by Gretchen Tessmer

Chapter I - Location

If you live in Southern California, just move. I know, I know, you’ve almost paid off the mortgage, the kids are excelling at their fancy-shmancy private school. You spotted Sandra Bullock at a Starbucks just the other day. And she smiled and you smiled and you’re basically best friends now. I don’t care.

Call a realtor. You need to move.

Chapter 2 - Wardrobe

Always dress for the occasion. Skip the penguin tuxedo, the evening gown or any other expensive formal wear. They’ll be burnt, oil-stained and/or in shreds by the end of this. Bring a light jacket or umbrella in case it rains. Hazmat suits are optional but never a bad idea. Comfortable shoes are a must. There will be a lot of non-stop running for 1.5-2 hours. The last thing you want to do is start complaining about how much your arches hurt around the halfway mark.

No one likes a whiner.

Chapter 3 - Accessories

Be prepared. Think ahead. The heroes will pack light—a Swiss army knife, a cellphone with that ever-low battery, maybe a hastily-wrapped present for their youngest kid’s birthday party which they were super late for but now it doesn’t matter because, “oh my god, the world is ending.” This is where you can really increase your chance of survival. Definitely consider carrying a first aid kit or a spare oxygen tank for those extended swims through a submerged corridor. Invest in a satellite phone and GPS receiver. And a few sticks of dynamite can make a world of difference when you need to topple a skyscraper to stop a lava flow from encroaching on a heavily populated area downtown. You’ll probably need a license for that sort of thing, though. Contact the ATF for details.

But be careful. The heroes might ask to “borrow” your items late in the film to do something bold and courageous. Make sure to confirm: “But you’re taking me with you, right?” before you hand the goods over.

Trust me. It’s important.

Chapter 4 - Shiny Objects

Don’t press the button. Whatever the button does, wherever you find it, whatever bad-to-middling science it unleashes—don’t push it. Let someone else take that metaphorical (and likely also-not-so-metaphorical) bullet.

Chapter 5 - Senior Discounts

Don’t be a mentor. It’s a thankless role. Avoid being the surrogate mom or dad figure to the main character. Don’t be the wise, if slightly ruffled and eccentric, middle-aged scientist. And if you’re over the age of 70, just stay out of sight until the ending. Grab a coffee, read a newspaper, go to the park, take up skydiving. Really anything outside the set narrative will do.

If you find the main character saying the words, “What would I ever do without you?” in a somber, sentimental tone, please don’t answer back with, “Let’s hope you never have to find out.”

Chapter 6 - Play Dumb

For both natural and man-made disasters, your knowledge of the science involved should be basic but not too extensive. Don’t be too smart. Don’t go finding the explanation for the randomly occurring superstorms too early or you’ll be killed off mid-sentence, almost as soon as you’ve placed the frantic call to the main character, phone clutched tightly against one ear, hand over the other, as you yell above the fiery explosions that are happening in your beach-adjacent, palm-tree-pretty, traditionally-exotic, but certainly non-U.S. based location: “We should have seen it sooner! We should have known! But there’s still time! You just have to—”

*dial tone*

Chapter 7 - Be Smart

But also, don’t be too stupid. I mean, there’s an art to this sort of thing and you have to get it right. Don’t be a blowhard. Don’t deny the obvious, especially when the dam sirens have been going off for hours now and the raging (and ever rising) floodwaters are running straight through the middle of your living room. Once you reach this point, it’s best to say you’re sorry to the people who told you so. Do it quickly and humbly. Be contrite. Hopefully, you were thinking ahead and refrained from insulting the hero in the first 20 minutes of the film. Otherwise, there will likely need to be additional penance. A reckoning, if you will. At best, you’re looking at some ill-timed jokes at your expense. At worst …

You did though, didn’t you? You said something about his cavalier attitude toward authority and his snakeskin cowboy boots. Oh dear.

Chapter 8 - The Art of Discourse

Speaking of what you said, keep the dialogue to a minimum. This isn’t Hamlet, it’s a disaster film. No soliloquies, please. But make sure you say something. Pithy one-liners make points with the audience. Especially if you’re using them appropriately, i.e. to diffuse tension in the moments when the runaway freight train filled with uranium is about to crash into Grand Central Station or the 300-foot tidal wave is about to drown Paris or the alien invasion is underway, and not in the friendly, “we’ve just popped over from the Alpha Centauri system to borrow a cup of sugar” kind of way or … well, I’m sure you know where your story is headed.

But hey! Don’t give away the ending. No one likes spoilers.

Chapter 9 - Divine Intervention

Try to avoid being the person who says, “My God, what have we done?” Yes, it’s a great line. Glorious and noble, just the right amount of befuddled dignity. That’s why it gets used so often. But you don’t have the gravitas for that sort of melodrama and the hero will be jealous that he didn’t think to say it first.

How many times do I have to say this? You do not want to be on his bad side.

Chapter 10 - On Sale Now

Plot armor. Invest in some. No, invest in a lot. Check the plot armor store for current availability and shipping rates. “But there’s no such thing as a plot armor store,” you argue, in a voice that skirts dangerously close to whining. “Well, there’s no such thing as a nuclear bomb that could split an asteroid into two equal halves exactly 2.5 seconds before ‘zero barrier’ in order to save the Earth and all its inhabitants from a death-by-space-rock ending … but it all seemed to work out for Bruce Willis,” I answer, in a pleasant, upbeat tone.

It’s like you want to be killed off, I swear.

Chapter 11 - Love Won’t Save You

Don’t invest in the wrong type of plot armor. For instance, if you’ve recently started dating, moved in with, or become engaged to the main character’s ex-spouse, ex-partner, ex-whatever, reconsider your life plan—return the house key, put away the engagement ring. If there’s even the slightest hint of unresolved sexual tension between the main character and the ex, you need to just call it quits. If they’re bickering, you’re in deep trouble. You may think you’ve fostered a lasting relationship with the kids as the “fun step-parent” or “Mom’s dumb boyfriend” (oh, how they kid) but they’ll drop you like a hot potato as soon as they know a family reunion is in the works. It’s just human nature. Awww, mom and dad have made up. We’re going to be a family again.

Do you want to stand in the way of a family’s reconciliation? Do you?

No, I didn’t think so. You’re smarter than that. So just get off the boat, plane, helicopter, river barge, ark or spaceship that you’ve all been unlikely thrust upon as soon as possible and hitchhike your way home. Change your name. Change your phone number. When people ask if you used to date so-and-so, say, “I think you have me confused with some other expendable character.”

Chapter 12 - New Dog, Old Tricks

If they haven’t cast the part of the family dog yet, try to get an audition. Learn how to bark for the part. They never kill off the dog. Have you noticed? It makes sense. How could they? Who would dare? There would be rioting by the concession stands. Someone would flip over the popcorn machine. Remember that story about the bulldog, the retriever and the cat lost in the wilderness and trying to make their way home again? Of course, you do. We all do.

There would be tears, my friend. Tears everywhere.

Chapter 13 - The Last Lifeboat

This should go without saying, and if it doesn’t, I’m afraid you might as well just dive headfirst into the chilly North Atlantic right now and have it over and done with. Write your obituary, choose your urn and/or the color of velvet which will line your coffin. Personally, I’d go with something dramatic, like electric purple or Vantablack. Make them remember the funeral, if nothing else.

But please, for the love of God, don’t ever utter the words, “No worries, darling, I’ll catch the next lifeboat.”

Epilogue - Enjoy the Ride

Accept the inevitable. Marvel over the CGI effects layered over scenic cinematography. Have a few laughs with the other minor characters. Order a drink from the local watering hole before everything starts to go sideways. Lobby for an actual name in the final credits. It doesn’t have to be fancy. Anything other than “Guy on Fiery Bus” or “Crushed Girl” will do. Just something for the viewers to remember you by when the valid-but-ultimately-doomed tips above don’t work out. Nothing too flashy, nothing with more than two syllables. If you choose a last name, make it Jones or Smith. Nobody likes a minor character who is putting on airs.

For the first name, I suggest something like “Bob,” “Sharon” or, you know, “Cliff.”