A Rather Appropriate Decimation
Inspired by “The Keepers” by Santigold
By Peter Szaraz
Now little Johnny Keeper was playing in the attic that tragic evening, rummaging through boxes that hadn’t been touched in quite a long while. He had found tons of papers and other sorts of junk, which he threw around because they were useless. But more importantly, he had his new Hot Wheels cars that he rolled across the dusty floor and over the piles of cardboard cubes as if they were mountains, when something caught his attention.
The strangest light fixture stood in the center of the attic and Johnny wanted to take a closer look. You could say that it resembled a chandelier, but it looked cheaper. Though the design of the light was painted in a metallic fashion, little Johnny mistook it for gold. The fake crystals hanging from this object swayed softly from a light breeze coming from a nearby window and Johnny wanted one. So he climbed those flimsy hills in pursuit of the treasure that shined at the top, almost falling many times. (The boxes weren’t enough to support the 8 year-old at times during his venture).
But when Johnny made it to the highest point, he found one box in particular that felt sturdy enough to support his well fed eight year old self. And when he gained his balance there, Johnny looked into the diamond-shaped crystals which mirrored the face of a handsome blonde boy in large and small, yet demented reflections. Even at such a young age, Johnny stood there on the box looking at himself with narcissism for several minutes. His grin, shaped like a crescent moon, could even be made out amongst the clones reflecting from the gems hanging from the light. His cockiness sparkled within the fake diamonds, though teeth on the actual boy were starting to cultivate a rather slightly mustard tinge. His eyes moved from the jewels and directed to the gold material upon the metal bars of the chandelier.
And like every little boy does, Johnny began to horse around with the fixture. He started to spin the lamp, twisting the wires holding it up from the ceiling. Johnny delightfully watched his blurry images circle in front of his face when he let go, letting the chandelier spin. Each time he did this, he would twist the wires a few inches more without caution. That is, until his third attempt.
As Johnny rotated the light to a full 360 degrees, the light sparked violently and the boy tumbled down to the floor whimpering with pain.
“Johnny! Dinner!” his mother, Mrs. Keeper, yelled from the kitchen on the main floor.
Mrs. Keeper was busy two stories below, preparing her family’s meal that night as Johnny played in the attic. She managed to burn the chicken, since she was gazing at herself in the glass door of the microwave, instead of counting down the minutes on the timer. She didn’t think it mattered though. Her green beans turned out just a little cold and her mashed potatoes were slightly undercooked. So she was satisfied with her efforts.
The sounds of cheerleading chants, crowd boos and touchdown satisfaction came from the television blaring two rooms away. Her husband, Mr. Keeper, was watching the newsin the living room when she called to his attention that the food was ready.Her daughter, Sally Keeper, was in the dining room next to the kitchen, scrolling through her phone and laughing to herself at an unwittingly and cringey video that she considers content, and Grandma Keeper was
presumably next to Mr. Keeper in the living room, laughing at the infomercials attempting to sell gold necklaces and bracelets in between the news’ broadcast. He was sporting some of the items on himself, including a fancy watch he saw he only had a minute remaining to order one day. A one of a kind wristwatch is was. It didn’t seem to reflect light, but rather suck it in like a leech. It’s paint, the same brand on the smoking chandelier two floors up.
“Dinner!” Mrs. Keeper screamed when she didn’t hear a response. She picked up the food that she had placed on a large plate earlier, and walked to the dining room where she found Johnny already sitting at the table and Sally now scrolling and liking photos on her phone faster than the high speed internet it was getting.
Though his elbows were now bruised and bloody, Mrs. Keeper didn’t pay attention to Johnny, but this wasn’t something unusual to him. She instead gathered her trendy looking spouse from the couch to the dining area, leaving his mother to continue watching the screen. Grandma Keeper had already taken her pills and vitamins for that night.
“Change this crap to the other station!” Mrs. Keeper snapped at Grandma Keeper when she looked to see her mother-in-law had changed the network to the local news.
Grandma Keeper wasn’t the quickest woman for her old age, but she leaned forward towards the coffee table and grabbed the remote, eventually turning the station to QVC for her daughter-in-law.
The remaining family members sat at the table eating dinner, lulled out, either staring at the television, a phone or something to cast a reflection. Nobody had bothered to notice that the lights above their table had oddly started to flicker and a putrid stench had began to fill the
house, except Grandma Keeper who pointed upward. Sally was now taking several selfies, struggling to find a photogenic angle around her landmark of a chin, Johnny had put a VR headset on and swung his arms, fighting the zombies that pursued him and ruining Sally’s perfect photo, now that it had been filtered. And that bag of a woman, Mrs. Keeper was busy trying to get her husband’s attention as he kept to his food.
No words uttered from her mouth. Clearing her throat couldn’t even convince her spouse retract his focus from television, to even recognize that the fillers in her cheeks were way too expensive for how they turned out. So she did what she knew best.
Mrs. Keeper stood up from her chair and began to twirl around with her hands, caressing her thin waist, and showing off her doctor’s latest creation. (She recently went got fat transferred to her flat ass and hips). She tried to make her face look sexy by smiling at her unresponsive husband with a snide and insincere grin, puckering her botoxed duck lips. Mr. Keeper maybe only glanced over at his wife for a millisecond and responded with a subtle, elongated golf clap before he began to pick up his fork again. He wouldn’t be getting any otherwise.
Mrs. Keeper sat down satisfied.
Now the portraits along the walls of the Keepers’ home portrayed a family that was happy. The faux energy of the photos portraying a cheery, blonde Beaver Cleaverish family seemed to exude amongst the people eating dinner in their true form. And each night as they sat down for dinner, not one person would look at these images. Each night they sat and ate without much conversation, unless the kids complained about not having something their similarly robotic friends did. And when they got tired of those things, the Keepers would dispose of them
in their attic, never to touch them again. And every night, Grandma Keeper would try to get her fix of entertainment in, whether it be reading the paper or book, or listening or watching the news via television/radio. This usually led into uproar among her son and his wife and this night was no exception.
When Mr. Keeper heard the noise coming from an antique radio in the living room, he gathered his beer belly from the dinner table, and hobbled over to his mother in rage saying, “I told you this shit wasn’t allowed here. GO!” And Grandma Keeper left the house without a word and went to a nearby park, where she would watch the children play and their elders converse. Every night there, she would smile.
When she left, The Keepers rounded into the family room, sitting in silence together with their eyes glued to their necessities,but once in a while it all seemed a little boring to little Johnny.
“I want to listen to the song!” he yelled pulling his VR set off.
“Right now?”
“Yes, Saaaallllyy! I want to hear it now!”
“One minute,” she said taking another selfie. She was using her mother’s skills this time, puckering her non existent lips.
“I would like to hear it as well,” said Mrs. Keeper. “George?”
“Hmmmmm?” he said as Mrs. Keeper’s words floated through his ears with a muffle.
“We’re going to listen to oursong!” she yelled impatiently.
“Alright then, put it on Johnny.” Mr. Keeper finally responded as he turned off the TV.
And little Johnny Keeper ran over to a bookshelf and pulled the only record in their collection off of a rack. He then skipped over to a new record player, eyes booming with delight, and set the vinyl on lightly, trying not to scratch it. (He, nor did any of the Keepers, really want it ruined). But now with the needle on the record, the frantic percussion pummeled throughout their home.
As soon as the song began, the mood suddenly shifted, and the lips on the Keepers’ faces became elastic, stretching end to end like a rubber band. Together they stood up from the couch and unconsciously moved to a place around the living room and began dancing in freedom to the tune, whose synths rang throughout their house, as to warn them. The family jigged from left to right, at times even dancing with each other. Some of them repeatedly jumped on the sofas in joy, but still in rhythm to the new wave spirit, while the singer chanted, “We are gone, we are gone, on the heels of what we all have done.”
So together, the Keepers closed their eyes to spiritualize with the song, as smoke finally started to fill the bottom of their home, from the attic at the top. And together on that tragic night, with their arms in the air and their feet still moving, they began to unknowingly mourn with the artist as they sang: “We’re the keepers! While we sleep in America, our house is burning down…our house is burning down, down it burns down. Our house is burning down!”
And from afar, Grandma Keeper watched as the blaze caused the formation to crumble. Beautiful but haunting it was for her. A single tear fell from her eye as she sat on that park bench.
“Don’t cry,” a small boy said to her as he walked by with his mother.
She wiped the streak from her face. “You’re right,” she responded. “I can always find another antique radio.”
