The Luckiest Boy On Earth
___________________________________________________________
By Matthew Weber
We’re dying, Solomon.
You sure are lucky with that precious cushy life of yours.
One day you’ll be gone, and all that precious sperm will be gone
right along with it. And then what?
We’re dying, Solomon.
Please.
The last boy on earth.
We’re all dying.
You’re a Godsend.
You’d have to be luckiest boy on earth to have what you have.
We’re dying, Solomon.
we’re dying, we’re dying, we’re dying, we’re dying, we’re dying, we’re dying, we’re dying, we’re dying, we’re dying
#
Consciousness fades in. Nine hours of sleep. Never gotten less than six in my life.
I signal for my maid to draw the blinds on the picture window before my bed. The sky is white and the city is the color of a withered rose.
Sitting up, my chest feels soft and flabby. Gynecomastia is back.
They removed that years ago. Guess it’s just my luck. My perfect luck.
I lay there and wait for a Fertile to be brought into me but instead the Housekeeper comes in. She sets a cup of tea brewed with herbs that help sperm production on the bedside table. Not on a plate or coaster. I dread it leaving a mark on the nice wood.
She stands still before me like an old tree. Her gray uniform the same color as her hair and the fat bags under her once beautiful eyes blend with the gray light from the window.
Another miscarried, she says.
I stay silent.
There was nothing to say about it anymore. The stupid virus refused to mutate so it would just leave us alone.
The Housekeeper tries to make eye contact with me.
Solomon? she asks.
What? I reply.
The Old Woman doesn’t have much longer.
Tell me something I didn’t know.
She’s dying, Solomon. She’s the last person who remembers what life was like before. The oldest women in the world.
Okay, I say with my eyes trying to avoid hers. I hate looking her in eye.
I want you to go visit her, the Housekeeper says.
I grimace. The thought of a woman who remembers that far in the past feels wrong. She shouldn’t be able to do that.
To do what? I ask.
To talk with her, to ask her questions.
I’ve known and been taught by people who lived at the same time as the Men of Old. I got nothing to gain.
Yes, but they’re all dead now. She’s the last one. She’ll die and she’ll never know if you saved us or not. Just go and reassure her. Gain wisdom.
Reassure her?
Yes. All you have to do.
Okay.
The Housekeeper leaves. Like every other morning, I choke down the tea she brought me. All of it. All of it’s deeply bitter earthy tastes of roots and herbs from far away forests brimming with vines and plant life ready to take back civilization. Like every other morning, I smile at my accomplishment of sucking that disgusting tea and exhale out my strong lungs knowing that will never happen.
#
The rest of my morning looks standard. I jack off into little cups in my dedicated space. The little cups are then to be shipped off all around the world to fertile women. Then I put on my cashmere silk lined robe, scoffing at the fact that every day I have to live with this thing knowing it’s only eighty percent silk lined and not one hundred.
I go and get my breakfast prepared by my cooks. Rich Alaskan salmon bursting with omega-3 fatty acids to help safeguard my hormone levels, scrambled eggs flowing with Vitamin E to protect my Seed, and oysters bubbling with zinc for the perfect amount of testosterone production. With the quality of this stuff, I’m not dying anytime soon.
I slowly eat in my dining room, careful not to choke. God forbid that happened. God forbid.
The clouds outside are now starting to melt away and pour down a thick glassy beam of golden sunlight right on my future garage. My eyes are drawn to it and I remember they told me that many Men of Old loved cars to the point that it was a stereotype. So I wanted my own garage to display them. That was a long time ago that I asked them to construct it and it’s still not done.
It takes forever for anything to be built. And I hate it. They say the Men of Old were the primary people who built places, but now it takes many women to make just one structure.
After breakfast I go and meditate for an hour. I sit in complete darkness and try to temporarily transform my mind into a blank void. A vast empty space things can only echo.
I hear the echo. It says another miscarried. They always miscarry. Another tiny healthy male of your Seed dead like always. Guess you just weren’t lucky enough this time. Or any of the other times for that matter. Just another miscarriage. We’re dying. You know that? We’re dying, Solomon.
Quiet, I silently command the echo.
We’re dying, Solomon.
Once my meditation is complete, I go to my gym. My eyes take only one look at the forest of burly metal contraptions, weights and cardio equipment to work every possible muscle. That same throb ignites in my hip almost on cue. I decide to skip it today like I did yesterday and the day before. And the day before that. And before that.
I opt to take a walk through the gardens. The virus is everywhere and it keeps changing. If I go outside and it gets me, it gets me. But I’m the luckiest boy on earth. I seemingly don’t have to live with that threat.
By now the clouds have cleared up notably and appear like flat wisps on a sky as bright and blue as a flame. Perfect for making vitamin D.
Disgust fills me as I walk by the roses. Despite the sun screaming down on all below, they look like the moon. Shriveled, wrinkled, crusty, papery and dry. Slightly gray. Those are my favorites and no matter how many soils they ship in with just the perfect amount of acidity and not over or under watering them, they’re still dying.
Turning a corner I come to realize one of the sprinklers must have burst over the night and soaked one of the paths. Glistening dunes of mud have accumulated, and I’m wearing my nice leather sandals so I go the other way. I hate going the other way.
Soon I see it. Eyes made of Carrara marble that always look at me as though they are disappointed or ashamed. They’re in a head that’s turned toward me above arm holding a sling slung over the shoulder.
I always hate seeing that statue. But it’s there because it was it depicts how the Men of Old used to be and the original statue was made by a Man of Old. Still doesn’t make seeing it any better. It’s rippling muscles immortalized always mock me. Like they’re something that will never die.
The paths of the garden eventually take me along the wrought iron fences. Beyond them is the city. Just a normal street lined with side walks and lampposts coated in faded stickers.
It seems grayer than usual. Dull and boring. A couple beat up cars lazily whir by on the streets.
Then I see a crazed vagrant.
Short, face wrinkled like a rotted fruit and disheveled graying brown hair. Her dark eyes light up at the sight of me. She hobbles across the street toward the fence shrieking things in a language only she understood.
I hear her scream my name.
Solomon.
My insides retract at the sight of her. An anguish roils deep within.
Solomon.
I don’t want to say anything to her.
You have to save us, Solomon.
She won’t shut up. Her crazed eyes reek of desperation.
You have to do it, Solomon. Please.
My heart rate accelerates. Too fast. It’s not good for the heart to race too fast when resting. It’s not good for you, Solomon.
We’re dying, Solomon, she yells.
Get rid of her, I shout.
She collapses on the ground yelling more nonsense.
Get rid of her, I demand. Now.
My Sentries come and escort her away. I hear her protesting in sporadic gibberish, but I can still make out that specific phrase.
We’re dying, Solomon.
#
I return quickly after that. Much to my own despair because they already have the car ready for me. Time to go see the Old Woman.
Getting dressed as slowly and lazily as possible is an old technique in mine. But it only makes the dread last longer. I didn’t even look in the mirror to comb my hair. She’s blind. What would she know?
The car lurches over deep cavernous pot holes, but it’s suspension keeps everything perfectly still. Stressful car rides can make life stressful. And a stressful life is a bad life, Solomon.
I notice a single strand of gray hair on my driver’s black hair. Like a single dead tree in a blossoming forest. I remember when I picked her to be my driver because she was prettiest.
For the entire hour drive, I rewatch the same old videos of ancient footage of how the Men of Old used to be. Grainy black and white videos of them hustling around mills and expansive factories and dramatized stock clips of them lifting weights in a gym. I’ve always wished I looked as strong as one guy in those clips. Biceps nearly the size of a head and bulging with veins like roots.
The car comes up to the Old Woman’s house. An old sprawling monstrosity of a Victorian house. Many turrets shoot out, giving it a pointed sinister look. It’s old green paint has long faded and chipped, caked with grime. Gnarled vines choke the house, brimming with bugs and white hazes that I realize are cobwebs.
We’re here, go on in, my driver says. Her voice is deeper. Less feminine than usual.
I sigh.
The floor boards of the porch sound like they’re ready to disgustingly give out under my weight as I ring the door bell. I hear it’s sound reverberate inside like a death rattle. That makes me wince.
After a long moment, a nurse opens the door. Her eyes don’t even flinch at my sight. What am I not of some kind of value? She nods and beckons me in. Her facial mask hides all facial expressions she has, if any. Maybe she is astonished to see me, but I can’t see it.
The inside of the house isn’t much better. It reeks of death. Like burning sulfur that clings on every surface no matter how nice it once was.
A horrendous deep choppy inhaling sound bleeds from an upstairs bedroom, followed by guttural coughing so violent it almost sounds like words. I can make sense of them.
We’re dying, Solomon.
No, that’s not what they say.
The nurse views my discomfort as blankly as she opened the door for me. She leads me up the stairs. Right to the Old Woman’s room.
He’s here to see you, she says creaking open the door.
There she lies. In an old dusty bed with long faded floral patterns on the sheets. The nasal cannula is the same color as her hair and sealed shut eyes.
What a miserable position to be in.
I go and sit down in a chair next to her bed.
Hello, I say.
She rasps a confused moan.
It’s me. I’m Solomon.
Her head rolls toward me. I swear and can even see the dust flying out the pillow case ready and cling to insides of my nose.
I’m the last boy on earth.
I see her shaky hand slithers across the sheet toward me. Please no. Don’t make me touch her.
She writhes her withered fingers in some kind of gesture. No writing off that.
I reach out to hold it. She’s surprisingly strong.
The luckiest boy on earth, she softly says and smiles. The spit in her mouth sounds like crinkling plastic.
Yes, that’s me, I reply.
She sputters another cough.
Don’t worry, I say to fill the silence. I’ll save us.
She doesn’t say anything.
I’m alive. And from my Seed, another male shall walk the earth again. You don’t have to worry, I tell her.
Alright, she says clear as day.
I feel bitterness rising in me. That’s seriously all she has to say? This ancient vegetable has nothing better to say to the last the man on earth? The earth’s miracle baby?
Another silence hangs over us. Her grip is still firmly locked around my hand. Feels like I should let go but I’m afraid how it will seem if I do.
I know. I know. I have to save us. But I will. You won’t see it but I will. I promise you, I say.
She inhales again.
Okay, she says.
She’s not getting it, is she? Alright. Revert to basic questions.
What was it like when the Men of Old were still around?
She wheezes a small dry cough.
It was so long ago.
I know.
I was a little girl.
I’m sure.
I remember their faces.
Yes. Men often have unique faces.
It’s not the same in the pictures.
They always say that.
And the videos.
Never do the real thing justice.
That’s true. Men would always be walking around doing things.
Yes.
Doing things that made everything just get done so much quicker.
Due to psychical advantages, yes. Now women do those things.
Yes. But I always thought that if all women were gone instead of men, society would fall apart too.
Well society never fell apart. And it’s going to come back full force really soon too.
I remember my father.
What do you remember?
I remember, he was tall and strong. His face was both round and angular.
Interesting.
He loved my mother.
I’m sure he did.
He loved my sister.
I’m sure he did.
I remember, she pauses and slowly sighs like a broken kazoo. I remember, when it took him.
Took him?
Yes. The, the virus.
Yes.
I always wondered where he got it from. How long it took to set in. But it was everywhere at that point.
Yes, it was.
He got sent home from work early.
Okay.
He was slow. Sweaty. He seemed to radiate heat and said he didn’t feel well. My mother burst into to tears when she saw him. He told her not panic but she still panicked.
Go on.
He went to go rest. My parents bedroom quickly reeked of hot stuffy sickness and I heard him. Heard him retching for hours. My mother wouldn’t stop crying in panic.
That’s terrible.
Soon she began to get sick too. She was hot and disheveled, wobbling around all dizzy. Then I got sick. Then my sister. My sister. She got sick too. She was little more than a baby.
I stay quiet. She takes in another deep wheezing breath.
My sister went first. My mother came in and found her cold and stiff in her crib. She quietly went back to her bedroom. I could hear her softly crying next to my father.
Sorry to hear that.
It must have been painful. The virus made our throats hot and stinging. Made it even breathing hurt.
I hate those.
I lay there for days and days and days. Hot, sick and miserable.
I stay quiet.
My parents bedroom was silent for days. I eventually forced myself to wander over there and peaked in. My father was still like a stone. My mother’s bony arms wrapped around him. I went and poked her. She was cold. Lifeless.
That’s horrible.
She paused. Grit her teeth. It seemed to portray as much emotion as if her eyes were open. Her voiced deepened.
I was to die there.
She wheezed a hard cough again.
Die there in that bedroom. I lay there in bed for I don’t remember how long anymore. Just lying there in my own filth. Urine, feces and whatever burning blood laced bile the virus managed call out me. Laying there sinking deep into my mattress believing I couldn’t crawl out if I wanted to. I was to die. Die there, Solomon.
Okay. Okay.
Everyone expected me to die. I knew it. No one saw me but I felt it. I was forgotten. The street fell silent. I hadn’t heard a car pass in days. The whole world may as well pass away for all I cared and I would too. I wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. I had to live up to dying.
Live up to it?
Yes. It was the standard all expected of me. My sister lying in her crib as flies swarmed around her like tiny vultures. My parents slowly starting to liquefy into their own bed, their stench creeping deep into every corner of the house. All I had to do was die.
I let go of her hand, recoiling a little bit. Her breath was heavy.
Then. Then I started to get better.
Well, you’re here now.
I got better. I woke up one day and felt stronger. I didn’t throw up. I felt hungry.
You survived.
My throat even started to mellow to a nice sweet cool.
You felt you weren’t supposed to survive?
Yes. I wasn’t but I did. And I didn’t want to. I lay there until I wasn’t sick anymore, begging for it come back and take me. But it didn’t. It wouldn’t.
Okay.
I soon realized I could easily climb out of my sunken bed. It wasn’t impossible like I thought. I couldn’t be there anymore when I looked at my sister’s crib and saw maggots in her eyes.
I don’t reply.
I went outside and walked the empty neighborhood. Rotting stench oozing out of many houses. Some looked barricaded in, reeking of disinfectant. The streets were empty. Traffic lights still blinking red and green for no one. Schools silent and dark. Power grids failing. I thought I was the last one left. I was to walk the earth alone. That’s what everyone expected of me.
Expected of you?
Then came the car. A couple of women driving around in a van looking for survivors. They picked me up and found even more women. Brought me to a refugee camp where I only saw women. I soon learned that men were dying off.
Yes. Men are most susceptible to the virus because of it’s viral glycoprotiens. They attack proteins only expressed by the Y Chromosome.
I don’t know much about that. But the truth was I wasn’t immune to it even after surviving it. They said that it kept changing.
Correct. It does keep changing. The virus constantly has antigenic shifts where it changes it’s proteins. That way, no one can be immune to it and no disinfectants can truly neutralize it.
I contracted it many times.
I did twice.
Every time I got the virus, I felt it starting to take me.
It almost took me.
I could feel it each time. Each time, Solomon. I wasn’t meant to be here. It was meant to take me. I was meant to die, Solomon. Not be here.
I’m sorry about that.
What are you sorry for?
I took a pause. Swallowed. Her tone changed.
Sorry that you didn’t get what you were supposed to, I replied.
That I didn’t die long ago, Solomon?
Yes, I said in a hesitated response.
Why?
Well because as you said, you were supposed to die long ago.
I was also supposed to die when I contracted the virus a second time.
Yes.
And a third.
Yes.
And a fourth.
Yes.
Yet, I’m here now.
I have no reply.
I’ve had a wonderful life, Solomon. It’s had it’s ups and downs and the world isn’t in a great place, but it was life. And it was mine. And I loved it.
Good, was all I could say in response.
Her old face gently warped into a ghost of a smile. Even though I swear I can see dust in the crevasses of her wrinkles she looks lively.
It was great talking to you, I say to end it all right there.
#
She died, Solomon, the Housekeeper tells me the next day.
One of my maids draws the blinds on the picture window before my bed. Barely any light flows in. The sky is a mournful gray.
She had a wonderful life, I say. Had it’s ups and downs, but it was life. And it was hers. And she loved it.
A Fertile is brought in to my room. One I’ve never been with before. She looks nervous. Trying hard to keep a natural composure but internally panicking. And I don’t blame her. Her breasts are under average, face is mediocre and hips are narrow. Not as good as she could be.
As always, I motion her over.
She can read the judgment on my face. Telling her things.
You might bring the next generation.
Is that the best you can do?
Is that the best you look?
So many other people your age maybe even younger can do better.
You’re not that impressive.
Does this seriously mean nothing to you?
The fate of humanity is at stake.
Don’t you under stand that?
Do you?
You pathetic under achiever.
We’re dying.
Don’t you get that?
we’re dying
we’re dying
slowly fading out and it’s going to be your fault
so many are others are so much better
why can’t you just be good at something for once?
we’re dying
we’re dying
I see tears start to well up in her eyes. The only thing breaking her composure.
Don’t worry about it, I say.
She stays silent. Slightly angles her head in confusion.
Don’t worry about it. Just leave. You’re alright.
She opens her mouth.
I said don’t worry about it. Just leave. I know you’re scared. It’s alright. It’s normal but I won’t force you.
She nods and leaves.
I sit in bed for a few minutes.
I feel my own chest. Gynecomastia making my chest as swollen, sensitive and flabby as ever. Miracle I don’t have full breasts. The only reason I’m here is because of my Aromatase Excess Syndrome. Makes me produce more estrogen than testosterone. The Men of Old were made by testosterone.
I put on my cashmere silk lined robe. It feels off but I think that’s okay.
The Housekeeper comes back in.
What was that? she asks.
I felt bad for her.
Felt bad? What were you thinking, Solomon?
So much is expected of her and I don’t want to be responsible for making it worse, I furiously say, almost yelling.
I don’t care, Solomon. We’re dying, don’t you understand that? We’re dying, Solomon. There are expectations to situations like these that the whole world is in and we’re counting on you.
I walk into my bathroom, closing the door.
I hear her sigh and leave.
I feel my soft flabby chest. Gynecomastia. Always the gynecomastia. The Men of Old, the real Men of Old as they were defined back then were strong. They were perfect. Lean. Durable. Hardworking. It’s like I’m not a true Man.
A true Man.
All the true Men are gone, Solomon.
You can’t live up to them.
You just can’t live up to them because you’re you.
You’re the luckiest boy on earth, Solomon.
The luckiest boy.
Born to a life of endless pleasure, attention and sex.
What more could a Man want?
And a true Man of Old wouldn’t even call you one.
You understand that?
You just couldn’t live up to it.
You couldn’t do it, because you’re you.
It doesn’t matter that this is the end.
It doesn’t matter that we’re dying.
You couldn’t do it.
You couldn’t save humanity.
And you know it well.
We’re dying, Solomon.
We’re dying, Solomon.
We’re dying, Solomon.
We’re dying.
We’re dying.
We’re dying.
I’m dying.
I see myself in the mirror.
Chapped lips and crooked yellow teeth. Forehead wrinkled with time like land shaped by water. Bloodshot eyes brown eyes brighter than ever encroached by swollen bags. Hair bushy, unkempt and a dull gray with not a strand of my red hair left. Skin like sandpaper, covered in old scars and moles. Muscles sagging and depleted. Fat growing not just on my chest but around my gut.
This old man before me has barely survived the virus twice. Born entirely because a genetic disorder that hadn’t helped other men but it just so happened to help me. Lived in a world where everyone expected success for him. Because if I wasn’t successful in what was expected, all of humanity would die even though there was enough Seed to go around to keep trying.
I couldn’t save humanity.
And maybe that’s okay.
It was beyond my control.