Last Man on Earth
Harry Bimmler makes his way along the crowded Seattle sidewalk, a dusty man topped off with a sweat-stained fedora. Although his eyes prowl the avenue, he plows forward as though no one else exists.
On the corner of Pike Street, he bumps an elderly woman waiting for the “walk” light, sending her staggering into the path of an oncoming car. Tires scream, and at the last possible moment, a boy with Jell-O green hair drops his skateboard to pull the old woman back onto the curb.
“What kind of person are you?” she hollers down the street as Harry Bimmler continues on his way.
I sometimes ask myself what kind of person I am. The answer: one who has survived when all others have perished. Why, I do not know.
Harry Bimmler halts in front of a clothing store and studies the mannequins in the display window. I have seen it in a dozen science fiction movies, but who would have guessed it could really happen? All human life on earth has vanished, inexplicably obliterated from existence. Except for me, Harry Bimmler, THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.
The mannequins stare without blinking, somehow youthful and active in their bright, immaculate clothing. Harry amuses himself for a time by mimicking their poses, then chuckles to himself. If I so desired, I could wander the face of this empty planet in a different outfit every day and never have to do a single load of laundry. Harry Bimmler, The Last Snappy Dresser on Earth.
He is just turning away when a hint of motion reflects against the window. Cars streaming past? People strolling the avenue? If only it were true, rather than a mirage in the desert of my existence! He spins around. As usual, the sidewalk remains empty, the streets devoid of motion.
Goddamn ghosts messing with my head again, the bastards!
More than once Harry Bimmler has heard their voices, sensed them swarming the walkway, even felt them jostling him. He has detected their hazy reflections in the windshields of abandoned cars only to find himself more alone than ever. Sometimes it seems as though the late, great human race has conspired to haunt his existence, tormenting him into madness. What has he done to deserve the derision and contempt of these apparitions? I am THE LAST MAN ON EARTH, so who the hell else would there be for them to haunt?
Shaking his head, Harry Bimmler continues down the block. How long has it been since I last saw a living, breathing human being? Days, weeks, months? Death to the human race came silent and swift, without warning. Now, all that stands between mankind and extinction is me, Harry Bimmler. Ironic that as assistant manager of a national fast food chain restaurant, I came to despise people. Now, what I wouldn’t give to receive some sign that I am not alone.
“Hey, dumbshit, get a fucking clue!” screams the driver of a moving van, head thrust out the window as Harry Bimmler crosses the street against the light, eyes studying asphalt as though the answers he seeks are encrypted in patterns of tar and gravel.
Harry Bimmler trudges down Western Avenue, the shops becoming shabbier with each step he takes. Winos throng toward him along littered sidewalks with the same two words on their lips, “spare change.”
Everything, so eerie. Buildings: still standing. Trees: swaying in the breeze. And yet, no sign of human life.
Just before he reaches the alley, a girl with skin the color of a weathered newspaper assumes a sultry pose against the wall of a brick building, coat open to reveal a black bustier overflowing with tattoo-embroidered breasts.
“Hey, Sugar.” Her false eyelashes flutter like twin bats.
The only thing that helps me maintain my sanity is the faith that if I am THE LAST MAN ON EARTH, surely there must be a last woman. But where, oh where can she be?
As he passes, she hurries after him. “How about a little party action, Baby?”
Once I find her…and I will find her…together we shall become the Adam and Eve of the twenty-first century. I know she’s out there somewhere. I can feel it in my loins.
He slows to inspect the vehicles parked along the curb. Which of your many cars would you like to drive today, Mr. Bimmler? The classic Ford Mustang? Or, if its comfort combined with performance that you seek, might I recommend the Legend from Acura? Harry Bimmler, Last Driver on Earth! He laughs aloud. Whatever journey lies ahead must wait, however. Right now, Harry Bimmler, LAST MAN ON EARTH, requires nourishment so he will possess the strength necessary to propagate the species.
He heads up Denny Avenue, and a few blocks later, begins strolling down the air-conditioned aisles of a WGN supermarket. He whistles along with music flowing from the P.A. system: Simon and Garfunkel singing “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.” Harry Bimmler loads his cart with canned goods and what he figures to be the last of the fresh produce to be found anywhere in the solar system.
When I want jewelry or the latest in stereo equipment, they are mine for the taking. And yet, material possessions provide little satisfaction. Food? That’s another matter. It must be the physical sensation of eating that I enjoy. Perhaps the only remaining pleasure for THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.
When he spots a loaded cart parked in the middle of the “gourmet food” aisle, he halts, drawn by an oddly shaped jar. He lifts it from the cart. Hmmm, black whitefish caviar. Black whitefish? What’s that all about?
“Excuse me?” An elderly woman with blue-tinted hair turns to confront him. “I believe those are my groceries.”
Yes, the supermarkets of this once vibrant city are a veritable horn of plenty meant for me and me alone. Harry Bimmler tosses the jar into his cart and continues down the aisle. A guy can work up a mighty big appetite being THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.
His shopping complete, Harry Bimmler pushes his cart out the automatic doors into the parking lot.
Moments later, a clerk wearing a blue apron comes rushing out of the store. “Sir, sir, you’re going to have to pay for those items!”
It’s a funny thing, but you always dream that the time will come when you won’t have to stand in line behind some yo-yo-brain who decides to write a check to purchase a pack of gum. Ironically, for Harry Bimmler that day has arrived in a most unexpected way.
The clerk hesitates for a moment, expecting the absent-minded customer to turn his cart around and return to the store with profuse apologies.
“Why don’t you stop that man?” he asks the security guard standing cross-armed beside the door.
“Who?”
He stabs his finger northward. “The guy pushing the cart loaded with stolen groceries.”
Shading his brows with a hand, the security guard spots the suspect crossing the intersection. “Dude’s outside my jurisdiction. Sounds like a job for Five-0.”
***
The heavy-set jailer escorts his new prisoner down the corridor of the King County Jail, guiding him with a few well-timed shoves and jerks along the way. Harry Bimmler is garbed in the same orange jumpsuit he wore during his preliminary hearing, where he had nothing to say in his defense. The expression on his face does not change as he trudges past cell after cell, oblivious to the hoots and curses and globs of spit with which the other prisoners welcome him.
“How about throwing some of that fresh meat my way, Brosko,” someone hollers to the jailer.
“Fresh meat, fresh meat, fresh meat,” the prisoners chant.
I guess what really keeps me going is my belief in the essential goodness of humanity. For this reason, I am convinced that the Great Whomever will never allow our species to perish. It is only a matter of time before I, Harry Bimmler, THE LAST MAN ON EARTH, am liberated from the prison of my isolated existence.
“Here we go, Slick.” The jailer jerks him to a halt in front of a cell. “We’ll be shipping you out to Western State for psych eval in a couple of days. Till then, this is home sweet home.”
The cell door slides open, revealing a whisker-faced man sitting on the edge of the lower bunk, elbow propped on one knee and chin in hand as he studies the floor.
“Hey, Thinker,” the jailer says in a loud voice meant to get the attention of someone hard of hearing. “Found you the perfect companion.”
The inmate does not even venture a glance as the jailer unlocks Bimmler’s cuffs and shoves him inside. The door grinds shut.
“A match made in Heaven.” The jailer laughs as he disappears down the corridor.
Harry Bimmler remains standing for a time, examining his surroundings. Finally, he hoists himself up to the top bunk and lies down, hands clasped behind his head. It all seems like one gigantic nightmare, one from which I may never awaken. Such is life for Harry Bimmler, THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.
Without removing chin from palm, The Thinker shoots a glance at the bedsprings above him. I don’t know what planet you’re from, Buddy, but I, Bob Hokanson, am THE LAST MAN ON EARTH. My blessing and my curse for so many years, I’ve lost count.
Harry Bimmler blinks once. Then a smirk lifts a corner of his lips as though he is sharing an inside joke with the ceiling. In my world, the true enemy is imagination, the phantasms that spring from the misplaced hope that others might exist on this heartless orb. For Harry Bimmler, THE LAST MAN ON EARTH, the most difficult thing to do is maintain a firm grip on the reality of my situation.
Bob Hokanson continues to stare downward, as though dispassionately monitoring Dante’s journey through the nine circles of Hell rather than a cockroach trundling across the stained, concrete floor. What I wouldn’t give to converse with an actual human being, but alas, it is only during moments of reverie that I find the sort of conflict and companionship that I dimly recall from the days before my species inexplicably vanished and I, Bob Hokanson, became THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.
Harry Bimmler remains focused on the ceiling. Sorry, Buck-O, but I and I alone am THE LAST MAN ON EARTH. Which means that you are merely a figment of my imagination.
No-no-no, it is you that are the figment.
No way, Jose’.
Yes, way. Listen, when my father died, he left me the business. Which was handed down to him by my grandfather. A proud family tradition since 1906. So, if you think I’m going to let some fly-by-nighter horn in on my gig, you got another think coming. There can only be one LAST MAN ON EARTH, and the Fates have selected me, Bob Hokanson.
Au contraire. Such is the destiny of Harry Bimmler, THE LAST MAN ON EARTH.
Are not.
Am too.
Not, not, not, not, not, not… Am, am, am, am, am, am…