The Last Man

George Pinto

a short story about freedom 
 

This is where hope and despair became inextricably bound. It does not matter that the year is 2423 C.E. or that the last man lives in Goa.

 Human habitation of space had failed and when Mada dies on earth so will all humankind. At this time his thoughts were of Adam. He pitied Adam’s immense responsibility at the beginning of history, he pitied himself at the end of human history, this was empathy at its highest experience. With him, the final curtain would come down.

He could choose his own private god and there would be no challenge. Imagine, he thought, god existed for him and he for god. What would god do when he died?  Every other god and religion had died as people died and he was alone. At this time, he was all religions or none, every church, temple, mosque, synagogue had played out its own last sacraments. Oddly, there was no difference now between churches and cemeteries.

This incredible idea occurred to him, the entire world, creation and evolution existed in this one thought: he was all of human history with its accompanying freedom to write it as he chose. It was clearly the most difficult thought in history because of its awesome individual responsibility, born out of hope and despair, optimism and pessimism. But it was an orphaned thought. Every adult human being that ever lived had access to that thought but most turned it down. Either cowardice, laziness, ignorance, or fear made them walk away. Was that thought a deadly contagion leading to nihilism or fatalism? Some felt it lacked the usefulness of a computer or the purpose of a car or the safety of money or the comfort of religion and political theory. This philosophical thought only led one to the edge of a great abyss that had no return to normality. 

First, he arranged the wood fire to cook some steamed rice and lentils for dinner. Nutritional history had concluded that simple home grown foods were the most healthy and he garnished his meals with nothing, much like early man. As the rice cooked, he tried to recall the greatest achievements in the civilized world. Every accomplishment, every monument, every music, every art, every language, every sport, every currency, every country, all reduced to dust. He tried to write humankind’s eulogy now, not that there was anyone to read it but just in case some creature from space did visit and did understand. What was our greatest achievement? It could not be NASA, The New York Stock Exchange, Hollywood, the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, Microsoft, Citibank, Sony, Johns Hopkins hospital, The Times of India, they had all died and there were tombstones everywhere. Death had a peculiar smell, a mix of triumph and tragedy. He noticed everything changes and withers, even perceived success. 

But surely a eulogy must say something. His mind then tripped on this accidental thought: ideas like justice, equality, and rights were eternal and true. No one could doubt that, they were perhaps our greatest achievement. But he became terribly embarrassed as he began to write.

Racism was not resolved, it had ended when the last colored person died. Sexism only ended when the last woman died, homophobia ended with the death of the last gay person. The pain began to overwhelm his mental vision. Is this what fear had reduced humanity too?  Fear had won, it had conquered the human spirit. The only creature, man, who could confront and vanquish fear, had lost. Having watched humanity succumb, fear left the animal, fish, and plant kingdoms alone, it had triumphed over its biggest challenge.

The aroma of lentils cooking always intrigued him. He loved the smell of steamed rice and lentils and imagined it a perfect last meal. He was getting hungry and his mind was racing too. Words like legacy, inter-generation, children, grandchildren, spouse, niece, nephew, daughter, son, inheritance, will, annuity, had no relevance, mere artifacts now in some dictionary. What was the future? Like the sound of a falling tree in a forest when no one is around, does it exist? Future!!

Since Adam it had altar-like prominence, a code word for progress, a requirement for ambition, a solace for the betrayed, disadvantaged, exploited, humiliated. Somehow the future would bring justice. The future would also bring salvation to some believers. The future was
him. Also the past and present. This thought came to him as his soul shivered: he was all men, all history. 

Every thought, every emotion, every desire belonged to him. He could open the jar that contained it all, but he was taught like all people are taught, it would be at his peril. And the usual pretenders – medicine, therapy, counseling, lawyers, the media, educational administrators, business, insurance, government, organized religion, political parties – would not be able to save him. Only he could save himself, being responsible for his freedom.

Could he regret anything now? What was the point? In his mind’s eye he saw the human spirit soar, but like a circus tiger it was tame, barely reaching for the skies when it belonged with the gods. He knew there was a space reserved at the divine table for man, but it was always empty. The sign on the chair was both remarkable and eerie, an invitation that teased: “Reserved for free men, a gift from the gods.”

There was no media, no internet to record this momentous time. No gadget, no device to offer help.  Nothing to turn to. He was desperate, no one to plead with, no one who could understand. Could he offer human history to his pet chimpanzee? his goldfish? his mango tree? for it to continue. Somehow in desperation he envisioned he could make that transfer. No said the chimpanzee, no said the goldfish, no said the mango tree. The burden of freedom was too immense to bear, since freedom always came with morality, both a curse and a blessing.

He ate some rice and lentils and turned to sleep.  The heavens cried that night as the pounding rain belted his body and the ink bottle spilled on the paper. Dawn came as usual and vultures, as they frequently did recently, circled the sky. Nature, inexorably, kept its course, devouring its most noble, most ingenious, most tragic, most evil creation. What a way for freedom to end, as some had predicted, at the same time as suffering.

George Pinto
November 15, 1999

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