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Mix Up

 Mix Up


I’m sitting in traffic. It’s rainy. I’m tired. Stacy reaches across me, spins the dial, says something about wondering if they’ll say the big numbers— 


A jovial voice begins to read: 


“Aaand the winning numbers are—“


Static hisses. Splits the words into pieces, drowns them out. Another voice comes on, a man. His words come out in that paradoxical so-fast-it’s-slow-way, a calm terror. I go very still. 


“—- it would appear that all communications with our ambassadors in the Soviet Socialist Republics has ceased. I’ve been told that the White House has been evacuated and— and that we will receive a…” 


The voice falters. Stacy is gripping my arm like we’re both overboard, clinging in cold and black bottomless water. 


“Nuclear weapons have been launched by the Soviet Union to the United States. You are not hearing me incorrectly. We have lost contact with our correspondents in West Germany, and just now in London and Iceland. We will stay on air as long as possible— God help us.” 


The static comes again and the voice is gone. When I look at Stacy again, she’s porcelain pale, big blue eyes watery and uncertain. I force a laugh but it comes out like a bark. 


“It’s just a joke”, I say, “some asshole having a laugh.” She nods, swallowing, fumbling for a cigarette. To this day, we still talk about it quietly, about the rainy day we heard the world end. Just not *our* world.

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