Extinction Is Better Than Nothing(Jeff Blechle) Extinction Is Better Than Nothing


Kinking a blind slat, I see tall lanky Bert in his blue Italian suit, a knee on the back patio, scraping the concrete with a putty knife. His hair glows blue-black, his quintessence is tony and ultramodern. I tap on the window. Bert looks up, and I’m almost convinced he’s surprised to see me. I motor out to speak to him with my protégée chattering behind me.
“Bert, this is Heather. I gave her the role of Maggie.”
Heather, “Uh uh. Sorry, spaceboy, but I’m playing Bert.” She stalks the patio. “No props? Okay, whatever. Spaceboy, you play Maggie. Joe, you play one of your other idiotic characters. Roll ‘em!” She gushes the exposition through her nose, rolling her r’s, fingertips pressed beneath her throat.
Bert stops scraping the small lump of blackish-orange gunk and raises his voluminous head. A warm lilac gust ripples his suit. “I’m significantly engaged, Mr. Bender.” His robotic baritone bruises the booming sky. “Significantly.”
“Wow, spaceboy. Pure ham. Right? And he’s totally adlibbing.” She whistles. “Joe, you might have to loan him a personality.”
I groan away Heather’s gauche take on theater intrigues.
“Mr. Bender, as you know, I must procure this catalyst before the rain comes. Time is of the essence.” Bert lowers his head and resumes scraping, pauses, “Of the essence.”
Heather flips through my manuscript. “Okay, like, that’s not in the script either. What kind of rehearsal is this?”
Bert looks up quickly. “Mr. Bender, I am warning you.”
Heather bends and laughs in his face.
Bert’s scraping intensifies as the sky’s blacks and grays roil into formation. Storms are not in the forecast.
Heather, “Okay, do I play Bert or do I call the TV stations and expose you creepers as casting-couch wannabes?”
Bert’s ears perk up.
She draws her phone. “You know, Joe, I could have made your play a blockbuster, but you blew it. And, ew, why did I even go out with you? Uck. So far, seventeen is my ickiest year.”
“Bert, help me out here!”
Bert nods almost imperceptibly.
Heather dials, then rips the neck hole of her Reef shirt. “Help! Maniacs! Help!”
Bert unfolds and towers over us, eclipsing the obscured sun. I almost expect him to say something sexist, but as a good lie always resembles the truth, he remains true to his character and produces a red and silver ray gun and zaps Heather with a deep crimson flash, reducing her to a second gooey splotch on the concrete.
“Bert, thou art the man!” I reach for his hand in vain. “How would you like to go to the circus tonight?”
“Impossible, Mr. Bender. I am obliterating the earth tonight.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, how about tomorrow night?”
One of Bert’s huge oval pupils narrows slightly. Lightning streaks behind him. I wait. He reaches into his jacket. He hands me a scraper, and I accept it as one accepts a bit part in global destruction, obliviously but with honor. We genuflect in flashes and booms and start scraping, me on Heather, Bert on my penultimate protégé.
And the rain never comes.

---