An Inappropriate Reaction to the Apocalypse
an excerpt

Meanwhile, at exactly seven sixteen a.m., a streak of sunlight fell over the ragged, sun-bleached face- such as it was beneath a carpet of thick, greasy, knotted black hair and beard- of a vagabond sleeping on a doorstep. Clothed in a filthy array of abandoned scarves, towels and, by appearance, tents, he stirred in the new light of the day. A passing business man regarded the pile of reeking scraps and the wretch they covered with obvious disgust. Raising himself up to a sitting position, the vagabond began unraveling his rags, peeling off the dirty washcloths and other garbage to reveal an expensive black suit and tie.
He plucked the last cloth from his shoulder and used it to shine his sleek black shoes. The suit stank of sweat and sleep, and it bore the wrinkles and dirt of many days’ wear, but its original quality remained apparent. A comb stuck out of the breast pocket; still blinking against the sun, he pulled this out and tamed his oily locks. The hair and beard seemed to be competing against one another for volume, with the beard proving victorious. It ate his mouth whole, leaving little more than a black strip of a lip visible if scrutinized, and next engorged itself on his chin, cheeks and neck. There sat on the stoop that morning more beard than man.
Smoothing his shirt quite uselessly, he took up the guitar case that lay hidden beneath rags beside him and moved from the temporary bed onto the street. He wouldn’t stay on this street now he’d made a home of it, even for a night; he would move on to a new corner, a new broken stoop, a new audience of passers-by.
Leo Fodor had a message.
He walked barefoot on the sidewalk curb, shouldering his guitar. Few could tell, but he was offering his fellow pedestrians a morning smile. Those who could somehow make out his expressional intention found it either eerie or insufficient to atone for his overwhelming stench.
He would deliver the message unto the people.
The sidewalk traffic already began to pick up when he reached a suitable street corner. It swelled steadily as he settled against a federal mailbox and tuned his guitar. The smallest fragments of words fell from his mouth, seemingly out of his beard as if caught there in previous performances and freed only now as he prepared to resume his life’s mission. Hardly anyone seemed to notice him. Almost imperceptibly, the thin plucking of the strings grew into a timid tune, and then a fully realized melody. He flashed a rotting grin at the risen sun and drew in a deep breath.
“Well, Iiiiiiiiiiii knooooooooow,” he crooned, ceasing his work on the guitar in a pause meant to allow his audience time for a bit of awe at his truly angelic voice. Heads had indeed been turned by the beginning song; Leo’s sweet yet powerful voice contradicted his appearance in a dramatic effect of irony.
And he would speak the truth among the masses.
“I know,” he repeated, bringing back the melody with his dirt-caked fingers.
“I know we don’t like to say it, I know we like to do deny… there are people in the world out there who just- ought- to die,” Leo sang, bobbing his beard. More heads and smiles turned in bemusement.
“Now, I know… even if you think it’s wrong, there’s someone out there you won’t miss when they- are- gone.
“Well, I have good news for you- the world we know is ending soon, you’ll have to die yourself, it’s true, but everyone you ever hated will be dying too.”
Leo played out a refrain before repeating the last line, and then the song was over, the truth was spoken, the people were divided between amusement, annoyance, and apathy. To date, a total of three listeners had heeded his apocalyptic warning. He had a considerable repertoire of songs designed to break the news of the world’s imminent destruction in a gentle and optimistic way. He would walk the streets day in and day out delivering his message.
Finished with his traditional opener, “Everyone You Hate is Dying”, Leo moved on to his personal favorite: “It’s Okay to Get Fat Now”. He occasionally received money for his efforts, proving wealth to be a relative matter by considering himself a rich man.
Five years ago he had been a cutthroat corporate man, a clean, fit, promising youth from a respectable family who was poised for fast promotion at his office. You could not have told then that he even had curly hair. Now and again a former coworker passed him on the street, and if they recognized him they showed no sign of it. When one day he began talking about the end of the world, his family had tried to institutionalize him- successfully for a time. Leo escaped. It was this episode that made him realize his purpose after a year of doubt and despair: to warn people. He did not worry about his family finding him again; they lived in Vermont, he in New York City. If nothing else, his facial hair would hide him.