Denzel Washington stars in the post-apocalyptic

The Book of Eli.

^{Courtesy photo}

My wife has said many times that she married me because she was certain I would save her in the event of an apocalypse.

She gets her paranoia honestly. The product of African, Native American, and Jewish ancestors, there is a tortured history of persecution, enslavement, extermination, and diaspora woven deeply into her genetic makeup. The Inquisition, The Middle Passage, the Trail of Tears, the Final Solution—these are the historical events imprinted within her DNA. Of course she’s a little on edge.

One branch of her family is native to Louisiana. Hurricane Katrina brought the message home: At any minute, the idyll you are living can burst like a levee, and you’ll find yourself trapped in your attic, muddy waters rising, trying to break a hole though your roof with a gardening trowel and a rolling pin.

That she sees me as her champion is of course what you want as a husband. Not exactly the white knight sort of image to which one would normally aspire, I suppose, maybe a bit twisted, but it’s nice to feel needed—no doubt she thinks of me fondly as this bald, bearded, 5-foot-5-inch fire extinguisher fitted into the wall of her psychic house, faithfully recharged once a year by a service man, ever ready to perform should she need protecting: In Case of Holocaust Break Glass.

Which leaves me standing in the breach, I suppose, holding my hose in my hand...

I’m thinking about all of this for a confluence of reasons. First, there’s the revelation that NBA oddball Gilbert Arenas was keeping four guns in his safe in the locker room at the facility occupied by the Washington Wizards, which used to be called the Washington Bullets before the murder rate in the U.S. capitol soared to number one in the nation some years ago—right about the time the mayor was caught in a hotel room smoking crack with a hooker (whose presence had been brokered by the cops… ah, for those peaceful years of the Drug War, when the only people you had to worry about were the cops).

It probably didn’t help any that instead of saying he was sorry, Arenas did a little dance on the sidelines before the next game. His teammates surrounded him, egging him on. Somehow, while dancing, he got the really cool idea to playfully form his hands into a pair of schoolyard guns, pow pow pow. The whole thing probably started out with innocent intent—just a bunch of 6-foot-plus millionaire ballers, goofin’ around and being guys. Seeing it later on the web, I was reminded one of those line dance segments they used to have on Soul Train—Agent Zero taking his turn in the center spotlight.

Not exactly what the folks up in the NBA’s front office had in mind in the way of contrition, I suppose.

Justice has been notably swift. (See if you can name one case, exclusive of an episode of Law and Order, where justice was dispensed so quickly.) Arenas has pleaded guilty to a felony. He faces six months in jail. He’ll likely lose upward of $110 million in salary and endorsements. Like Mike Vick with his pit bulls, Gilbert Arenas is done. Like they say, stick a fork in him.

According to a recent Gallup pole, three of every 10 Americans own guns. Forty percent of Americans live with someone who owns a gun. Whether you know it or not, whether you like it or not, some of your friends and neighbors are frickin' strapped. I read somewhere that Arenas had his guns in his safe deposit box at work because he didn’t want them around his kids at home. Clearly, one man’s idea of good judgment is another man’s felony in this vast country of ours.

Gilbert Arenas: It doesn't pay

to play with guns.

^{Courtesy photo}

As Gilbert’s story plays in real time, the theaters are awash with doom. I watched The Road with my wife and 15-year-old son on either side of me in the dark theater. I wondered what it would be like to be Viggo Mortensen, dying like that on a cold, wet beach, knowing you have to leave your little boy alone to deal with the end times by himself. There was one wife who clearly did not trust her husband to protect her. As luck would have it, the theater was cold, and I had my hoodie pulled up. I don’t think anyone detected my occasional sobs, one of which manifested itself as a particularly loud hiccup of emotion, forcing me to pretend I needed to cough and clear my throat.

Having been though the emotional wringer (must I mention at this point that I also carry the Holocaust gene?), I wouldn’t have seen The Book of Eli, but after all, it was Denzel. (It is a matter of faith in the African American community—you can’t be black and miss a Denzel opening. It reminds me of when I was young and Sandy Koufax, the famous Jewish baseball player, refused to pitch during the High Holidays. You were just proud to say that he was one of yours; the word is kvelling.)

The movie was dark but visually interesting as these post-apocalyptic things usually are. And Denzel was great as always—and really in amazing shape for a guy two years older than me. You know he had to do some of those moves himself; just one of those twisting kicks would have put my back out for a week.

And what about this recurring theme of cannibalism?

Is that what really lies in store?

If that is the case, if there is an end time in real time—if the next holocaust is somehow brought down upon us, or if the great light blinds us, or if the computers become spontaneously sentient and take over like in Terminator, or if there’s a great natural cataclysm like The Day After Tomorrow, or if, God forbid, my own individual number in sunny San Diego comes up as it has recently in Haiti, the images of which haunt us daily on every news outlet that can possibly commandeer our time and attention—if the worst does happen and everything becomes chaos, I’m going to be at a distinct disadvantage.

Viggo had his gun with its lousy two bullets.

Denzel had his own little arsenal. (Man, how did he store all that stuff under his coat? Was he a great packer or what?)

And me?

I have my two months of training in hand-to-hand combat with a pair of Marines stationed in Washington, D.C. nearly 30 years ago. I have my post-hippie liberal sentiment that people who own guns are most likely to be killed by guns. And I have my son’s aluminum bat, left over from his last season of baseball. I think he was 9 years old—it’s less than adult size, I’m sure they have a name for that. I keep in the closet: the club with which I will defend my cave.

If the end time comes, in other words, stick a fork in me.

My family and I will be dinner.