tried to step back a little withouthim noticing. She looked down at her hands shoved into pant pockets,down at her shoes, but she could still see him, his hair biggerthan the gap in the doorway he allowed for his face, and his beardmoving as he chewed on his lip.

     "Besides,that's where I keep all my tools," Ruby looked up at himas he said this and then, under a jagged curtain of hair, he raiseda brow, "for woodworking."

     "Okay. I understand.That’s okay." Ruby backed up, still nodding, still pinchingherself, making her way to the stairs, taking one step at a timeas she said, "I better get back to my writing." Shecould see, in the slowly narrowing space between the door anddoorframe, his knotted beard, his red eye, and the door clickedshut shaking the little brass "A" back and forth.

     At 12:03 on Saturdayafternoon, Ruby laced up her new Nikes and began her run fromher doorway on the second floor, starting her time on the stopwatch. As she passed Mr. Morris' door, she gave the "A"a knock and sent it spinning around its brass nail, protestingthe loss of a basement. Out the front door, flying off the stooplike a seasoned hurdler, Ruby made her way to the sidewalk. Herskirt clung tight to her knees moving beneath and waved behindher. The hem of it floated up with the wind. All she could thinkabout was The End and her name in print.

     "Ruby!"Jack hurried out of his ice cream shop when he saw her runningpast pumping her arms. "Ruby! Hold up!"

     She stopped atthe oddity of Jack, leaving his store and standing in the street."What is it, Jack?" Ruby asked, shaking her legs out,back-tracking to the ice cream shop.

     "Well,"Jack stood with his hands against his arched back and squintedat the sun behind Ruby, "I was wondering, since you're acelebrity around here now, if you might do the shop an honor."Jack led Ruby into the ice cream shop and they assumed their usualspots on opposite sides of the chest-high, glass encased ice creamcounter. Through the slanted glass Ruby examined the circulartubs of ice cream in every color. She watched Jack's hand wraparound a metal scoop and carve a line in a brown and white swirledice cream that curled against metal and rolled into a ball. Rubyshook her head as Jack explained that she just had to taste thenew creation. It wasn’t ice cream but an ice cream float.He plopped the ice cream in a glass of root-beer. "Peanutbutter, white chocolate, and root-beer," Jack said, and Rubyshook her head "no." He wanted the newly famous poetof The End to name the latest flavor, "but,"he insisted with a half-grin, "you have to taste it to nameit."

     Her first taskof fame. She was pleased the more she thought about it. Besides,there were bound to be more christenings and ribbon-cutting ceremoniesand so forth. She might as well start with "Jack D's IceCream," she reasoned. "Alright," she said, reluctantlyreaching for the glass. She held it to her nose smelling peanutbutter and foam. Jack clasped his hands at his chest and rolledhis lower lip in and out of his mouth. Ruby held the rim of theglass to her lips. First she dipped the tip of her tongue in foam,tasting air. Then she sipped a very small sip of a little root-beer,a little melted ice cream. She stared into the glass, thinkingof a name, a clever, poetic name that everyone would expect ofher. Meanwhile, Jack rubbed his hands together victoriously andtried to keep his smile at a moderate width. "Meltdown,"Ruby said with certainty and handed the full glass back to him.

     Jack printed thenew flavor out on a slender white label and had Ruby sign it inher tiny writing. He took a Polaroid of Ruby in her spotless whiterunning shoes, her stopwatch hanging from her neck, and a coneof vanilla ice cream in her fist, and wedged it beside the newlabel behind glass as a monument to The End and the fameto come.

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Cynthia Hawkins is currently working towards a Ph.D. in English/Creative Writing at Binghamton University, SUNY, where she also teaches undergraduate creative writing and English courses. Her poetry has appeared in Whetstone.

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