We Need More Laws

Somewhere in the Midwest, between the sirens of tornadoes and the cries of cornfields, a man named Arthur Winslow bought an impossibly expensive telescope. This wasn’t just any telescope; it could probably see the furrows on God’s brow if God leaned in close enough. His fascination wasn’t with the stars, which many presumed. It was the debris, the detritus of the cosmos. Those chunks of rock called meteors, which sped through the dark, crashing into our delicate blue globe.

Arthur, a regular at the local library, wasn’t content with peering through his telescope. He also consumed every book and research paper he could find on meteors. He was armed with facts, figures, and far-out theories. Charts and graphs filled the walls of his study. The room, which was once a sanctuary for his Sunday afternoon naps, now looked like the scribbled mind of a mad scientist.

He learned of the Tunguska event and the Chelyabinsk meteor. Of meteorites that fell in Namibia and the ones that might have ended the dinosaurs. What stunned him, though, was the sheer number of near misses, the celestial bullets that the Earth dodged, which the general public never even knew about.

And so, like a modern-day Nostradamus, he started making predictions, calculating trajectories, and forecasting meteorological doom. The backyard of his home transformed into a labyrinth of astronomy equipment, with machines that whirred and beeped and blinked at the night sky.

Arthur’s friends, mostly simple folk of the town, loved him, but not his newfound passion. At BBQs and gatherings, while others discussed sports scores and the newest scandal on the television, Arthur would corner anyone who’d listen about meteor trajectories. On one evening, he set up a makeshift projector and started showing satellite images of near misses.

“Artie,” his friend Jerry interrupted, “We’ve got things like pollution and, you know, politicians to deal with. And you’re here talking about rocks from the sky?”

Another chimed in, “Didn’t we have enough of this with the whole Y2K thing?”

Even Sarah, a kind-hearted school teacher who taught kids about the beauty of our universe, whispered during a brunch, “You know, Arthur, there’s a lot happening on this planet right now. Real problems. Maybe you should focus on those instead of looking up all the time.”

It wasn’t that they didn’t care. It’s just that people, being the beautifully flawed creatures they are, often prefer the dangers they know and can see, like a smog-filled sky, over the ones they don’t, like a chunk of space rock miles away. They’d heard of meteors, sure, but to them, it was a thing of movies and science fiction, not of Sunday brunches.

The world was ablaze with other urgencies, and in the echo chamber of modern concerns, meteors just didn’t make the cut.

And so, Arthur’s message, however dire he believed it to be, was lost in the noise. It was like shouting into a void, and the void just shrugging. But Arthur, with that relentless spirit of his, refused to be deterred.

In the vast tapestry of human affairs, a quirk of fate often has the last laugh, and Arthur was about to become its most tragic joke.

With a fervor only matched by ancient prophets, Arthur launched a website, “MeteorAwareness.org”. Its homepage was adorned with charts, graphs, and a ticker tracking near-Earth objects. He wrote op-eds, appeared on obscure late-night radio shows, and even once got thrown out of a town council meeting for demanding a local meteor monitoring station.

The online world, with its trillion distractions, mostly dismissed him. A Reddit thread mockingly crowned him “Meteor Man”, and memes of Arthur, telescope in hand, warning of falling rocks became a short-lived internet sensation.

As weeks turned to months, even Arthur’s most enduring qualities, his persistence and unwavering dedication, began to wane under the weight of collective indifference. He thought, “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m just a modern-day Chicken Little.”

Then, one starry night, as Arthur was peering into the vast cosmic ocean, a blip appeared on his screen. It was small and almost insignificant. Almost. A meteor, unnoticed by the world’s grand observatories, was on a direct collision course with Earth.

He ran calculations, double-checked, and then triple-checked. In a cruel twist of cosmic irony, this space-bound rock was headed straight for his town. He sounded every alarm he could. Emails, calls, frantic social media posts. “It’s real! It’s happening!” But the digital world scrolled on, amused at another “rant” from Meteor Man.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the world went about its business, a bright streak tore across the sky. Arthur, in a field with his telescope, looked up one last time. He closed his eyes and smiled as the universe, in its profound indifference, confirmed his wildest fears and beliefs.

The meteor, no larger than a baseball, struck him directly. The world moved on, but somewhere in the vast expanse of cyberspace, on a little website called MeteorAwareness.org, a ticker moved from Safe to Impact. And in that fleeting digital moment, Arthur’s legacy, his love and warning both, found its quiet, eternal validation.

Leave a Reply