How Long is Forever?

A friend from Iceland asked me if I'd want to live forever. Started this idea that went on a rampage in my head.

   An alarm clock blared it's annoying, repetitive shriek of a tone in the early morning. The sun had not yet risen and that made the flashing green digital numbers of the clock's face even more painful. The tone was the kind that could not be ignored, no matter how many times you slapped the snooze buttons or under how many pillows you buried your head. So Jonothan did what he only could: he slapped the damned thing. Hard. Hard enough to tear it out of the socket and sending it crashing to his bedroom floor. Now he was awake.
   He was pissed and he had to piss.
  His routine was a simple one: get up, shower, shave (if he was getting a little scruffy. Can't have that, now could we?), get dressed, grab a quick breakfast and then off to work, the perfect little drone in the hive that is corporate America. Well, he wasn't exactly a part of corporate America, per se.
   It occurred to him just how small and pathetic he truly was whilst in the shower. His erection hurt and it made his piss stream upwards. What did he care? It was in the shower. He could just wash it away. But his thoughts always drifted back to himself.
   S**t. After everything that's happened, Jon, look at you. A f*****g janitor.
   He was a janitor for one of America's biggest companies. Something to do with software or computers or other. Not that he cared nor did he ever inquire about who, exactly, he worked for. All he cared about was his paycheck and whether someone pissed or left s**t all over the floors of his bathrooms.
   Shower done and hair dried, he stepped back into his room and threw on his uniform; that instantly identifiable one piece jumper, colored grey, that signified his profession as a professional shoveler of s**t. Dressed, he made his way to work and did not lock his door to the apartment (forgot - in a rush now that he was almost late. Skipped breakfast too. Again.) He raced to the train station just down the block from his house and nearly tripped down the concrete and metal stairs that led into the yawning opening of the underground. He whipped out his train card and swiped it once - twice (infernal machine saying "too fast" the first try!) and just barely, by a hair, caught the train into the city.
   The crowd on the train was, as usual, huge and varied. A real melting pot. There were people in suits, people in ripped clothing, people with tattoos, people with children, people with dogs or bicycles. Anyone and everyone conglomerated onto the morning train. And naturally, they had their own drama and gossip about them. The banter made Jonothan sick. Wasn't anyone educated anymore? Did they only care about celebrities and brainless drama? Jonothan sat by himself and mused over what was around him and it soured his mood even more. Once the train rumbled into his stop, he was all too glad to be rid of that s**t and nearly bolted off the train entirely. The street above was a reflection of the train below, even worse; it was smelly, louder and much more crowded. But Jonothan didn't mind. He was constantly moving and wasn't forced to hear the crap spouting from the mouths of passerby. Too bad he wasn't a janitor for humanity, huh?
   The building he worked in was one of several huge skyscrapers that jutted upward from the cement like tall spears of glass and steel girdles. The buildings looked like onyx spires thrust upward from the ground by some titanic hand, all black edges and angles, being set aflame in the rising sun. He entered through the revolving door and crossed the huge, ornate marble entrance floor.
   "Good morning, John!" the pretty receptionist called from her spot behind a desk and computer.
   "Morning," he lamely called back as he entered the elevator.
   He was absolutely amazed that she remembered his name and then realized that he had no idea what hers were. Had they met? He didn't recall ever stopping to say more than "good morning" to her or ever getting her name. All she was to him, truly, was eye candy and a passing thought. He rode the elevator up to the thirtieth floor, got out and made way for his "office" - the janitorial closet.
   Uh oh! His boss, a Mr. Dekas, a fat, greasy wad of a man, was waiting, arms crossed, outside the closets door. His face reddened as Jonothan approached, opened the closet and retrieved his wheely-bucket, cleaning chemicals and mop.
   "You're late," Dekas said.
   "Sorry," Jonothan said.
   "You've been late every day this week so far. A few more slip ups and you're facing pay cuts. Or, f**k, I can find a f*****g Mexican to replace you in a heartbeat. One more late arrival, Jonothan, and you're f*****g fired."
   "I'm sorry, Mr. Dekas. It won't happen again."
   "It better. And one more thing before I let you go: I catch you f*****g around again, you're out. That goes for sleeping or jerking off in the stalls. Understood?"
   "Yessir!" Jonothan mocked saluted and wheeled off to the thirtieth floor's bathroom.
   He passed people who actually worked in the building along the way. He's been working here for years and he's never seen them before, nor have they seen him. For all he knew, this company upstairs could be directing the fate of the country - or perhaps the world - and he would be none the wiser. He was a guppy amidst whales.
    Wait. Guppies are fish..... whales aren't....
   He opened the bathroom door and wheeled his tools of the trade inside. Good. It was empty. He wouldn't have to face the awkwardness that occurs between a company worker and a janitor doing his work. The silence killed him. Armed with his mop, he dabbed it in the bucket's chemical mix water and began mopping back and forth. He started with the stalls first; those usually were graced with presents or messes.  But today they were fairly clean. So he began to mop the floor by the sinks and driers. He passed by the huge single piece of glass that was the room's mirror, pausing to study his reflection.
   If you had a photograph of Jonothan eighty years ago and compared it with his reflection today, the image would be exactly the same. It had been this way ever since Jonothan was a young man, all those decades ago. Eons ago.
   You see, Jonothan wasn't born in America, or in the eighties or seventies as his appearance suggests. Rather, he was born in Greece when the country was still divided up into city-states and Zeus was still head honcho. His life there (as far as he could remember - which isn't much) was uneventful until his early adult years when he was called to war against a neighboring city state.
   He remembered waiting in that line of soldiers, clutching shield and spear, ankle deep in snow, just waiting for the enemy to come into view and charge. Their breath clouded into thick mist in the chill air. He was shaking and his fellows cast nervous glances about them. And then the alarm was raised: the enemy was in sight across the plain and they were running. They approached at full-speed, mouths open, teeth bared and dripping saliva, like wild wolves, without heed for safety or order. And those screams and shouts they made....
   The two lines clashed together with a sound like thunder. He remembered thrusting his spear outward, raising his shield slightly, catching a man on the shoulder. The man effectively ran himself through and Jonothan had to tear his spear free from the man's body. He hacked and slashed as more approached, throwing themselves mindlessly against his city-state's lines. He felt the warm spray of blood caress his face. But his enemy did not stop. They kept coming and coming and coming until, eventually, Jonothan's people were overwhelmed and he was left a bloody mess in the snow. He remembered praying to Zeus to save him, permit him to live another day and survive this, and then passing out. He awoke back home, bandaged and aching, but alive - the only survivor. He eventually married and had children..... and then the full effect of his blessing smacked him in the face.
   He outlived his wife, which was in and of itself a natural occurrence, but then outlived his children. He himself hadn't aged a day and he was shunned as being a "sorcerer" or something of the sorts. Watching your children being buried, themselves old and withered with age, changes a man and so he fled Greece for Europe.
   He was on the boat when the New World was discovered. He was there when America, then not having fifty states, gained it's independence from England. He was there for it all; the invention of automobiles, the radio, the television....
   And he was certainly there for both World Wars, serving in World War II.
   He was a marine, fighting in the Pacific, combating the Japanese step-by-step on those islands. He remembered being assigned as a sniper to his platoon, climbing trees or laying down on cliffs or beachheads and then picking off Japanese soldiers one-by-one. As the Americans neared Japan, he recalled one particular incident. He remembered climbing the tree. He remembered aiming down the sight of his Springfield sniper rifle and spotting a Japanese soldier in their encampment. Below, his own friends and fellows were approaching, just waiting to be unleashed onto the unsuspecting Japs. He remembered singling out one particular soldier; a young man, like he was, lithe and thin, scholarly in appearance, with a feminine face. He remembered staring at the man who he'd never know through that scope. In another life, they might've been friends.
   He remembered his finger twitching.... but it wasn't a twitch, he pulled the trigger.
   That girl face was no more as the man's head exploded in a shower of blood and gore.
   He remembered dropping the next soldier, blowing his legs out from under him, the arteries blown and spraying blood wildly, like garden hoses.
   And then the war was over with Japan's surrender after two of their cities were wiped off the face of the earth. And Jonothan found himself at the military base in which he signed up for the war, in California.
   "Look, John, there isn't anything we have for you. There's no work," the desk sergeant said to him. "The war's over. Go home. Your family has been waiting for you. I'm sure they'll be damn happy to know you're alive. Go back home and see the family, John. It was a helluva fight."
   "Yeah. The family will be happy," he lied.
   He did not fight in any wars afterwards.
   What happened? he found himself wondering. Where are you? Why aren't you answering me? Are you there?
   He saw many religions during his time on the earth, praised many gods and demigods and deities. But they weren't his gods. Zeus and Athena and Hades were all gone - dead or forgotten, he never could tell - and this new God that took their place was so... alien. Foreign. It wasn't the same and his prayers were all left unanswered.
   What happened to you?
   He stared at himself in the mirror, long and hard. He still looked the same; that bleary faced young man with brown hair and blue eyes. But something was different. Something was off. Was it the lighting in this s**t bathroom? No..... he looked different. He leaned in closer to study himself. There were bags under his eyes, leaden black in color. He looked tired. Worn out.
   Holy hell, Jon. You look like s**t.
   He scoffed. Ran a hand through his hair. He looked down at his mop and bucket, frowned even more.
   F**k this.
   He left them right where they were and stormed out of the building. That fat f**k Dekas was nowhere to be found and that disappointed Jonothan. He wanted to rip him a new a*****e and formally quit. Oh, well. Just leaving and never coming back would have to suffice. He retraced his steps home, still angry at Dekas for treating him like s**t.
   After, what? Six years working there? F**k you....
   He knelt and reached under his bed and pulled out a wooden box, flipped it open. The box held mementos of the years; medals from World War One and Two, photographs of fallen friends or friends long since dead. He had letters from lovers, addressed well into the eighteen hundreds, yellowed with time. And underneath that all, was a revolver pistol, a souvenir from his time in the Pacific. Six bullets sat in the revolving chamber, unused but still very much deadly. He gathered the pistol, kicked the box back under the bed and entered his bathroom.
   He sat down on the toilet and pressed the barrel of the gun hard into his forehead. The metal was cold. His mind was reeling with memories and emotions. Tears seeped from his eyes. He pressed the gun against his skin harder.
   And then he pulled the trigger.
   There was a loud bang and the gun clattered to the floor. Everything went dark. He was disappointed by this.... he expected the light that everyone spoke of. But there was no light, just complete and utter darkness. Time seemed to slow to a crawl but the darkness relented. It gave way to the sight of a white tiled bathroom. A silver revolver, glinting sharply in the light, sat on the floor a few feet away.
   His head hurt like hell.