The Luxuries of Humanity

People have always claimed that money isn’t everything, nobody really needs it to be happy. It hadn’t been true, not when the world they lived in was built upon a never-ending cycle of give and take. It might not have been the first thing on a person’s mind, but it was always there, simmering under the surface. Lurking like a predator, a worry in millions upon millions of minds everywhere. Money meant survival, it meant health, safety, and sought-after luxuries.

A poor man could find happiness and content in the small amount of time he gets to spend with his family when he’s not running himself into the ground to keep them afloat. But a rich man could find happiness in his leather couch cushions like pocket change, as he had the world right at his fingertips.

Harris stares down at the open duffel bag, crisp stacks of bills sticking out at odd angles like a bouquet of green paper. Hours ago, he had taken it upon himself to count them, a painstaking task for a singular man without a machine to assist.

Twenty-thousand dollars.

Resting on a sidewalk at the mouth of an alley, completely untouched. Like both a gift and a curse, because as he stares at it, Harris can’t help but feel haunted. Like a phantom standing at his back, whispering in his ear of what might have been.

Weeks ago, this might have filled anyone with adrenaline or euphoria. Now he only feels dread, because the fat stacks of cash are nothing but paper to him now. Worthless strips of wood pulverized down into pulp and pressed into evenly shaped bills that held the evidence of a civilization that treated life like a board game. None of it matters now, Harris realizes, as he stares out at the ruins of the city from his rooftop sanctuary.

The skyline is filled with the wreckage of buildings that once looked like potential. Castles and towers of the modern society, inspiring awe to those who had once gazed upon them. The smoldering had ceased, the fires slowly going out, leaving nothing but ash and rubble in its place. In the night, only the darkness remains, and him.

He doesn’t think he’s the only one left, or maybe that’s just a delirious hope. Even the mere idea of being the last one left alive in the whole world was a gaping maw threatening to suck him down into the throes of depression. The itch of isolation is only furthered by the quiet that rings in his ears, a constant reminder since the deafening noise of The End.

He liked to call it that, “The End”.

The money stays in its duffel bag after he brings it back with him, tucked against his chair next to the tent he sleeps in on the roof. At night, he dreams of being in a large house, walls of dollar bills and floors tiled with gold coins. Laughter echoes off the walls, but he can never locate the source. Haunted. He can’t close his eyes for more than a few hours at a time, his head aches almost constantly.

He does his daily scavenging and ends up in the bookstore he’s begun to raid for kindling. His peripheral vision stings, calling to him, and when he turns his head his eyes lay upon it. On a shelf of notebooks rests a singular one, beckoning him closer. His grime-covered fingers fall upon the textured black leather, a small notebook that fits perfectly in his hand. He’s careful with the crisp, unmarred paper, not wanting to smudge it.

The idea forms like a pebble clattering down a rocky mountainside, quickly becoming something akin to a rockslide. A mere thought that immediately consumes his being. What if? The concept in his head builds from a quiet hum to a dull roar over the next few days, but it’s a welcome reprieve from the silence. Maybe he’s starting to lose his mind.

He finds a pen and starts writing.

Every day he jots down a few words, his thoughts scattered and disheveled just like the world around him. He’s tired, and sometimes when he stands, the smoky city sky spins. But that duffel bag stares at him, the money inside breathing at the back of his neck. Slowly but surely, at the back of his notebook, a list begins to form. The physical representation of the idea that had plagued him.

Little things, simple things, then bigger, more extravagant. A huge flat screen, a gaming console, a fancy watch, a sports car. Anything and everything a person could want goes onto the list, which grows and grows.

Twenty-thousand dollars isn’t enough for all of this, it barely amounts to anything. But he needs to know what he would get, if the world wasn’t so broken, if The End hadn’t come. If that money had been there on the sidewalk on a normal sunny day, what would he have done? His scavenging trips become treasure hunts. When he locates his prizes, it feels like the phantom on his neck takes a step back. He sleeps longer, his bones start to ache.

He dresses in fancy clothes, wears an expensive watch, and piles random items in the lobby of the building he's residing in. He finds what he can, and items are crossed out on the pages. Dark ink scratched in deep grooves; the notebook praises him for his dedication. He starts to sleep deeper. Sometimes by the time he rouses, the sun is already setting. He gets used to going out at night, using a headlamp to guide him through the seemingly endless darkness, casting a singular spotlight upon the rubble of the streets.

His notebook travels with him everywhere, he keeps it tucked into an inside pocket of his leather jacket. It becomes his best friend, his confidant, a partner in crime. It listens to him whenever he needs to speak his mind, with a pen or just aloud. It sucks in his words and sometimes he can feel the energy pulsing from it in time with his heartbeat.

He runs out of things he wants, realizing he has it all stacked and piled in the lobby or up on his roof. His notebook doesn’t tell him what to do about it, his scribbles have long since stopped. Maybe the notebook is angry with him for that, but his thoughts have gone beyond his vernacular. Words have become obsolete.

He picks the duffel bag up to bring along with him on his travels now. It feels much heavier than it did once before, but he finds the handle sealed to his palm anyway. Not a friend per say, but a companion, nonetheless. When he falls asleep in the early mornings, his notebook is clutched in one hand, and the other is wrapped around the duffel bag. He scavenges and lives with all his belongings. Not at peace, never at peace. It’s not enough, it amounts more to nothing at all.

He stumbles out of the lobby one afternoon, months later, mouth tasting like bile. He’s started using a wagon to drag the duffel bag, it’s a lot easier on his aching muscles. He hadn’t been able to sleep much that morning, ears ringing too loudly, and the duffel’s whispers muffled the sound of the notebook’s pleasant pulsing. He drags it along anyway, a slave to its whims.

He almost doesn’t hear the rumble of the engine over the bells in his head, but he feels the vibrations at his feet. He finds himself staring ahead down the street, watching in complete and total shock as a large military vehicle creeps around the corner of a building in his direction. The engine is a horrid noise, loud and raucous, just as are the shouts of the soldiers surrounding the truck as it rolls across cracked and littered asphalt.

A figure approaches at a jog, and Harris stumbles back into his wagon, collapsing onto the street. The man’s dressed in a military uniform, with his hands held up in a peaceful gesture. Harris struggles to allow his eyes to drink in the man’s features, feels like he’s gazing into the unknown.

“Are you okay, sir?” The soldier questions.

Beyond words, beyond it all, he finds himself speechless. He hasn’t seen a person in so long, he thinks he might have forgotten what they looked like. Any voice not his own sounds foreign, almost nearing another language.

“Come with us, sir. We’ll take you to safety.” He holds out a hand.

Harris reaches out, hand trembling in the fear that this might not be real. Just a mirage, his brain playing out something he hadn’t realized he had been hoping for all this time. But their skin connects, warm and real, a strong calloused palm helping him to his feet. Another soldier comes to their aid, and the first one gestures him in the second’s direction.

But he finds himself stuck in place, unable to move just yet. Harris looks back at the duffel bag on the wagon. The world around him is filled with sound, chatter, filling up the air. Somehow, the duffel bag has gone eerily silent for the first time since he found it. Or the noise from within it has merely been drowned out, weak against the will of what truly matters. The phantom fading before his eyes, caught up in the wave of noise and banished off the mortal plane.

“Is everything okay, sir?” The second soldier is standing in front of him, the first having moved on. “They’re gathering people on the truck.”

“People?” His first word in what feels like a lifetime.

“Yes, sir. We’re going to bring you to a camp for safety. You can bring your bag if you’d like.”

He shakes his head slowly, hand coming up to press at his notebook through the fabric of his leather jacket. The list has long been all scribbled out, ink staining the once perfect pages. Stained but not marred, the notebook had welcomed the alterations. From beneath his jacket, euphoria oozes from the book into his chest, or perhaps from his chest into it. For the first time in so long, his lips stretch into a shaking smile.

He keeps walking past the soldier before he can say anything else, eager for the chance to be human once more. The duffel bag is left behind and forgotten. He wants not for the wealth, and for the first time, he considers people a luxury. Life as he knows it is over, but what lies beyond seems so much brighter, so much better.

The second soldier catches up with the first, snagging the other man by the shoulder. “Did you see that?”

“What?”

“You didn’t recognize him?” He demands in outrage.

“No.”

“He’s the CEO of that TechGhosting company. Rockford! Harris Rockford!” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder in a quick gesture behind them. “Dude’s like a billionaire.”

“Weird.”

“He’s got this huge mansion; I’ve seen the pictures. I bet he’ll be happy to go home once this is over.”

“Probably.” The soldier sighs, shaking his head. “What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of money.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“What?”

“Money isn’t everything.”

“What world are you living in?”