The Brand New Monday

On Friday, someone tries to kill me. Some deranged radical, howling about his love for Jesus, pulls a knife from his pocket and attempts to drive it into my side, but misses; I get away with nothing more than a torn shirt and a cut across my stomach. A trifle, a scratch. I’m lying there with my ribs pressed against the metal curb, watching the cops stationed at the intersection twist my would-be murderer to the ground, not denying themselves the pleasure of kicking the bastard in the kidneys. I’d join them if it weren’t for the strange, enveloping sensations spreading through my head. Why am I on my back, staring at the sky? Despite the fact that every hospital is overflowing, they somehow manage to find me a free room and even dig up a reasonably functional surgeon who puts seven stitches into me in the operating room. Apparently, the cut was a bit worse than I thought, and I’d lost a good deal of blood – which they’re now pouring back into me through an IV. I study the tired fifty-year-old face of the forty-year-old doctor and wonder whether he considers his work as pointless right now as I consider mine. Probably not. Probably the ability not to think about the long term is a necessary professional trait for anyone in his field – without it, people like him would never manage to get out of bed in the morning and go to a job where they then spend eight hours, lunch break included, watching children and the elderly die. Yes, most likely to do this kind of work you have to be either an idiot or a complete psychopath, and I watch my savior’s profile with curiosity, fully expecting drool to start dripping from his mouth at any moment or for him to develop an overpowering urge to sink a scalpel into my throat – but he restrains himself. Remarkable willpower, given the circumstances. The doctor leaves after finishing his instructions to the attending nurse, and I’m discharged, given a day off, and rolled downstairs in a wheelchair to the first floor, where I manage to catch sight of my attacker. They brought him to the same hospital, dumped him in the hallway in handcuffs under the watch of a bored cop. He’s lying there unconscious, dreaming about Jesus and showing no reaction to my presence. Don’t worry, buddy – we’ll meet again, and after that we won’t see each other for the next twenty years or so. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never been particularly religious. The temples in my home country – the ones my mother took me to as a child – were heavy, hulking, half-dark crypts that made you feel like you’d been buried alive. Step into a place like that, and any god would immediately reconsider the whole idea of his own existence. Here, though, the churches feel like Walmarts. You half expect to flag down a sales associate in one of those blue half-caps and ask to buy a little bit of grace. It would surely come in convenient, easy-open biodegradable packaging, complete with a spoon so you could consume it right after paying at the register. And if you buy a whole box, you get a twelve-percent discount and coupons for a chance to win a brand-new fridge. I don’t know which setup I like better. If I were a believer, I think I’d prefer to put my faith in honest, straightforward cash-and-carry relations with the Almighty. And I’d also be convinced that the Creator brought all of us into existence through some massive oversight – and would be hoping he never discovers his mistake. There’s no one in the world more capable of ruining a screaming infant in its cradle than the very people responsible for bringing it into existence – and God is no exception. So in a way, it’s just as well I don’t believe in him, even if that gets a little harder with every passing day. Now that common sense and scientific method have nothing left to offer a panicking society, every imaginable sect and religious movement has begun spreading at an incredible pace. If you gathered all these newly minted messiahs, prophets, and children of Yahweh in one place, you could probably found a small state – one in which every resident would immediately tear everyone else apart while dividing spheres of influence and luxury items, after which the survivors would march off to burn witches in the freshly painted town square. They’d already be doing it now if it weren’t for the insane fines for cutting down trees. And the central city park wouldn’t last beyond the first hundred gingers – the one positive side effect of urbanization. Many people claim that disasters like the current one awaken the basest, most animalistic impulses in the human soul. I think the opposite is true: right now we are more human than ever. Not a single damn desman would butcher its own kind to summon its messiah to Earth – and we not only would, we’re already doing it. Is it possible that everything we’ve done in our attempts to rise above our animal nature has only made us worse? We invented gods, into whose sacred words we stuffed our own supposed chosenness and uniqueness – and then started worshipping them for it. I wonder whether dogs realize they don’t have souls, or pigs that they’re considered unclean. And what they make of it all is anyone’s guess. To keep the runaway train of progress from slipping out of our hands, we created codes of laws meant to regulate things our tree-dwelling ancestors handled perfectly well without ever inventing writing. Everything went wrong when the first ape picked up the first stick, appointed itself boss over the rest, and became untouchable to its peers. Now, instead, we have machine guns, tanks, and armored motorcades meant to protect and isolate the rulers from the people they govern. In exchange, we got elections, daily newspapers, and the internet. Am I ready to trade the ability to stare at my phone while taking a dump on a heated toilet seat for an honest life in harmony with nature? Hell no.