John awoke not with a jump, but with a profound, unsettling lack of noise.
Usually, Tuesdays in his high-rise apartment were an orchestral assault: the insistent moan of the sanitation truck, the 7:05 a.m. argument between Mrs. Petrovich and her potted fig tree, and the distant, constant hum of a million people deciding which route would minimise their misery.
Today, there was only the sound of John’s own breathing, which, without competition, suddenly seemed offensively loud and slightly wheezy.
He peeled himself off the mattress and padded to the window, fully expecting to see the usual concrete chaos.
The street below was pristine. Not clean, just... empty.
A lone hot dog stood, fully operational, stood waiting on the corner. The griddle was still faintly smoking, and a single, perfectly constructed dog, complete with a beautiful zigzag of mustard, sat lonely on a napkin. It was an absolutely perfect moment of arrested motion.
“Hello?” John called out, the sound swallowed instantly by the vast, open maw of silence.
He tried again, louder, adopting the voice of a man demanding to speak to the manager of reality itself. “I said, hello! Is this some kind of flash mob? Because I have strong feelings about impromptu choreography.”
Nothing. No echo, no responding shout, no irritable slamming of a neighbouring window.
John dressed quickly, opting for his velvet smoking jacket and the pair of slippers that looked suspiciously like small, furry badgers. If he was going to investigate a silent metropolis, he might as well do it with an unnecessary flourish.
Downstairs, the lobby was immaculate. The concierge desk was abandoned, though a coffee cup sat steaming gently next to a half-finished crossword puzzle, 7 Across: Emotional state of a city left entirely unattended (8 letters). John considered 'Delight,' 'Chaos,' and 'Preposterous' before grabbing the steaming cup.
He stepped onto the pavement. The air felt lighter, the light brighter. It smelled faintly of ozone and expensive opportunities.
“Right,” John murmured, taking a sip of the still-perfect latte. He realised the sheer, glorious magnitude of the situation. This wasn’t an epidemic. This wasn't an invasion. It was a cancellation. Everyone had simply decided to be somewhere else, and John, clearly, hadn't gotten the memo.
He was the City King. Or, at the very least, the Royal Jester.
His first official decree was to acquire proper transportation. He strode toward the main avenue, where a city bus sat idling at a stop, the little "OUT OF SERVICE" sign glowing merrily.
John clambered into the driver’s seat. He had never driven anything larger than a slightly dented sedan, but honestly, how hard could it be? The controls looked essentially the same, just bigger and more button-y.
He jammed the gear into drive, and the massive vehicle lurched forward with a sound like a disgruntled mammoth.
“All aboard the Freedom Express!” John shouted gleefully, pressing the announcement microphone just to hear his voice boom through the empty bus. He started singing an operatic version of "Baby Shark," complete with dramatic pauses, thoroughly enjoying the fact that absolutely no one was there to judge the quality of his vibrato.
The bus journey was less about transit and more about aggressive urban exploration. John drove straight down the middle of the road, ran five red lights (just because he could), and made a completely unnecessary loop through the fountain in City Park.
Having successfully vented his vehicular aggression, John parked the bus diagonally across the entrance of the city’s most pretentious department store.
“Time for the wardrobe change,” he announced to a pristine rack of Italian leather goods.
The whimsical nature of his new existence truly hit its stride in the clothing section. He tried on a pair of diamond cuff links, a feathered carnival mask, a pair of fluorescent yellow cycling shorts, and a magnificent, floor-length faux-fur coat—all at once.
He found the sound system controls and cranked up Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.
“Today,” John declared, strutting down the perfume aisle, balancing a jewel-encrusted tiara atop his head, “is the day John finally embraces his true calling: International Man of Unnecessary Glamour.”
He paused in front of a giant, gilded mirror. “What do you think, handsome?”
The mirror offered no commentary, which John took as tacit approval.
Fuelled by the adrenaline of limitless trespassing, John decided his day needed a cultural element. He drove his newly acquired bus (which now had a few minor scrapes from kissing the corner of a bistro) directly into the plaza of the Museum of Natural History.
The museum was utterly silent, filled with magnificent, static wonders.
John immediately bypassed the boring rocks and headed straight for the dinosaur exhibit. The skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex loomed overhead, looking judgmental.
“Don’t look at me like that, Terry,” John scolded the fossil. “You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in this city. Too loud.”
He noticed the pristine red velvet rope marking the boundary of the exhibit. This was his true test of power.
He stepped over the rope. It felt magnificent. Illegal. Glorious.
Up close, the dinosaur skeleton offered a perfect resting spot. John found a maintenance ladder and placed it carefully against the ribcage. He climbed up, settling himself comfortably on the enormous backbone, the faux-fur coat billowing dramatically over the ancient bones.
He pulled a half-eaten bag of expensive artisan potato chips from the pocket of his smoking jacket.
Sitting on the spine of a prehistoric apex predator, wearing a fur coat and a tiara, eating salt-and-vinegar chips, John gazed out over the empty hall and the silent, paused city beyond the window.
“This,” he sighed contentedly, tossing a chip down to the museum floor, “is the only way to enjoy a Tuesday. Utter silence, complete freedom, and absolutely zero queueing.”
The silence stretched on, vast and delightful. John settled in for a long, magnificently lonely afternoon, already planning tomorrow's itinerary: learning to fly a helicopter, just slightly. And perhaps ordering a city-wide pizza delivery, just to see if anyone was still listening.
-The End-