The apocalypse happened on a Tuesday. I always hated Tuesdays. So it was only fitting the end of times fell on a Tuesday. It wasn't a movie apocalypse however, I mean, no asteroid, no solar flare, no biblical God's wrath crap, no far fetched disaster of any kind. For all intents and purposes it was just another Tuesday, with the exception of the whole apocalypse thing.

Turns out the apocalypse was more of a slow burn than a hot flash. Everyone knew the world was a mess, we'd known for years and in that time we became very, very good at ignoring the inevitable. The economy, the climate, the environment - they all seemed to have negative trajectories. I guess what happened in the end was that we reached some kind of tipping point, the kind of thing well-spoken orators had warned us about on a hundred different TED talks over the years. Not that any of them were one hundred percent right, but together, the collective message of impending doom, well, it was dead accurate.

Somewhere out there, there must be a big ass sign that says 'I TOLD YOU SO.' I think David Suzuki painted it. Al Gore bought the paint.

* * * * *

From my office window I can see the contrails of a passing airliner. Three-hundred mortal missiles scream across the sky at 900kph, every one blissfully oblivious of the unfolding cataclysm, same as me. Albeit with a better view.

They are mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, children and parents, travelling for business and pleasure en route to God knows where. I don't really care about the travellers or the airliner, except, well it makes me think about jet engines, which makes me think about GE, which makes me think I should check my stocks. Or should I say "my investments"? No, that implies some kind of multiplication of wealth. What I have is a cuck-filled cistern I toss money into, never to be seen again. Why the hell do I even bother to look?

So I look.

Most of my portfolio is tanking, it's like a car crash - you don't want to look, but you do anyway. I used to think my portfolio was strong, well-diversified and bolstered against market fluctuations. Doesn't matter, the European Union is a hot mess, a forth member just fell off the face of the financial planet. Apparently a workforce full of people on ten week vacations does not do much to drive an economy. Who knew?

Poor Germany. Sure they were the sonsabitches of the first half of the twentieth century, but at least they are going to work and producing something to sell these days. I don't begrudge them their beer steins, schnitzel or the dimdl-clad wenches serving Lowenbrau with a copious side-order of cleavage. They're entitled to all of it.

It doesn't take long to skim the page, lots of little red arrows pointing down, same as last time.

I curse out loud and punch the ESC key so hard that I break one of the feet on my keyboard. My RRSPs are down forty-seven percent so far this year, they were down last year too and the year before that. I get that sinking feeling I will never retire. The economy is in the shitter, has been for years and I have to keep telling myself I am lucky enough not to be part of the nineteen percent who are unemployed.

It is actually closer to twenty-four percent in the region that I call home. An economic shithole. My wife is still working too, thank God. We have cash flow, but our savings ebbs away daily due to market conditions. A few years back I had moved a fifth of my portfolio to precious metals - bullion, something of value I could actually hold in my hand. Now I'm wishing I had moved half or more.

The phone rings.

God I hate the phone. Just send an email for God's sake. I answer, on speaker.

"Connor Killoren, what can I do for you?" I give my canned response. I do nothing to hide the disdain in my voice.

"Hi Connor. It's Beth." I roll my eyes because the phone has a display and it says, Beth Small x. 8831. I know it's Beth, Beth knows I know. Hell, I can tell it's Beth, she calls all the damn time. If I had a dime for every time she called... well, that would be the fastest growing investment I had.

I start to doodle on a scrap of paper, I know exactly where this conversation is going.

I endure the conversation for five minutes when Perry walks in. It has just been that kind of day. I'm too polite to tell him to go away. I have an internal debate while Perry stands there. He could just walk away, he sees I'm on the phone, but he just stands there leaning against the door jam. Persistent ass. His white shirt has a coffee stain, I find myself fixating on it and on the way his bulbous belly hangs over his belt.

I'm so distracted by his gut I have to ask Beth to repeat everything she just said. I scribble down a few notes and extricate myself from the phone call. "Sorry Beth, I have somebody in my office, gotta go." I hit the End Call button prematurely, cutting her off mid 'good-bye'.

One down, one to go.

"Perry, I figured you'd be on the road."

"Business is shit. No point wasting gas." He says. Of course if he got rid of that stupid Mustang, gas would be less of an issue for him. But it's his chick-magnet, or so he believes. It doesn't work too well, but he has a long equine face, or more accurately a face like a horse's ass. You think nature would compensate by blessing him with charisma, but there you would be mistaken. He has a troll-like personality, which makes it very difficult for me to feel sorry for him. He really should get a Jetta.

I'm a huge hypocrite though, I look out the window at my 4x4. I feel his pain.

"Well, not making any new money sitting in your office watching YouTube cat videos."

"Fuck you."

"You here for a reason?"

"They let go of Greg's team today. More trimming the fat. I've heard they are also looking hard at middle management." If nothing else, Perry is always a good source for company gossip. He's tapped into that vein pretty deep.

"Good to know. If the economy continues like this, everyone's days are numbered." I shrug. I'm a realist. Optimism is for losers. I grasp a wad of papers off my desk and shuffle through them, attempting to look busy. He gets the hint and wanders off. He leaves a choking cloud of cheap aftershave in his wake, I swear he gargles that shit.

I check the clock and leave for the day. I hit the local grocery store on the way home. A few years back the produce section had been a veritable cornucopia that included strange and wonderful fruits and vegetables I couldn't even identify and refused to eat - a sign of the global economy. Now with the economy in a dismal, downward spiral, the selection is stark. As it turns out, honey bee colony collapse was a bellwether and as the familiar yellow and black pollinator became extirpated from the fields and orchards around the world, many other insects followed.

Add to that the ongoing drought and desertification occurring in the US and the agriculture industry just isn't keeping up with demand. Crop yields have crashed worldwide and demand continues to climb and now I am stuck at the FreshMax wondering how the hell I can justify spending ten dollars for a small bag of potatoes.

I continue on, straight to aisle six. I scoop up four large bags of dried beans and lentils, four pounds of sugar, a pound of salt and four litres of vegetable oil. On the way out I take a quick stock of the shelves, they are definitely more bare than my previous visit, it makes me uneasy. It's a gripping fear. I push the feeling to the back of my mind, where all the worries go. It is getting crowded back there. It's no mystery why my stomach is such a mess. I swing back to the pharmacy and grab some Prilosec.

Arriving home, I find Heath playing in the street with the neighbour kids. Summer holidays have made for a never-ending child care crisis for us. Luckily Kate didn't pull a shift and could watch him today.

"Hey buddy!" I call out as I unload the truck.

"Hi Daddy." He calls back, wildly waving his little hand. Then he returns to a game with no fixed rules or predetermined goal that only children can understand.

I go in the house, Kate is busy in the kitchen. I take the bags downstairs and just toss them into the small utility room before returning upstairs to change my clothes and help out with dinner.

I offer to chop some veggies, Kate hands me a plate of meat and directs me outside. I guess I'm barbecuing.

The deck is crowded. I now have six twenty pound propane tanks chained together and lashed to an eye-bolt. There is also a collection of large planters, lately we have been trying to grow more food ourselves. We are not farmers though and neither one of us has a green thumb, it's a bit of a struggle. Lots of things tend to die. I can grow a mean pumpkin patch though.

I grill up the meat and watch the smoke drift toward the neighbour's house. Barbecue and summer used to go hand-in-hand, but with the current price of meat people just can't afford it. I feel a little pang of guilt. Kate hands a cold beer out the door, I push the guilt back too, I tell myself my family deserves this.

The steaks don't take long, I bring the meat inside and we have dinner. Heath resists coming in at first but I threaten to put him on an iPad hiatus and he comes running. I watch his little feet pound the pavement in that haphazard, out-of-control way that kids run, always on the verge of a disastrous wipe-out. Kind of like my portfolio.

"I wasn't expecting barbecue. What's the occasion?" I ask. I am near certain we had no meat in the house.

"Someone my parents know slaughtered a cow. Dad had some kind of a deal with him, he ended up with a quarter. The rest of our share is in the freezer." Kate's father works for some Institute that helps farmers with financing. These days his connections are proving to be very beneficial. He recently told me he could get me some chicks, and maybe a laying hen and a rooster.

Sure, free eggs. But how the hell do I manage a yard full of poultry? I also feel that at some point I am going to have to chop the head off a chicken and eat it. Not sure I can do that. I feel really behind the curve when it comes to self-sufficiency. I'm also pretty damn sure the first time that rooster spouted off at the crack of dawn, I'd shoot him.

"Remind me to thank him." I say with a mouthful of steak. "Oh my god, this steak is sooo good." I gush. I gush about good cuts of meat the same way my wife gushes about a perfect piece of wardrobe. Mars and Venus baby, Mars and Venus.

Later we are settled on the deck sipping coffees, it's one of those beautiful summer evenings you just can't get enough of. The heat of the day lingers, but the breeze off the lake tempers it just enough. The sky above me is like denim, darker to my left and lighter to my right. The first stars of twilight begin to shine through and herald the coming darkness. We sit in perfect silence, the breeze through the leaves, the waves on the break-wall...

"I love it here." Kate says to me wistfully.

"Yeah, it's nice." She leans from her chair and kisses me. For a moment, the world is right again and my locked away worries are completely forgotten.

"You smell like beer." She states.

I just nod. It's been a three beer evening, I should smell like beer. I have that light buzz going, it's the kind of buzz the makes me either nostalgic or sentimental or both and sometimes something else. I know I have a dumb smile on my face by the way she looks at me. She is wearing her curly brown hair down, she would complain that it's a mess. Right now I find it incredibly sexy.

Suddenly I want to take her to the bedroom, I want to touch the places where her body curves, I want to feel her hot breath on my neck. I want to --

There is a rapid series of knocks, a small knuckle on a window. I crane my neck and see Heath standing at the kitchen garden door. There are tears on both cheeks. I know immediately I forgot to put the light in the hall on when I put him to bed.

I open the door and scoop him up. "Sorry buddy, did I forget the light?" He nods slowly and sniffles. I wipe his cheeks with the palm of my hand. Kate stands up and grabs my coffee and comes in behind me.

"I'll tuck him back in." She says. "You can relax, you look tired."

Before I can say thanks, there is a series of loud pops. My heart jumps, I immediately know what that sound is, I hear it every weekend when I go to the range. Gunfire.

"Lock the doors, call 911, take him downstairs." I order and snatch the flashlight off the counter.

"Where are you going?" She asks.

I hop on one leg trying to stuff my foot in an old boot. "I'm just going to check it out." I step outside and close the door, I turn back and say, "Lock the doors." Before running off across the back yard.

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