Johnny whistled. “It just goes on forever,” he said, squinting his eyes to get a better look past the twisted iron railing. He stood on a cobblestone street with just a lamp to guide his eyes beyond. It was an abyss of black. Even though the whole place was dimly lit, Johnny was sure that flashing a light out in the distance wouldn’t change what he saw. “Whatever it is.”
“It’s nothing,” hummed the old man at the streetlight.
Johnny turned around with a start; he thought the geezer had been asleep. “How’s that?” he said.
“It’s nothing that goes on forever,” repeated the old man. Even though he was underneath the light, Johnny had a tough time getting a clear picture of the man. He was hunched over his cane, dressed all in black, and sporting a bowler hat that covered his eyes.
“This is the end,” the old man continued.
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
Johnny blinked.
“I suppose its proper name is The End of Time, but without time, you can’t properly have anything else, now, can you?”
Johnny stepped away from the gate, unsure of what would happen were he to try to climb it and hop over into the black stillness below. He wondered if anyone tried. He knew he didn’t want to.
“So, what am I, dead?” demanded Johnny.
“Hardly,” said the old man. “You are just here.”
Johnny looked down at his feet. He wondered why, out of all the pieces of the earth—no, the universe—to be preserved at the end of time and all things, it had to be this uneven cobblestone street corner that made his feet ache to stand on for too long.
“So I’m just really, really far into the future, huh?” Johnny mused.
“Effectively,” said the old man. He pulled out a wrapper that undeniably housed a Werther’s or similarly hard candy and began to tear at it with his wrinkled fingers.
“If that’s the case,” said Johnny, “can you tell me how it all turns out?”
The old man popped the hard candy into his mouth and gestured around him.
Johnny groaned. “Well obviously,” he said. “I’m talking about specific things. The Packers game I bet on. My kids, if I have em. If that coyote ever catches the bird.”
“I’m sure those things either happened or didn’t happen,” said the old man. “But needless to say, your conception of a throughline is quite shortsighted.” His voice changed, his words a little clumsy now that there was something in his mouth preventing him from sounding them out all the way.
“Well excuse the fuck outta me,” grumbled Johnny.
“Whether or not you won a bet or had kids, whether or not a four-legged creature catches a bird is only the beginning of the story,” began the old man. “Men in my line of work would argue that what’s more interesting is what happens after those events take place. Tiny little pieces of the puzzle eventually add up, working together to create the eventuality we are witnessing right now. The end of the story—the end of every story—is here, in this moment, at The End of Time.”
“Well, geez,” said Johnny, scratching at the small patch of hair on the back of his head. “That sure is a lot of pressure. If we’re the only ones here, does that mean we gotta end it?”
“I suppose,” said the old man. “I’ve never been very interested in doing so.” He let out a yawn.
“You don’t have any ideas?”
“When I’m lacking in inspiration,” said the old man, leaning his back into the streetlight, “I find a good, hard look at what lies beyond to be rather enlightening.”
Johnny turned his attention back to the iron railing. He let the wonder at the nothingness beyond guide his steps toward back towards it, and when he was close enough he let his hands rest on the cool iron. He gazed out at it for a very, very long time, until he was sure he could hear the snores of the old man behind him.
Johnny whistled. “It just goes on forever.”
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