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All of Us Together in the End - Softcover

Vollmer, Matthew

 
9798885740050: All of Us Together in the End

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Hub City Press

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Matthew Vollmer is the author of two short-story collections as well as three collections of essays. He was the editor of A Book of Uncommon Prayer, which collects invocations from over 60 acclaimed and emerging authors, and served as co-editor of Fakes: An Anthology of Pseudo-Interviews, Faux-Lectures, Quasi-Letters, "Found" Texts, and Other Fraudulent Artifacts. His work has appeared in venues such as Paris Review, Glimmer Train, Ploughshares, Tin House, Oxford American, The Sun, The Pushcart Prize anthology, and Best American Essays. He teaches in the English Department at Virginia Tech and lives in Blacksburg, VA.

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One month before, on December 21, 2019—the longest night of the year—I was taking a post-sunset walk, following an asphalt trail that meandered through the nearby municipal golf course adjacent to my neighborhood, toward the top of a hill that happened to be the highest point in the town of Blacksburg, Virginia, a spot that allowed visitors to view, during the daylight hours, the icons of our little town: the football stadium, the turret of the colossal administration building, the coal plant, the futuristic-looking arts center, and distant mountain ridges. My wife and son also enjoyed this view, but I usually took these walks alone, to clear my head after a long day of teaching and reading and writing, or simply to get some fresh air. Hours earlier, I’d attended a Virginia Tech basketball game with my friend Robert and his thirteen-year-old son Felix, the latter of whom had floated an idea he’d heard a YouTuber endorse: that, as the Mayans had predicted, the universe had ended in 2012. We were now living in a simulation, which explained why everything these days seemed so messed up. Admittedly, this was an intriguing theory to consider as I walked through the longest night of the year, which so far happened to be moonless. A smattering of stars appeared in the sky, clotted here and there with tufts of cloud drifting low enough to reflect the pinkish lights of the town center and the Virginia Tech campus.
So . . . convincing, I thought to myself.
I meant “the reality of it all.”
Like, what I was seeing.
It all seemed so believable.
As had become my habit on these random walks of mine, I decided to call my father. For the previous three months since my mother had died, he’d been living by himself on a remote piece of property in the mountains of southwestern North Carolina, in the big brick house that he and Mom had moved into when I was sixteen. I’d often imagined—though he’d claimed this was not the case—that he might be lonely.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hey,” I said. “What am I interrupting?”
That was his line, the one he used whenever he called me.
“Well,” he replied. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. Some weird stuff’s been happening.”

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