Man’s Laughter
Beijing, China
2022, Senior, Creative Writing
“Name?”
“Erm.” I tell him my name.
“Species?”
“Human, I… think?”
“Right.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and peers at me; I wonder what the holdup is. “Sorry, I don’t think you’re authorized to board this spacecraft.”
“What?”
It is the end of the world, and I cannot simply believe what I am hearing.
My elderly mother is behind me—64 this year, with chronic back pain and fading eyesight—and the end of the world is but an hour and a half away. I stand in rapt attention, hauling our luggage behind me, at the very front of a very long line that I’ve barely gotten through.
But what is this that I’m hearing? I’m not authorized?
“I think there’s been a mistake in your paperwork,” I say, glancing at my watch. “Uhm, could you check again…?”
“I’m sorry.” He smiles apologetically. “I don’t think you’re authorized. I passed through a few others of your species back then, and none of them were.”
“But,” I say, flourishing my hand towards my mother, “I’m a little tense here. Please, check again?”
The angel at the boarding checkpoint tilts his head. My determined gaze must have gotten to him, because he just sighs and leans down to grab a heavy stack of papers. “Alright, then. Give me a second.”
It is the end of the world. All of it has happened as the Bible said it would—trumpets, songs, judgement day—but what God hadn’t told us about was the second Noah’s Ark, led by the angels to save our species. In the form of a giant spacecraft, it’s a little strange… but if it saves our lives, I’ll make do.
As I look through the sea of different species that crowd the area, the angel raps his knuckles on the table for my attention.
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “No humans here, I’m afraid. Homo Sapiens, right?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“Well, the closest thing we have here is Hominidae.” At my puzzled expression: “Ah. An ape.”
Apes are allowed on board, but we aren’t? This confuses me to no extent and makes me a little angry as well. These guys are so-called angels, yet they’re blocking my path like there’s nothing better to do.
“That—that’s got to be a mistake,” I claim, putting on my best secretary smile. “We… we’re God’s chosen people, right? How can we not be allowed on board? I thought this whole thing was for us!”
“Hm. That’s the first Ark. People do get confused.”
I blink. “I don’t—look, dude.”
“Well, isn’t that a bit rude?” The angel folds his glasses and sets them down on the table next to him, leaning against it in a… well, un-angelic manner. The confusion kicks up a notch as he gives me his best stern look. “I have a name, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Mister. Look, whether it’s Gabriel or Raphael or something like that, I’m really sorry.”
“That’s very rude of you indeed.” He scoffs. “Gabriel? There’s only one Gabriel here. He’s the Executive Director, and you should refer to him as Mister Gabriel.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” I say. Time is really running out, and I should get going. “But for the flight… I really…”
I couldn’t care less, I want to scream. I just want to be saved!
The angel is slow, obnoxious, and absolutely the worst: like my English teacher in fifth grade. Half-deaf and asking me to repeat everything I say. And about this Gabriel, it’s not like I’ve read the Bible. I don’t care what his name is, as long as I can get on board that ship.
“Well, thank you very much.” The angel bites back, sifting through his paperwork. “My name is Bob. You can call me Mister Bob.”
“Mister Bob,” I repeat, and bite back a cuss word. My watch ticks on my wrist. “Look, Mister Bob. I’m really sorry for being rude, and I’m not sure what’s the flaw with your paperwork, but I need to get on board. My mother isn’t the healthiest person in the world, and I’ve been driving since six in the morning to get here.”
“There’s no mistake in the paperwork, you see.” He snaps the folder shut. “As far as I can tell, you’re the one making the mistake.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Given your past felonies, I’m afraid getting onto the ship is nearly impossible.” The angel—Bob—holds up his fingers and folds them, one by one. “Booted out of the Garden of Eden for not listening to God… destroying this… destroying that… you’re a real killer, you.” He shakes his head. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“What?” This is incredulous; I’ve never hurt a fly in my life, and he’s calling me a killer? “Hey, wait—you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? I just told you my mother’s sick! Aren’t you supposed to be angels?”
“We’re supposed to provide fair judgement.” He waves me away. “Next. That’s a long line… we might have to postpone doomsday by a few hours.”
“What the fuck is up with you?” I nearly shout. “Look, what’s the holdup?”
Behind me, I hear muttering; a dumb animal gazes back at me, and I have half a mind to strangle that stupid thing just to live up to whatever this angel’s saying.
“You’re a human,” he says, as though that’s self-explanatory. “Of course, you can’t be allowed in here. Japanese sea-lion… Labrador duck … Mako sharks… you do realize at least 15 ocean species have been wiped out since you started industrializing this place, right? You’ve raised temperatures here by degrees. Half the animals here are climate refugees.”
“But—”
“God’s chosen? Don’t be daft. I haven’t seen a Chosen that deadly. The Galapagos tortoise used to be so fun to be around, and look what you’ve done, hm?”
“Wait—listen!” I say, raising my voice in hopes that he’ll just pause. “That’s not me! Those are my ancestors, and the animal hunters, or whatever! I’ve never laid my hands on a… whatever tiger, okay?”
“You say that while you’re wearing leather shoes?” He snorts. “Give me a break. I bet you drove a car here.”
I glance down at my shoes—polished leather—then back at him. He’s right.
“That’s different! They’re not hurting anyone,” I kick my shoes, frustrated. “These are just shoes!”
“Yeah, just animal skins you bought with your own money.”
“Look, it’s not the same,” I complain weakly. “I didn’t support them, or anything…”
“You didn’t stop them. And that’s as good as supporting.” He waves me aside again; the murmurs behind me grow larger, but I ignore them anyway. “You know manslaughter is a crime?”
I feel mute. What else can I say?
My mother is wordless behind me, but when I look back, she’s sitting on the suitcase quietly. She doesn’t seem to argue—or want to argue, for that matter—with the angel’s words.
“Just—” I choke back. “Just let us in, just once, okay? Please? Just help us. Turn a blind eye, just once. I swear, I’ll do anything.”
He is silent. I think, for a moment, my pleas have gotten to him; when I look up, however, he is smiling with an irony that scares me.
“You know,” he hums, “that’s exactly what the animals you killed said.
And you never gave them a chance.”
Reflection
Reflection
Humanity gets the last laugh. Always. You must understand, however, that when I say "the last laugh," I do not mean that humanity should actually find this funny. This is my best attempt to make you laugh, but it doesn't mean this is particularly delightful to read. In fact, I hope, as the dialogue reaches its end, many people shudder at the accuracy of which I have portrayed many people. Still, I hope I can make you laugh, because if you laugh at least a little, it means you have paid attention to this. And of course, some people may not find it funny. Some people may not laugh. Because that is indeed the whole point of this: that climate change isn't funny. Climate change isn't a joke, neither is it not happening, and it's not something that will go away if we act passively and pretend we knew nothing. Climate change is happening, right now. This story was a quick attempt at lighthearted, youth humour. It is a modern twist on what would actually be the demise of humanity. But I gave the main character no name and addressed them by the first person for a reason—because all of you are directly involved in this punchline, and unless we do something, it may just as well be your last laugh.