Jeff Wysaski
Dad, I’ve been staring at the concrete wall over there for a couple hours now, and during that time I’ve been thinking things over. I know you’re just trying to keep my best interests in mind here, but dad, when can we leave the bomb shelter?
Yes, I know you’re worried about nuclear fallout. And you’re right, if we open that door to a nuclear wasteland, we’ll get radioactive poisoning and die a slow, painful death. But – and this is going to sound like I’m beating a dead horse – I’m pretty sure that “nuclear explosion” you heard wasn’t a bomb at all. It was a pot being dropped in the kitchen.
A pot you, yourself, dropped I might add. You’ve agreed with me in the past that the sound of the nuclear bomb coincided precisely with the moment that pot of wet noodles hit the floor. So then, and stay with me here, doesn’t it seem possible that the world remains in tact? And if we open that door, we’ll step out into a perfectly normal Saturday afternoon?
Look, I know I’m your only son and you want to protect me, but sitting down here in this bomb shelter is no way to live.
It’s been six months, dad! Even if there was a bomb, don’t you think the nuclear fallout would have dissipated into the atmosphere by now? God, I’m so bored. You know, you could have at least packed a deck of cards or book of crosswords or something.
No, I do not want to read the bomb shelter instructions manual again! I’ve read that thing a million times already! I want to go outside!
Do you hear that, dad? Do you hear those noises out there? THOSE ARE CHILDREN PLAYING IN THE BACKYARD! And I should be out there playing with them. I don’t know what more proof you need. How could little children – one of which is your own daughter by the way – be laughing and playing if it’s a nuclear winter out there?
And remember 6 months ago, when mom knocked on the door outside? She yelled through the door that if we were in here, it was time to stop playing around and come eat dinner?
NO THAT WAS NOT A ZOMBIE WHO WANTED TO EAT OUR BRAINS! It was mom! And if you hadn’t covered my mouth when I tried to yell back to her, she’d know we were in here! But now she probably thinks we’re dead.
Dad, please. We ate the last of the Beefaroni last night, and we’ve been drinking our own urine for two weeks now. It’s time to give it up. Tell me the code to the door and I’ll let us out of here.
Dad! Goddamn it, answer me! I swear to Jesus, if my legs hadn’t atrophied from sitting in this tiny pit for the past 6 months, I’d get up and kick your ass right now!
Dad? Dad? Oh great, he’s dead. Probably from dehydration. Isn’t that just perfect? Now what am I going to do?
Where did that instruction manual go?
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