Mike lives in a small blue stucco house with Mediterranean flourishes and a huge garage close to the Intracoastal Waterway. His yard was cluttered with a rusted bike, warped water skis, a jumble of diving equipment, and assorted parts from boats and cars, including at least 20 hubcaps of various sorts. But the rest of the place, including the grounds, was well kept. “I do all the work myself,” he said as a form of greeting. He was dressed in camouflage shorts; black T-shirt; scuffed boots without laces; and, I noticed since the last time I saw him, had had his hair cut to resemble Rob’s Marine-style buzz-cut.
“You’re looking buff and ready for action,” I said with a nervous laugh, not prepared for how transformed he looked.
He ignored my comment but with a welcoming smile in his usual friendly way said, “Take a look around, there’s lots to see.” And there was. All sorts of gardening equipment, fertilizers, weed killers, insecticides, and mounds of coiled garden hoses. At least a dozen of them set out at ten-foot intervals surrounding the cottage, all connected to an improvised series of linked water faucets.
“Those are in case the place catches fire,” he said, noticing my curiosity about all the hoses. “I don’t trust those 911 folks in case of an emergency. I’m prepared for everything. See, I even have three gas-driven electric generators and enough fuel in that tank over there to keep these suckers running for a least a month. But come, let me show you what I got inside.”
He withdrew a small remote control device from his pocket, pointed it toward the two-car garage, pressed a button, and both doors began their slow, simultaneous ascent.
“Don’t be shy.” He sensed my hesitation and took hold of my arm as he did the other day when we were having coffee, “Here follow me.” Which I proceeded to do.
“Over there in the corner. See that?” He pointed to the back of the garage where it abutted the house. “That’s where I got my water. Need lots of that. Last time I counted I had more then 250 gallons. That’ll take me a far distance. Quite a few months. They all say water will be the most important thing to have when things hit the proverbial fan.”
And as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed there were no lights in the garage—maybe, I thought, to conserve his use of power when it hits that fan. But I soon could see what looked like a mountain of gallon-sized water jugs. “That’s quite a stash,” I said. “Like you said, enough for a long time. And kept in those jugs it should last forever if you need it to.”
“Like I told you the other day, things will start happening around here sooner than you think. I don’t expect too much dust to collect on them or my other stuff over there. They’ll be put to use before you know it.”
Lining both sides of the garage, rather than the usual tools and suitcases and other assorted stuff folks in Florida store in their garages since houses do not have basements, Mike had arrayed his dozens of 55-gallon drums. So many were packed into the garage that there was only a narrow aisle separating them.
“I’ve been putting these in over some time as you might imagine. Got the drums army surplus. Didn’t cost all that much. But you’d be surprised how much things such as dried beans will set you back these days.” He slapped his hand on the top of one and it gave back a deep sound. “Filled right to the top, as you can hear. This one with pintos. Lots of good protein in those babies. But, as I said, I’ve had to take my time filling 'em up. Didn’t have the spare money to do it all at once. Thankfully there are those Costcos down here. Big box places, where I can get a good price for my staples.”
“This is really something, Mike. Very impressive,” I said with sincerity since in its own way it was. Not that I agreed with what he was saying about the future, but one had to admire his seriousness and tenacity. “What’s that? Over there?” There was a stack of about a dozen large cartons.”
“Oh, I forgot to mention them. My flashlights. Got fifty of those. Big ones. Like the cops use. Plus about 1,000 D-type batteries. Can’t have too many of them.”
“Amazing. Truly amazing. I do have to hand it to you. You really are ready.”
He smiled at me, happy to have my affirmation. “For just about anything. But come on, come inside. It’s hot out here. Nothing much to see in the house, not of this sort, but we can have a cold drink. Just water or juices. I don’t have anything hard around anymore. I’m in the process of trying to purify myself. Part of the preparation.”
“Water would be fine for me,” I said, “I’m parched and could use some. Thanks.”
I sat at a small Formica table in the kitchen while he retrieved a water jug from the refrigerator. Like the ones stashed in the garage. He poured me a large glass, which in one gulp I half emptied.
“So tell me, Mike,” I asked as he slid into his seat, “how did this all begin for you? The Rapture, I mean.”
“The short version is that when my wife walked out on me, Judy, that was what about three years ago, I was totally lost. My whole life was devoted to her. To our life together. We had no kids, she couldn’t conceive they told us, but we had each other. And I thought things were working pretty well. But then one day I came home from my grocery route and she was all packed up, sitting right here where you’re squatting,” I squirmed in my seat, “That’s OK,” he said, noticing my discomfort, “I’m well over what happened. I had been blind, so to speak. I didn’t notice how unhappy she had become. And I didn’t know up to then about what had been going on with her and Herbie, who lived right over there. Across the street. Right under my nose. I’m sure you know about these sorts of things. Not from personal experience I hope. Well, I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry to hear this, Mike.” This time I reached over to touch his arm.
“I appreciate that but no need to feel bad for me. It was like my eyes all of a sudden were opened. To what was going on between us—rather than what was
not going on—and a lot of other things. But to get to your question, about the bigger stuff, I got to the truth from adversity. That’s how I found my way to the Final Days. And with the help of another neighbor. Janet is her name. Now, don’t be suspecting anything like that. It’s been pure Platonic from the git. And most important, spiritual. She brought me to this awareness. This knowledge. Simple as that.”
“If I may ask,” I continued to probe, “and you can tell me, ‘None of your business,’ why this and not something else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a more conventional form of belief. Or some new interests. Or looking for another relationship. This is pretty all-encompassing, isn’t it?”
“Fair question, which deserves an honest answer. I was so burned by what Judy did, fairer, by what happened, that none of those kinds of things would have rescued me. I needed something bigger.
Much bigger,” he extended his arms to their full breadth. “And, since I’m being totally honest with you, I was so uncertain about life, about what it means and where it’s headed, I was so riddled with worries, that I needed something that offered the answers I desperately needed.”
He paused to take a series of deep breaths, “And like I said, to deal with the anxiety and, yes, the fears and terrors. About what will become of me, what it all means. In fact, does it mean anything? I was asking myself questions like that. I felt I had lost so much that I needed to have something big enough to totally fill up that empty space. And then some.” He remained quiet again to allow that to sink in.
“It’s really the
then some that I was focusing on,” he continued, “I wanted, needed something bigger than life itself to provide answers and meaning to me. I may not look it, but I’m that kind of guy.” He was smiling broadly as he said that.
“Since you’ve been so open and honest with me, Mike, let me try to respond in kind. OK?” He nodded, still grinning. “About this we totally disagree,” I avoided eye contact as I said that, “I don’t believe anything of this sort and from what I’ve read a lot of the theology behind these beliefs is not that sound. It doesn’t bear up under close scrutiny.” He moved as if to interrupt me.
“Wait, wait, let me finish. But, having said that, I totally agree about the importance of attempting to live a life of meaning,” he backed off and resumed his nodding, “but for me it’s of a different sort, which we can talk about at another time if you’d like.” He indicated that he would like that.
“But I have profound respect for the issues you are struggling with and, though I don’t agree with the conclusions you’ve come to, I have great admiration for your searching and for what you’ve found. Even that. What you’ve found. I respect it while remaining skeptical. In fact, I am hoping you’re dead wrong, no pun intended,” I tried a smile of my own, “and thus will not soon be taken away, Raptured as you would put it, so we can continue these discussions for many more years.”
With that we exchanged high fives, embraced, and I left him standing in the driveway, waving at me as I could see in my rearview mirror, surrounded by his survival gear.
Ex-Marine and former stealth operative, Rob and I continued to meet for coffee and he kept me filled in about his views of the deteriorating state of the world’s economy and up to date about the increasing pace at which he was acquiring and stashing Krugerrands. But after my visit with Mike, he was nowhere to be seen. It seemed to me more than coincidental that he had shown me his place, we had had our discussion, and then he stopped coming by for breakfast. But how could there in fact be any relationship, I wondered, between these events? We had parted on very good and affectionate terms.
Rob and I asked around, but no one reported seeing him. Not Richard who owned the newsstand nor Bruce who had a nearby clothing store. Places where Mike liked to hang out and chat. Very unusual. Very unlike him.
So I began to call him and email, thinking, since he lives alone, he might have been taken ill and was too under the weather to come out and might even need some help. Lots of flu and virulent bronchitis was going around.
But my calls went unanswered and he did not respond to the emails. We began to worry. Maybe . . .? But we cut those thoughts short as too upsetting and so Rob and I decided to drive over to his house after coffee to see what we could see.
Everything I had noticed the week before was as it had been it—the car parts, the bike, the gardening equipment, the stacks of coiled hoses. His boat was still on its trailer and parked under the open carport. But there was a stillness about the place that felt very different than when I had been there. Nothing stirred, not the air, not a leaf, not a blade of grass.
I said, “Let’s go ring his bell. Maybe he’s inside. In bed.”
Rob strode up the gravel path and began pounding on the door. “Gentler,” I said, “We don’t want to give him a heart attack.” Ignoring me, as if annoyed by the lack of response, Rob continued to pound on the door while at the same time, with his other hand, he repeatedly punched at the doorbell. I could hear its sharp sound ricocheting off the tiled floors and throughout the house.
“That will wake the dead,” Rob said. “Which of course he could be from the look of things.”
“Don’t even think that,” I said, “There’s no way that could have happened to him.”
“But that’s all he ever talked about. Dying. And of course being reborn and living forever after whatever it is he said was about to happen.”
“The Rapture,” I said softly as if to myself.
“Yeah, that. Maybe that’s what happened to him. The
Rupture.”
“
Rapture,” I corrected him, “When they take you up to heaven. Not ‘they’ but God. At least that’s what he believed.” I caught myself using the past tense.
Rob dismissed that with a sweep of the back of his hand. He continued to hammer on the door.
“Let’s go around back,” I said. And I thought, as skeptical as I am about these matters, maybe we’ll see some sign of what might have become of Mike. Perhaps even that little pile of clothes he always talked about, with his watch and glasses neatly placed on top.
What was I thinking? I’ve been spending too much time with folks such as Mike. But, as he had challenged me, I needed to keep an open mind, didn’t I? Including about something that to me seemed so preposterous. All right, I corrected myself, not preposterous but seemed very, very unlikely.
“You look in the windows,” I suggested to Rob, “And I’ll look around the grounds. Let’s see if we can find any signs of him.” Even his clothes I admitted to myself. I was that concerned and worried that it was distorting my thinking.
There I was using some of his eschatological language and images—
signs of having been Raptured. Piles of clothes. But mainly I looked for different kind of signs. Not with a capital S, as he would have put it.
Nonetheless, I scoured the grounds looking for any kind of signs. Even those in which I did not believe. About these matters, one can never be certain.
As it turned out there were no signs of him then or thereafter. Not inside the house or outside. And never again did we see Mike at breakfast.
From what Rob was able to learn from one of his local banking friends, there was a simple, if sad, very-Florida explanation—Mike’s house had an underwater mortgage that he could no longer carry. He had simply slipped away from his house one night, leaving it in effect to the bank.
