Please, if you would, indulge me.

Close your eyes and imagine nothing. Nothing but darkness. Stillness and silence. Take a deep breath and just be in this moment of peace.

And then?

A glow from all around. But faint. Not bright enough to make out details. Could it be the cautious light at the very dawn of creation coming to warm the sky? Yes. I think so. And if you strain to listen, you can just hear a low tone. It sounds like a bow caressing a violin string—as soft and sly as a breeze that sends dandelion fluff to tumble across your cheek. That lovely note brings to mind a voice—a voice so close to human that you tilt your head in concentration just in case it turns into a word. And then the bow changes direction, plowing along the string with force. Light surges from everywhere. Yellow. Rich. Warm. The bow now dances—not too fast—from string to string. Music, languid and resonant. The entire world breathes in and out with this music, as bright light gently pulses from above and below, coloring in the details of the prairies, the jungles, the swelling curve of the ocean’s rolling surface. Look there! Clouds and birds…the entire natural world brought into being, just like that.

How can this glorious reality exist every second of every day and yet we dismiss it as commonplace? It is gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, when we look at it closely: the mundane profundity of existence.

But, wait. The music. Did it falter? Was that a note in a different key? Has the rhythm changed? Then changed again? That fingering can’t be right. A squeal, a growl—not music at all. This yowling atonal racket is knotted and wadded and thrown down at the ground time and again. It fumbles and jitters like hiccups. Or uncontrollable sobbing. The music has degenerated into an unstable bestial cacophony as if some impassioned simian were orgasmically sawing away upon that delicate musical instrument with spasm after spasm after spasm.

You just want it to stop. Even if you found the initial novelty intriguing, it can no longer be endured. But it just keeps building. The din now edged far beyond madness.

Are you still with me?

Wonderful.

That was what the Changes were like.

A beautiful symphony ruined by a monkey copulating with a Stradivarius.

Of course, the tumultuous time of the Changes has ended. Might it return? I don’t know. But I made it through, mostly intact. And, if you’re reading this (my story), you did as well.

Congratulations!

By the way, please, call me Sy. Silverio Moreno is how I sign my business contracts. But, friends? They call me Sy. That’s been me since I was a boy. Sy, like “sigh,” what the girls and the boys were supposed to do when I approached. Especially the boys. Clutch a hand to a chest and sigh. You know, because I was so dreamy. Or so I wished. Though, in reality, the lads weren’t gasping at the sight of my chiseled jaw or boudoir eyes. This forced me to discover other ways to attract attention. Humor. Endearing eccentricities. Even outrageous behavior, if I took a particular shine to you.

Eventually I realized that the best way to get noticed was to come into your home five nights a week. Through your television set.

Brilliant, wouldn’t you agree?

I should add a point of clarification. This wasn’t narcissism—well, not simple narcissism. My main goal was to advance social progress. And to those who would consider the work of producing and appearing in a game show as an inauspicious vehicle with which to achieve such elevated goals, let me just say, you work with what you’ve been given. Besides, I had a plan. An audacious plan! And all a man with a plan really needed was a tall enough soapbox to climb upon, clear his throat, and begin to flex his visionary muscles.

Let me just say, in our post-apocalyptic world brought about by the Changes, human society could use as many visionaries as it could get.

Ah, the Changes.

What a time!

It lasted barely over a year, but what a thrill ride! Exciting. Well, exciting for those of us who enjoy thrill rides. Reality in constant flux!

People loved to talk about the big stuff. The Atlas Mountains inverting into a majestic canyon, or the Massive Marshmallow of Melbourne that vanished as inexplicably as it appeared…but not before smooshing oodles of Australians.

Personally, I favored those smaller episodes of weirdness. The quirky and not so tragic.

Take February 17, 2021. The day that never happened. Every location on Earth skipped from Tuesday to Thursday. Every location but the front bedroom of a small house in Fort Stockton, Texas. And ever since, it has lagged one day behind the rest of the world. For a six dollar admission fee, you could walk in and visit yesterday. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see in that little room. Sure, you could look out the grimy window and see yesterday’s crowd of the curious standing in line to take a peek, but other than that…well, one day in Fort Stockton was much the same as another. Still, it was technically time travel.

At some point during all this unruly chaos, the insanity just stopped. Some of the impossibilities went away, while others, like that bedroom in Fort Stockton, stayed with us. Aluminum foil remains lighter than air. Carrots are blue. Orange juice is alcoholic. Stuff like that.

And then there’s the perplexing matter of the decreased population. The millions upon millions of human beings who just went away, never to return. But where to? In my rainbow and unicorn moments, I’d say to Cancun. But on darker days, I imagine some crowded and murky pit where the stone walls are licked by eternal hellfire.

But I’m veering off topic.

I was going to tell you a story. My story.

Let me begin with the city of San Antonio, Texas. That friendly city with the small town feel where I produced my very first game show. The year, 2025. We all had done our best to put the Changes behind us and were busying living our lives the best way we could.

I might have been a TV celebrity with a visionary plan—a secret visionary plan—but I still had a job to do. I wouldn’t remain relevant in show business if I wasn’t able to give my viewers the best entertainment possible.

No matter who you were—rich or poor—or where you lived in the city of San Antonio, at seven o’clock in the evening, Monday through Friday, I guarantee you were in front of a television screen for the full thirty minutes of Serpientes y Escaleras.

The most popular show on TV.

Sure, you could nitpick. “Sy,” you might say, “don’t you mean the only show on TV?” While technically true, the fact was, no one had to watch. They could read a book, schedule a ukulele lesson, any number of diversions. But they didn’t.

They tuned in to watch our contestants compete against one another.

You see, people needed something to rally around. Some shared communal experience. It’s what televisions does so well. Whether you were alone in a penthouse apartment with a massive home entertainment system, or sitting shoulder to shoulder in some seedy bar with a hushed crowd watching an antiquated RCA set held together with wire and packing tape, you were all the same, all one. The audience. My audience. I saw you, every weekday night. Well, in my mind’s eye, that is. I imagined an enormous wall of all your ghostly faces inclined, mouths agape, taking in the human drama of Serpientes y Escaleras.

We broadcasted it live from high atop La Vida Tower, the tallest building in town.

I mentioned a penthouse earlier. Well, I had one of those. The entire top floor of La Vida Tower was all mine. Directly beneath my penthouse, on the two floors below, were the production offices and studios for Serpientes y Escaleras.

My humble empire will be the setting to begin the story.

Now I need an opening scene to get the action rolling.

But what? So much has happened.

How about a tasty flashback? Who wouldn’t want to hear about the time I rode a wholly mammoth—bareback, mind you—through the Davis Mountains? Or, I could jump ahead in time and provide a sort of teaser. Like that space battle, or maybe my tussle with a cold-blooded serial killer, resurrected from the dead!

No. It’s best to build up to those things.

Ham.

Let’s begin with ham.

It was a late Saturday afternoon in my grand penthouse. Usually the weekend was a time for unwinding. Joviality. Pursuing hobbies between bouts of napping and snacking. But not this Saturday.

My entire production crew had suffered through an unusual and stressful week, and there was really no place in La Vida Tower one could escape the tension. I recalled the advice of a guru from my college years. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs from the bottom up. Trying to realign the ol’ chakras.

Cooking also helped to relax me. So I busied myself in the kitchen. My penthouse was done in what interior designers liked to call an open plan, meaning there were no walls. The entire top floor of La Vida Tower spread out all around me. This allowed me to prepare dinner while keeping an eye on any unusual activity way over in the dining area.

On the night I begin my story, two women sat at the massive table. First, there was Saligia Jones. My dear Sal! She was the true star of Serpientes y Escaleras—the show’s hostess. Tonight, though, she sat stiff and awkward in her chair, her eyes focused on nothing at all. Across from her sat Ida Mayfield, who was busy scribbling notes in a large black binder. Ida was one of the more humorless of the Network’s executives. She had arrived late yesterday evening on that special train that was too special even for me. And, don’t forget, I had a penthouse.

But I’m getting off track.

Ham.

I pulled it from the oven and slid it on to a scarlet ceramic platter. Magnificent! The homey aroma wrapped around me like one of grandma Moreno’s Christmas sweaters. I placed all of the food on a rolling cart. I tried to remain upbeat as I steered the sumptuous dinner-for-three across the dense-piled ocher carpet, meandering around the casual clusters of overstuffed sofas.

Life would run much smoother without intrusions from the Network heads. Don’t get me wrong, I was a big boy who knew how to handle them. But Sal did not do well whenever they arrived in town, usually unannounced. Their meddlesome presence threw her into an agitated state.

And, dammit! Sal and I worked with the Network, not for them.

Of course Ida and her colleagues didn’t see things that way, which explained why Ida had seated herself at the head of my dining table. She didn’t even look up as I came to a stop alongside her. I carved three generous slices of ham and transferred them to her plate. Then I added some potatoes and roasted chayote squash. Ida’s pink lipstick and the matching nail polish did nothing to soften her features which, though not what one would call masculine, were nonetheless devoid of feminine warmth.

I continued along with the cart, pausing to place some food on both my plate and that of the still unresponsive Sal.

When I took a seat, I found myself fidgeting and wondering if there might be some plausible excuse to dart back to the kitchen.

The funny thing was, I considered myself to be the king of the uncomfortable silence. People were supposed to squirm around me. It was a wonderful tool to gain and then maintain the upper hand.

But Ida was not like other people.

She made even me nervous. Me, Silverio Moreno!

“I trust you had a pleasant journey, Ida,” was the opening sally of my small talk, I’m not proud to admit.

Her eyes rose to meet mine. She blinked like one of those pet shop lizards. It was only when she placed her glasses on her face that she seemed to regard me—and only grudgingly so—as a fellow sentient being.

“I thought you’d know me well enough by now, Sy, to realize I detest travel. Especially to these tedious backwater towns where everyone is gasping in the thin air of their cultural vacuum.”

“My dear Ida, your visits never last long enough for you to enjoy the subtle charm of our quaint town.” I chuckled softly, hoping to soften her mood. “I was once like yourself. Back before the Changes. Always on the move. Constantly gadding about. However, these days it seems I’ve become a provincial homebody like the rest of the citizens of the Alamo City.”

My congeniality was wasted. Her eyes remained trained on me, but her voice rose a bit in volume and timber.

“Things are out of control! What happened Wednesday night will have repercussions for some time to come.”

I sipped some sparkling water to allow Ida to take a couple of breaths before I spoke. “With the unpredictability of live television,” I began, “one should expect the occasional—”

“Don’t give me that crap. This wasn’t some act of God. You know we don’t allow mentally ill contestants on this show. You folks are not equipped. Besides, it’s awful for ratings.”

“Sometimes the grim and tragic make for the best television,” I explained. That sounded great! I love when an unrehearsed statement had the flavor of wisdom. When Ida failed to respond, I reminded her how popular our show was.

“It’s not hard to be the most popular show in town when you’re the only show in town,” she shot back.

“What I meant,” I said, trying to hide my frustration, “was elsewhere, as well. I mean, as I understand things, we’re quite popular even in Los Angeles. You told me that yourself.”

Ida blinked at me. Then she returned to her notes.

I looked over at Sal, ready to give (or maybe even receive?) some moral support. But she was just looking down at her plate of food.

Her shoulders were lifted just an inch higher than usual. No one else would have noticed, but I knew she was all clenched together inside, like a house on the bayou shuttered and readied to wait out the coming tropical storm.

Sal never changed. People said the same of me, but they were just being polite. I could see the erosion of the years grinding away almost every day when I looked in the mirror. However, time seemed not to touch Sal. Her face never wrinkled nor sagged. Her slender hands remained sure and strong, and the clear skin of her face held smooth and firm. True, she could be sullen, or wildly animated, but she almost always carried herself with an aristocratic bearing, as though under close scrutiny by a rapt audience.

Sal had the aloof and vaguely mature beauty of a perfume model.

But that facade didn’t always hold during times of high drama.

And we had just been through some drama indeed.

In fact, I saw her flinch when Ida abruptly slammed shut her binder.

“How did this happen?” she demanded. “Where in the vetting process did this slip through? Saligia?”

And there it was. The facade breaking. A twitching at the corner of Sal’s mouth.

“This talk makes my head feel so compressed,” Sal said in a raspy whisper. She hated confrontation, especially from the Network brass. With a pitiable moan she raised up both hands and held them a few inches out from her temples as if she wore an invisible fishbowl on her head. After dragging in a deep breath, she announced, “I’m going for air.”

She stood up, assembled a couple of sandwiches from some dinner rolls and ham, and then made her way to the ladder that led up to the deck on the roof.

I could hardly blame her. Besides, the show was my responsibility. Being the boss had its sobering and lonely moments. The last few days had been some of the heaviest I’ve experienced in some time.

The thing is, I was not by nature the leader type. In fact, I blundered into the whole TV empire thing by accident. That was why I needed to employ bravado or distraction when others simply used savvy.

Then there was the little matter of the Changes. It had shattered and scrambled the world. No one in San Antonio even knew what was out there beyond the wastelands surrounding us. There were no radio broadcasts, no Internet, and even though the only thing remotely resembling an intact government beyond this city was a television network that was kind enough to broadcast my humble offering of entertainment, the people working for that entity—the Network—were astonishingly stingy with sharing any useful information. You could ask them important questions all day long only to received stony silence—and that often was delivered with a patronizing expression of pity.

But, as I said, I was the captain of the good ship Serpientes y Escaleras, so I put on my best game face and prepared the defense of my team. I would remind Ida that we, citizens of this “tedious backwater town,” were expected to stumble, at times, if not given a comprehensive understanding of the rules of the game.

Ida was watching impassively as Sal’s slippered feet disappeared from sight at the top of the ladder, after which the hatch in the ceiling settled back flush with the masonry.

I was still mentally constructing my stirring speech, when Ida turned her attention back to me.

“There needs to be a full report on this incident by tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “And maybe your staff could display enough gumption to show their faces. I don’t care if it is the weekend.” Ida dropped a knob of butter on her potatoes. “I mean, good lord, Sy, we’re in damage control here!”

She leaned far over her plate, as if anticipating me to challenge her.

I nodded, deciding to give Ida the last word. At least for the moment.

Ida soon left for one of the suites the Network provided their executives down on the fifth floor of La Vida Tower. I cleared the table and did some washing up in the kitchen. With a quick adjustment to the master dimmer switch, I brought down the light to all the fixtures in the penthouse until they matched the ambient glow from the city out the windows. Afternoon had given way to a lovely sunset. I walked over to where my 500-gallon fish tank cast a rippling of turquoise light across the floor. Cleo, my blue-ringed octopus, drifted up to the glass as I used a delicate net to transfer from a smaller tank two frisky and fat shrimp and dropped them in with her. Cleo, however, ignored her tasty new companions. She seemed as listless and dispirited as I felt.

I grabbed a bottle of rum and a short highball glass and climbed up to the roof. If you think it takes skill to ascend a ladder with only one hand, you’d be right.

It was a cool night, and some stars glinted from between drifting scraps of low clouds. Scattered among the potted flowers and herbs were dozens of Sal’s little bamboo cages holding her menagerie of crickets. Their metallic chirps created a smooth wall of noise that never failed to sooth me.

I walked past Sal’s humble wooden hut—really little more than a pigeon coop. In her flimsy sanctuary she kept a cot, a desk, and some books. Over near the gas grill, I lowered myself into one of the redwood Adirondack chairs. I placed the bottle and glass on the wooden deck.

That was when I heard it. The familiar squeak of rusty hinges as Sal peered out from behind the door of her little wooden shack. Realizing that we were alone, she came over and sat in the chair beside me. Together we looked off into the distance as the gibbous moon began lifting over the horizon.

The situation seemed grim. But one thing had not changed. Sal and I were still the awesome duo of television visionaries that had set the airwaves afire! Our show gave people a firm rock on which to stand—a solid foundation after the unsettling and shifting sand we all fumbled through during the Changes.

My gift to all those in range of our broadcast tower: Serpientes y Escaleras! Five nights a week, fifty-two weeks a year.

What we gave to our audience was a sense of purpose. The Changes left so many feeling impotent, powerless. But we gave them hope—a sort of vicarious hope—through one lucky contestant who, each and every show, won a prize of unimaginable value.

We served a purpose. And, dammit, we weren’t going anywhere. That unpleasant tragedy which had brought Ida Mayfield sniffing around our home was no small thing. Of course not. But we were survivors, Sal and I.

I looked inward, to where I kept my resolve. I took a deep breath. Optimism is a muscle, of sorts. And, like any muscle, you dare not let it lie idle. I can imagine nothing more unattractive than flabby optimism.

“What happened to us, Sy?” Sal whispered. I turned to look at her face bathed in moonlight.

“Pardon?”

“People used to respect us,” she said, her lips hinting at but failing to make a smile. “There were even flashes of fear. But now, we’re so…domesticated.”

Silverio Moreno, domesticated? Sal knew me better than that.

“I have a plan, Sal,” I told her, waving my hand to chase away her unease of the Network visit. “Remember?” But even I could hear the uncertainty, the flabbiness in my words.

“I know,” she said. She looked down at the bottle of liquor beside me, the seal still unbroken. “Your plan.”

Optimism, I reminded myself. Optimism!

It was my job to lift Sal’s spirits. I couldn’t leave her hanging. The Electric Harangue, someone once had called my energetic pep talks. Or was it the Dynamic Diatribe?

Actually, in retrospect, neither descriptor sounded flattering.

No matter.

“The Plan,” I said with the old fire in my voice. “Yes, Sal. The Plan! It is so close I can feel its breath on my cheek. I have almost every piece needed to fully implement it. Don’t lose hope!”

But before I could dial up my haranguery to a hard boil, she interrupted. It was almost a whisper.

“It’s late, Sy. Go to bed.”

With that, she stood and retreated to her hut. Quietly she closed the plywood door, abandoning me to the pulsating night-song of the crickets.

Something began to build in me, shifting from my mind to my chest. My plan. It soon was burning as bright as the sun at noon—humming louder than a million crickets. And this (still not fully formed) plan of mine was going to happen in ways I could not even begin to fathom.

I didn’t know it was providence or pure ignorant chance that brought me to that place and that time, but it was obvious (certainly to me) that I had an obligation to become that agent of change that the world, still scrambled and broken, needed.

If you, dear reader, thought the time of the Changes flew far beyond the limits of comprehension, keep reading. Things are about to take off!

My optimism had returned. It was far from enfeebled or flabby. The surging vigor of my confidence could only be likened to the bunched-up and distended pectorals of an oiled bodybuilder. Arrogant, unapologetic, and thrillingly indecent.