current

8 Minutes

by Caleb Jordan Schulz

“Do you think she’s dead?” asked Beto.

Chico, a small, olive-skinned man with dark hair, glanced at him. Beto stared out from behind his thick, heavy glasses at a table by the door. Rosa lay face down on the table, eyes closed. Her gray hair spilled over the edge like withered ivy.

“The witch?”

“Si.”

“Maybe.”

Carlos, a wide man with deep smile-lines seated opposite Beto, snorted. “The bruja’s drunk.”

The men chuckled.

Chico picked up the luke-warm bottle of Cusquena and upended it over Beto’s short glass. “We need another beer.”

Beto checked his glass. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe, maybe, but I only have half a glass.”

“We’ll get another when Isabella comes back.”

Chico glanced behind him, but the bartender, Isabella, was nowhere to be seen. He frowned and turned back, facing the street. His eyes fell on the witch again.

“It’s early for her to be so drunk,” Chico said.

“It’s noon. Not so early,” said Carlos, standing up and walking to the bathroom.

Chico glanced outside. The sun blasted down intense yellow light, contrasting the deep blue Peruvian sky. He looked back at Rosa. “You think she prophesied getting drunk?”

Beto laughed.

Rosa was known throughout Surco as a witch, or bruja—someone who, for a small fee, could read your palm, cleanse your spirit, or curse your enemy. She was also a borracha—a drunk. Chico looked her over. He didn’t know what bleakness clawed at her mind, but he had rarely seen her sober.

Chico took a sip of his beer when Rosa’s head jerked up off the table. Her eyes were wide open and blazed with intensity.

“Muerte!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “Muerte!”

Beto and Chico shrank back from her.

“Death is here. I have seen it! The sun has died and we shall follow.”

Chico recovered first. “Rosa, look there. The sun is still there, high in the sky. Tranquila.”

“No!” She waved her hand. “You have eight minutes. I have seen it. The sun has died and this world ends in eight minutes.”

“What can I do with eight minutes?” asked Chico. “Come, Rosa, give us a half hour at least. I could find my little Mara and make good use of the time.”

“You joke, but the end has come.”

“Well, not for another few minutes according to you.”

“Make your peace. May God have mercy on you!”

Rosa rushed from the bar, arms flailing. Beto sipped his beer and glanced at his watch. Chico watched Rosa run down the street, stopping to tell everyone of her disastrous news. His view was obstructed as Carlos stepped to the edge of the bar, watching Rosa run.

Carlos’s gray hair was mussed. “You spill some beer on Rosa and wake her up?”

Chico smirked. “Rosa says the world’s ending.”

Carlos looked down the street at the retreating Rosa. His eyes narrowed. “When?”

Chico glanced at Beto.

“Seven and a half minutes,” said Beto.

“I have to catch a bus,” said Carlos.

“Which one?” asked Chico.

“Number nineteen.”

“If the world’s ending, you’ll never make it home in time.”

Carlos laughed. “I told Jacquelyn I’d be home by noon.”

“It’s twelve-twenty.”

“She knows I’m always late.”

Chico shrugged. Beto studied the street.

“I mean, if the world’s ending, I should be with my family, no?” said Carlos with a wink.

“Of course,” said Chico. “Better hurry then.”

“If Rosa’s right, then this is it. We’ll not meet again.”

“So give me that twenty soles you owe me.”

Carlos stepped to the sidewalk and smiled. “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow. Ciao.”

Beto chuckled. “At least we won’t die on a collectivo, like him.”

One of the squat collectivo buses roared past, black exhaust spewing from its tailpipe, passengers packed onto it so tight that some rode only halfway inside.

“That’d be a bad way to go.”

“So, you believe her?” asked Beto.

“That’s one chica loca.”

“She predicted that your dog would turn on you.”

Chico took a swig of his beer. “Perro el Diablo.”

“Just because it bit your foot doesn’t mean it’s the devil,” said Beto. “But she was right.”

“It wasn’t your foot. The world ends in how many minutes?”

Beto glanced at his watch. “Six and a half minutes, now.”

“What time is the futbol match on?”

“Twelve-thirty.”

Chico frowned. “Club Alianza would’ve won anyway.”

“True. San Martín de Porres are not very good.”

“No.”

“Perhaps for San Martín the world has already ended.”

They both laughed.

“I think we should celebrate,” said Chico.

“Should we?”

“The world doesn’t end every day.”

“True.”

Chico looked over the bar, but it was still empty. “Isabella!”

“Si?” The face of a middle-aged woman peeked from the back room.

“The world’s ending.”

“Perfecto. I’m tired.” She disappeared behind the wall.

“No, no. Really. Isabella, we need some drinks.”

“Por que? If the world is ending?”

“It’s not for another six minutes.”

“So you’ll have me work for the last six minutes of my life.”

“Por favor, Isabella.”

They heard a long sigh and Isabella walked out of the backroom and behind the counter. Long black hair, tied into two braids, framed her pleasant face.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Two Pisco sours.”

“How much time did you say before the world ends?”

“Beto?”

Beto looked at his watch. “Five and a half minutes.”

Isabella shook her head. “There’s not enough time.”

“Come now, bella. Surely there is time for two simple drinks.”

“Pisco sours are not simple. Besides, I have no eggs.”

“Okay then, two regular Piscos and one grande Cusquena.”

She eyed him up, doubtfully. “You got fifteen soles?”

“Put it on my tab.”

“Leave it to you to start a tab with the world ending.”

Chico smiled wide. “I think I should buy you a Pisco, too.”

“You’re impossible.”

Isabella grabbed a large bottle of Cusquena, popped off the cap, and set it between their glasses. She reached up and took a bottle from the top shelf. Its golden label shone, despite the dust. She unstopped it, filled three shot glasses and slid one to Beto and the other to Chico.

They picked up the shots.

“Viva Peru!” said Chico.

“Viva, my work day ending early,” smirked Isabella.

“Salute,” said Beto.

They drank and set the glasses to the side. Isabella returned to the backroom.

Beto poured a couple inches of beer in each of their glasses. “So, the sun has died.”

“Wouldn’t it be dark?”

“Probably.”

“Maybe Rosa was wrong.”

Beto shrugged.

“What could make the world end?”

“Rosa said the sun.”

“Si, but I think different.” Chico held up a finger. “I think it is a bomb.”

“One big bomb?”

“Maybe. Or maybe many small ones.” Chico nodded to himself. “Si, I think Lima has been hit by a bomb.”

“Who would attack Peru?”

“Chileans don’t like us.”

“But would they attack everyone in the world?”

Chico paused. “No. Chile doesn’t have that many bombs.”

“Besides, if Lima were bombed, we’d know. We’d see smoke.”

“Maybe the bomb goes off in … how many minutes?”

“Four.”

“Si, in four minutes—the bombs explode.”

“What does that have to do with the sun?”

“I don’t know. Rosa is loco. Maybe she got it wrong.”

“We’ll know in less than four minutes.”

A rickety collectivo sped by, its roaring engine muting any other sound. A young couple strode past, arms entwined.

“You think they’d like to know the world is ending?” asked Beto.

“They wouldn’t believe us.”

“We could tell them about your dog.”

“Leave the dog alone …”

Beto chuckled.

“Damn!” Chico suddenly cursed.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t have paid my rent this morning.”

“Bad timing.”

“Si.”

“What could you have done with the money anyway? You wouldn’t have known the world was going to end today. You’d just have a pocketful of soles and three minutes to spend them.”

Chico barked a laugh. “True. Think there’s enough time to get Isabella to make us some fried tequenos?”

“No.” Beto gulped more of his beer. “Though I wish we had thought of that right away. I’m hungry.”

“Isabella!” called Chico.

“Si?”

“Can we get some food?”

“How much time do we have?”

Beto checked. “Just under three minutes.”

“No food.”

“Isabella, por favor.”

Her face appeared around the doorway. “I can’t make anything in less than three minutes.”

“What about chips?” Chico pointed at the bags of chips hanging behind the bar.

Isabella walked over and set two bags next to them. “Your tab again?”

“Of course.”

Chico and Beto munched on the chips watching the street traffic.

“So in two and a half minutes, what do you think happens?” asked Chico.

Beto shrugged. “Maybe we go to heaven.”

“I think we start over.”

“What?”

“La vida begins again. You know, like waking up for the first time.”

“There’s a name for that.”

“Si? What?”

“I don’t remember. But there’s a name for it.”

Chico chomped on a few more chips. “Time?”

“A minute and a half.”

“Perhaps we should have another Pisco.”

“If the world doesn’t end, we’re going to be drunk.”

“Si. Isabella—three more Piscos, por favor.”

“Your tab is full.”

“In a minute and a half, it won’t matter.”

She scowled at Chico, but then poured three more shots. They each took one.

Chico looked at Beto. “Time?”

“Fifty four seconds.”

Chico raised his glass. “To waking up in a better place when this is all over.”

Isabella raised her glass. “To not working twelve hours a day.”

Beto raised his glass, thought for a moment, and then said, “To Rosa being wrong.”

“Salute,” they said, together, draining their glasses.

They set the glasses on the counter and turned toward the street. Beto glanced at his watch. Twelve seconds remained. Under trees along the street, the shadows twitched and flickered, as if frightened of the moments ahead.

And then everything went black. Isabella screamed. Tires squealed. The sounds of metal crunching into metal echoed from the street. Sirens and horns blasted. More screams. Explosions.

Amid the deafening noise, Beto and Chico sat still. Neither knew quite what to say or do. Chico blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again.

“Look,” he said.

Faint red light glowed from the beer sign on the wall. As their eyes adjusted to the low light, they searched further. The ceiling fan still spun. The beer cooler hummed. And when they turned it on, the TV came to life.

Isabella switched on a lamp above the bar.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “How could everything still work?”

Beto stepped to the door and looked out. Beyond the chaos of ruined cars and mangled telephone lines, lights were blinking on, spreading out across the city like a host of fireflies. Beto looked up. The stars shone brighter than he had ever seen before.

He returned to his stool and drank some of his beer. “Stars outside.”

“Stars?” asked Chico. “But it’s just past noon.”

“Then it must be true. We wouldn’t be able to see stars if the sun was out. The sun has died.”

“With no sun, shouldn’t it be cold?”

“It’ll probably get colder.”

Chico shrugged. “That’s what sweaters are for.”

“You’re very optimistic.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“With no sun, the plants will die. Without the plants, where will we get our food?”

“Don’t mushrooms grow at night?”

“You’d have to eat a lot of mushrooms to survive.”

“Maybe, but we have survived. Humans will figure out even more in the future. We’re smart. We conquered the planet. We can conquer the darkness too.”

Beto smiled. “I hope you’re right.”

Chico’s face brightened. “Of course I am. And—if the electricity still works, then we can get some tequenos.” He looked at Isabella. “Por favor?”

Isabella scowled. “If there’s electricity, then the world’s not ending. Not yet. Which means you still have to pay your tab.”

“I will. I promise. But it is time for celebration. We are alive! We have lived past the dying of the sun. Maybe we will have no light and maybe it will get cold, but we survived. We need food and drink for this.”

Isabella rolled her eyes. “Even after the sun has died, I have to work.”

She stood, poured each of them a shot of Pisco, and retreated to the kitchen. Chico grinned and picked up one glass. Beto picked up the other.

“I guess we should have believed Rosa,” said Chico.

“Well … she was right about your dog …”

Caleb Jordan Schulz received his B.A. in English and published in journals such as Xpressions, Writer's Cramp, and Hey, Listen!.  He's spent the last 3 years living between the U.S. and South America.