Pinatubo

The planes again. I don’t recognize them by sight, nor by sound, but by smell. That foul odor that smells of jam fished out from a cavity. The effluvium descends from the stratosphere and sneaks in through the gaps between door and frame, through a window I forgot to close, and it saturates the rooms in each house in seconds. On the sidewalk, heads send their glances skyward, several sending spit and curses alongside. They find nothing; the aircrafts have departed long before their cargo touches the ground. After a couple of minutes, when everyone has exhausted their complaints and olfactory fatigue has set in, activity restores on the streets, and people return to their houses or duck into their cars and drive off.

Which reminds me. I have work.

Sighing, I strip off yesterday’s clothes and jump into the shower. The water’s not warm when I step under the water, but I don't have time. I have to suppress a yelp, but I stay underneath. If I’m late again, the entire shift will be Ira ranting to a customer about how some people can’t be bothered to get to work on time. By the time the water’s heated up to my liking, it’s time for me to step out. I linger, knowing I’ll have to pay for it on the road. Memories of work yesterday return to me. There is no clear vision, no clear event, in my mind; the memories are entirely emotional, and though I’ve collected more than the suggested eight hours of sleep, I feel exhausted. I see her face, Ira’s, and the exhaustion only gets worse, but I shut off the water and get dressed.

Sure enough, on the road, I pay for it. I forgot to charge my phone overnight, so I’m forced to use the radio for music. I hate the radio; half the time, I’m flipping through channels for songs, but the stations seem to have colluded because when there’s a commercial on one station, there’s a commercial on every station. Finally, I find music, and though it’s not a song I’m familiar with, it is at least a song.

Work, or really, the mall, is 30 minutes away. There’s another mall about 5 minutes away from home, but I made the conscious decision not to apply in any of its shops. Far too many of my former classmates visit that mall, and though several times I do happen upon a familiar face, it’s nowhere near how frequently I would see them at the makeup counter in my own hometown.

The song cuts off mid-chorus. For a while, only silence. Then a voice—“Hey, listeners,”—but before she inserts her apology, I flip to the next station. Silence, and another voice. In the next station too. Annoyed, I return to the original station and slump in my seat, hoping traffic would ease up enough to get me to work sooner.

“—somewhere in the middle of the Pacific. We’ll let you know more as the story develops.” In her voice is a foreboding that makes me regret I hadn’t been flipping through channels.

The music picks up where it left off. No interruptions, no commercial breaks, for the rest of the way.

As soon as I park my car, I check the time: 9:45. Or close enough. Doesn’t matter; the makeup counter is at most five minutes away from where I parked. I pull out my phone to watch a quick YouTube video before I have to head inside. Live streams of all kinds pop up on my feed from channels I don’t follow. Each has the same image: A reporter, either in a dress or in a suit, standing in front of a green-screened map of Oceania and a red X somewhere over the Marianas Trench. None particularly interest me and I scroll until I find a channel I do follow. I choose one I’ve already seen: “Trying TikTok survival hacks.”

My eyes flick to the corner of the screen that shows how much time I have left of the video, and I end up pausing the video a few times to check on the time. When it gets dangerously close to my shift, I drop my phone into my pocket and shove open the door. My nose, which had gotten used to the still, artificial air of the car, screams at me. I recoil, pressing my sleeve over my nose as I slam my door shut and sprint to the front doors. After I’ve regained my breath, I make my way to the makeup counter.

I hear her voice before I even get there.

“At least no one was hurt,” Ira says. Before her stands Wade. We don’t see him often, he works at the warehouse, and the only time we see him is if there are new shipments.

I smile at them both, offer a hello as I fix my name tag over my shirt.

“Put maybe one or two of these out at a time,” he says as he passes her a box.

“Sure.” Ira waves at him, as if to say goodbye, but he doesn’t move. “You okay?”

“Do you think it’s terrorists?”

Ira shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. The US won’t let it happen again, especially after California’s agricultural collapse. It’s fine.” She turns to me then for backup. “Don’t tell me you’re worried.”

“They’ve already deployed another airplane. We’re good for another year.”

Wade only sighs and starts his way back to the warehouse. He mutters as he goes, “No one cares about the environment anymore.”

When he’s gone, Ira tells me to set the merchandise. “Be quick about it. The mall opens in five minutes.”

I offer her a neat smile, the kind I reserve for customers and my coworkers, the kind entirely absent in my interactions with my friends and pull out a heart-shaped locket from the box. No one really uses these anymore; even before smartphones began advertising their cameras, lockets were too gaudy, cheap, or cinematic for any average person to wear. People still buy them, of course, as gifts or for themselves, but they are more tchotchke than accessory. They spend the majority of their purchased lives between couch cushions or underneath beds or in the memories of a men and women as a token of a love affair they no longer consider to be—or have ever been—love.

The monitor across the booth flickers on. They usually play commercials for products found throughout the mall and where to find them, and today’s no exception. But among them the face of GeoAero Inc.’s CEO with an announcement. He explains that the situation is being handled as they speak, no one has been hurt, no terrorist organizations are involved, no one is dumb enough to do that, we haven’t forgotten what happened last time, Project Pinatubo’s mission this year will be completed just the same. And he offers a neat smile.

“Everything is all right.”

And the next commercial plays.