The Methuselah Gene by Jonathan Lowe

are they?   What will they do, right?   The paranoid THEM.   Like in the movie THEM .   I sound like Dad.   Did you know I thought about calling him just now?”
    â€œWhy don’t you?” Rachel asked me.   “You could find out what’s really up with him, if nothing else.”
    â€œMeaning you couldn’t?   What would I say to open this hypothetical conversation?”
    â€œI don’t know.   How about ‘Hi, Dad, been in any good hurricanes lately?’   That would be a start.”
    I thought about it.   “No, he’s probably too busy propositioning old biddies in the park, trying to make up for lost time.   Or young ones, like The Donald.   And this might really freak him out, too.   He might try calling the President or something.”
    â€œDid you know his dog died?”
    â€œLucky?   Don’t tell me this, Sis.   You’re starting to sound like Mom now.   Everyone is, in fact.”
    â€œWho . . . you mean your friends?”
    â€œWhat friends?   Hey, I live for my work.   Darryl always said so.”
    â€œDarryl?”
    â€œI don’t even know if he’s my friend, anymore.   He might be involved in this.   If he is, I’m in deeper ca-ca than I thought.”   I waited for more.   “So that’s it?   No sage wisdom, feminine intuition?   I feel like I’m playing Russian roulette with an automatic here.”
    I didn’t know what I expected from her.   A beauty consultant, a cosmetologist and manicure specialist.   Sis to the rescue?   At least she’d possessed more common sense than me about getting out of the crib before it turned into a concentration camp.   But then what she gave me was an obvious third option I hadn’t considered.   “Why don’t you just go home and forget about it?   Maybe they won’t fire you.   Maybe YOU are just being paranoid about THEM.”
    I chuckled at the simplicity of her suggestion.   “You mean just keep my nose clean, and maybe one day I’ll be back to square one?”   She was silent as I mulled it over.   “That’s good advice, actually, Sis.   But I don’t think I can take it.   I’d always wonder what happened, see.   It’s bothering me so much I’m even sleeping in a casket tonight, in a drug store stock room.   Because I think they’ll be looking for me at the Black Flag Roach Motel.”
    â€œHuh?   Did I . . . just hear you say . . . what I think you said?”
    â€œUh huh.   George covers his drains, though.   So no roaches there.”
    â€œSay again?   George?”
    â€œNice guy.   Little weird.   The casket is actually comfortable.   I tried it out.   Has extra padding, and it’s roomy in there, too.   George bought it for his father, but his dad’s last wish was to be cremated.   Left George this drug store in his will.   George was studying to be a mortician, you know.   I told him I was a school teacher . . . bad marriage, too much traffic in the city . . . you know, the whole schmeer .   I slipped a ten dollar bill and a note of apology under the door at the Slow Poke next door, too.   It closed half an hour ago.”
    â€œWhat the devil are you talking about, Alan?” Rachel asked, in exasperation.
    â€œNothing, Sis,” I said.   “Forget it.”
    â€œI can’t forget it, now!”
    â€œLook, I’m sorry,” I said, “but don’t worry, I promise I’ll let you know if I get into any real trouble.   Or if I need to be bailed out of something.   Okay?”
    A significant pause.   “Alan . . . I worry about you sometimes.”
    â€œSo do I,” I admitted.
    When we finally hung up, I happened to look across the street to see the shadow of a man walking along the sidewalk toward the post office