How Dez Bryant’s Dinner Ruined America

July 16, 2037

Diary,

An empty day, even as empty days go. Spent all morning searching the land south of the highway. Spotted a can of baked beans, but didn’t take it, as I was suspicious of a trap. The Strangers set many traps. That is how Hanson died.

Food inventory: three cans of creamed corn, a jar of tamales, a matchbox filled with peppercorns, two apples, one with a bite in it that has browned over. Last night I took a bite out of it, then remembered a day I spent as a child, an ancient day. The sun was shining. I picked up an apple and my mother warned me to wash it. “Rinse it off first, honey,” she said. “You don’t know where it’s been.” I looked up, and the sky was a fading gray, and I set down the apple and wept and then fell asleep.

I dreamed of America. At least, it must have been America, because it was bright. I think I was walking through a city. There were people, and lights, and a man leaning out of a taxi window, shaking his fist. I did not know what made him angry. People don’t speak in my dreams anymore.

Weeks ago -- did I tell you this, Diary? -- weeks ago, I was searching through a grocery store. This was where I found the creamed corn. I walked through aisles of collapsed shelves and long-spoiled perishables. A fly buzzed near my ear, and I swatted it dead, and there was silence. And then I heard a door creak open. I reached for my broken broom handle.

Out of the deli staggered an old man. I stayed my broom handle. He was in frail health. “What happened?” he said. “Where did everyone go? What happened?”

He was not of sound mind. He could not remember what had happened. I could have left him there to enjoy his final days in an abandoned Kroger. Perhaps I should have. “Sit down,” I said.

“One evening, in 2010, Bryant treated his teammates to dinner at a restaurant.”

“That was nice of him!”

“Well, it was a sort of hazing ritual.”

The old man recoiled, pressed his face into his hands, and began to scream. Perhaps he was present during the 2028 Hazing. Perhaps he was simply mad. After a few moments, it passed.

”Bryant spent $55,000 on this meal. There were starving people in the world, and yet he spent the money to buy food and wine for his friends. It was disgusting. Dreadful. Some tried to warn us. We should have listened.”

“What happened then?” asked the old man, staring at me with the eyes of a child. And then his face changed. His eyes cast downward. He made a wince, as though physically pained. “I had... forgotten. I wish Dez Bryant could have not spent a bunch of money that night. It ruined America.”

“Why,” he continued, “were more people not outraged by his actions?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “but that is how it started.” I fished the recently-gotten creamed corn from my knapsack. “Would you like to share this with me? It looks as though you haven’t eaten in days.”

He waved it away. “No,” he said. “Your story was my dinner, and sadness shall be my dessert.” I left him.

Diary, do you believe that Dez Bryant knew what he was bringing about? I don’t. Even when America shone at its brightest, I imagined that it would be felled not by intent, but by thoughtless accident. And I believe that I was right.

I mean, $55,000 on a bunch of wine? Get outta town! Spoiled millionaire crybabies. Just goes to show you.

Time for bed. No trees to climb here. Must dig a hole, lay in hole, pull the blanket over me. If the Strangers find me, it will not be for lack of effort.