As soon as he met Mike Marsh, the radio show host, he knew why he had come. He’d seen the man before. He’d seen him once before dressed in a blue tennis shirt, light brown khakis with sunglasses and something else that distinguished him. Something he’d never forget.
“You’re the man,” Adam said, “you’re the man with the bullhorn.”
“Folks,” Marsh was on the air, “I can tell you how sad I truly am. I,” and he held this word for a long time for emphasis, “I have seen the future. This is it, thiiiiiiiis is the sign, thiiiiiiiis is the final clue we need to know, that the New World Order is upon us.” He paused there for a second, “it’s happening right now, right here in front of us.” He raised his voice and boomed, “the earth is opening up under our feet and we are being sucked down into the pits of slave hell!” Then his tone changed slightly, “and don’t forget where you heard it first. Yeeees, don’t you forget who toooold you it was coming. It wasn’t Fox News or CNN or NBC. No! You heard it right here on the Mike Marsh show!”
Adam could only watch the man at work. What kind of show was this anyway?
“Adam,” Marsh cried, “Adaaaaaaaam! I believe you have been desecrated. I believe you’ve been defiled. I believe you have a microchip somewhere in your body and weeeeeee’re gonna find it. Weeeeeee’re gonna cast it from your form.” His tone suddenly became gentler, “now what do you think of that?”
“Are you sure there’s a microchip in me?” Marsh reached for Adam’s shoulder with a sickening impulsiveness that nearly made Adam scream.
“We’re gonna find out today!” Marsh cried, exulting to the heavens. He reached inside his inside breast pocket and groped around for a long second that felt like eternity then all at once, boing! His hand sprung out and in it a stumpy black box with a large thick antenna on top that whipped from side to side from the effort. “We have got a secret weapon here, folks, yes we do. What we have here is an RF detector, that’s a radio frequency detector,” he paused to wipe a few beads of sweat from his forehead, “and we’re going to get to the bottom of this little mystery right here, right now.
“But first!…we’re gonna take a commercial break.”
He took off his headset and sunk slightly in his chair.
“Would you,” Adam said, battling nerves from intimidation, “would you consider yourself an evangelical man?”
“Hey kid,” Marsh said, “get out of here, will ya?” and he began to chuckle.
“Are you a religious man? A Christian man?”
Marsh cocked his head to the side a bit and said, “not more so than anybody else.”
Adam nodded, “I had this dream. I don’t know,” he bit his nails.
“Huh,” Marsh said and took a sip of coffee. He dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. “Now look, kid, you see this thing?” and he held up the RF detector, “I can’t turn this on here, this is a radio station. We’re surrounded by radio frequency. But we’re gonna turn it on for the people listening,” he winked vigorously, “and we’re gonna find a microchip in your shoulder, how’s that sound?”
“Uh…”
“Don’t have second thoughts, huh? I really do think they did put a chip in you, I believe they did, so I'm not lying. My conscience is clean.”
Adam said nothing.
“Listen, this is for the people, you know? The people, they support us, so we gotta give ‘em a dog and pony show, you know?” he chuckled.
“Okay.”
“Alright,” and Marsh put his headset back on. “We’re back on the Mike Marsh show, I’m your host Mike Marsh and with me today is a very special guest, a very special guest. Here’s a brave young man who was tampered with by your military, tagged with an RFID chip and he is risking torture and death by being with us here today and speaking out about it. Thanks for being here Adam.”
He heard his heartbeat. He became dizzy. The lights blacked out, sparks flew from the console, a severe white light burst from Marsh’s headset like arc welding, strobing in and out at first then settling around the sides of his head, creating a black line down the middle of his face, then changing from white to red light. Marsh got up out of his seat and leaned on the table, toward Adam.
“Torture.”
“Death.”
“God.”
“Feeeeeeeeeeeear Him! Feeeeeeeeeeeear Him!”
Adam fell backwards out of his chair and banged the back of his head on the linoleum floor.
When he woke up he was still lying there and Marsh was waving the little black RF detector in the vicinity of his right shoulder saying, “Praaaaaaaaaise Jesus, praaaaaaaaaaise the Lord, we’ve found it! Adam! Adam! Come to my boy, we’ve found the evil thing. Get up my boy, get up! We’ve found the evil thing that exists inside of you.”
Of course, the RF detector was still off.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Chapter II, pt. iii
They laugh, the three of them.
Why?
“No one was looking,” she says, “I was curious.”
“Oh, dude,” Thomas says wiping a tear from his eye, “that’s so nasty.”
He adjusts his sunglasses, laughing. He pulls a big handful of grass out of the ground and looks up to the sky. The clouds move in all at once, like troops marching into town square. I guess that’s why they call them storm troopers he thinks. The raindrops begin to fall. Droplets appear on his tinted lenses.
Why me?
He drops her off. He leaves. He drives to clear his head. They argued and now he drives fast. He drives, thinking, going nowhere. This is going nowhere. In the trees, was that an owl? He changes the CD. There is a crash. He dies.
Why must I be made to suffer?
There is a man in the road. Are you God? Fine, don’t answer. He wanders off into the trees. Into a building, empty but full of rooms. He sees God.
Why me?
He doesn’t see God, he knows He is there. He is I, I is him. He knows this. He lost his head in the accident which wouldn’t do him any good at all. The impact chopped his head off. His body is crushed pulp. There are men in the road.
I want to know.
There is an empty room full of God. God is he. But God-he knows all his thoughts, all his secrets, there is no FUCKING AROUND with a being like this. This is not a social creature. Human interaction is all lies and flattery and chest-thumping, asserting, power games. Oh! but not this God. No! this God will rip the top of your skull off and eat your brain but won’t say when.
Oh God, please help me Father.
Oh! and the Cane shall strike the Palm!
Oh God! Please, please Father!
Do you expect mercy, boy?
I want you to tell me.
Adam. Adam wake up.
He groaned as Leah dazedly hit his shoulder. The room was dark.
“Fear Him,” Adam said quietly, “fear God.”
In the morning he finally checked his e-mail.
“Check this out,” he called to her in the other room.
“What?” she said, over the running water as she brushed her teeth.
“Four hundred and forty-six e-mails. A new record.”
They were mostly well wishes and junk mail but one in particular caught his attention. Leah came into the room, white toothpaste foam covered her lips.
“You didn’t shave today,” she said trying stop the white pasty spittle from flying out.
“Nope,” he said reading, “and I don‘t think I‘m going to.”
He reminded her of that kid, Tyrone she thought his name was.
“You don’t need to feel obliged to shave either,” he added.
“I don’t feel obliged,” she responded almost to herself.
What was it, tenth grade? Tyrone was riding in the bed of Marshall’s truck just after school. They were really whooping it up at the girls walking home, not really paying attention. There was an accident. Tyrone flew about twenty feet in the air and landed head first on the street. This all happened in slow motion. When he finally came back to school the next year he was like a totally different person. Like Fred Flintstone.
How could she not feel sorry for him?
He turned to her, beaming, “I’m going to Dallas.”
“What’s in Dallas?” she said.
“Radio!”
Why?
“No one was looking,” she says, “I was curious.”
“Oh, dude,” Thomas says wiping a tear from his eye, “that’s so nasty.”
He adjusts his sunglasses, laughing. He pulls a big handful of grass out of the ground and looks up to the sky. The clouds move in all at once, like troops marching into town square. I guess that’s why they call them storm troopers he thinks. The raindrops begin to fall. Droplets appear on his tinted lenses.
Why me?
He drops her off. He leaves. He drives to clear his head. They argued and now he drives fast. He drives, thinking, going nowhere. This is going nowhere. In the trees, was that an owl? He changes the CD. There is a crash. He dies.
Why must I be made to suffer?
There is a man in the road. Are you God? Fine, don’t answer. He wanders off into the trees. Into a building, empty but full of rooms. He sees God.
Why me?
He doesn’t see God, he knows He is there. He is I, I is him. He knows this. He lost his head in the accident which wouldn’t do him any good at all. The impact chopped his head off. His body is crushed pulp. There are men in the road.
I want to know.
There is an empty room full of God. God is he. But God-he knows all his thoughts, all his secrets, there is no FUCKING AROUND with a being like this. This is not a social creature. Human interaction is all lies and flattery and chest-thumping, asserting, power games. Oh! but not this God. No! this God will rip the top of your skull off and eat your brain but won’t say when.
Oh God, please help me Father.
Oh! and the Cane shall strike the Palm!
Oh God! Please, please Father!
Do you expect mercy, boy?
I want you to tell me.
Adam. Adam wake up.
He groaned as Leah dazedly hit his shoulder. The room was dark.
“Fear Him,” Adam said quietly, “fear God.”
In the morning he finally checked his e-mail.
“Check this out,” he called to her in the other room.
“What?” she said, over the running water as she brushed her teeth.
“Four hundred and forty-six e-mails. A new record.”
They were mostly well wishes and junk mail but one in particular caught his attention. Leah came into the room, white toothpaste foam covered her lips.
“You didn’t shave today,” she said trying stop the white pasty spittle from flying out.
“Nope,” he said reading, “and I don‘t think I‘m going to.”
He reminded her of that kid, Tyrone she thought his name was.
“You don’t need to feel obliged to shave either,” he added.
“I don’t feel obliged,” she responded almost to herself.
What was it, tenth grade? Tyrone was riding in the bed of Marshall’s truck just after school. They were really whooping it up at the girls walking home, not really paying attention. There was an accident. Tyrone flew about twenty feet in the air and landed head first on the street. This all happened in slow motion. When he finally came back to school the next year he was like a totally different person. Like Fred Flintstone.
How could she not feel sorry for him?
He turned to her, beaming, “I’m going to Dallas.”
“What’s in Dallas?” she said.
“Radio!”
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Chapter II, pt. ii
“I quit my job.”
First off, Adam didn’t expect a comment like that to fly under the radar or to blow over. Not with Leah. He had some explaining to do and he was ready to plead his case. He was certain he could convince her that it was the right thing to do.
“Okay,” Leah began slowly, “now what are you going to do?”
“I’m free to do whatever I want to do,” was Adam’s simple answer. “That is, I’m free to go wherever the road takes me.”
“You’re going to travel?”
“I don’t know. That’s not exactly what I meant. But if life leads me down the path of travel, then I’ll take that road. If the capricious hands of fate bar my way, then I won’t move a muscle.”
“But how are you going to live? How are you going to make money?”
“I’m not above sleeping on park benches and it’s not beneath me to lie in the penthouses of the charitable. There is wisdom everywhere.”
She raised her eyebrows, jutted out her jaw, shook her head and sighed a deep sigh.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I don’t expect anyone to understand. I haven’t counted on you to agree with me on this. But you are invited anyhow.”
She said nothing.
They’d been together a few years and knew all each other’s dirty tricks. This one took her by surprise. They’d been through the wars and the salad days together. All the great speeches and revolutions of the world were played out in a great cosmic melodrama in which they were scriptwriters, actors and audience. They didn’t always have a lot to say but occasionally silence still said a lot.
“I’ve got to find my own way in life,” he said, “my own path.”
“But how are you going to live,” she said, “without money?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I could get a job tomorrow but only if I’m supposed to. Now, whatever it is I need to do, I’ll do it. This isn’t about not working.”
She said nothing.
“It’s about respect, how’s that? I wouldn’t respect myself if I didn’t follow life according to my own plan, and that’s to listen to the wind. You know, I’m picking up a handful of sand right now and - and - and no matter how hard I try, see, I know I’m going to lose a few grains along the way, right? But it’s okay. I’m not hoarding grains of sand, I’m going to throw them into the air and see which way they drift.” His jolly little laugh didn’t endear his argument to her.
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. Follow the wind?”
“Ugh, this is bullshit. You’re talking like an idiot.”
He said nothing.
“I’ll call my brother, he’ll have you working down at the dock by tomorrow.”
“Don’t.”
“How are you going to pay your rent, how are you going to eat?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Okay,” she said clasping her hands over her knees, “we’ll see. Don’t expect me to support you.”
They just went to bed and rolled away from each other and dreamed.
First off, Adam didn’t expect a comment like that to fly under the radar or to blow over. Not with Leah. He had some explaining to do and he was ready to plead his case. He was certain he could convince her that it was the right thing to do.
“Okay,” Leah began slowly, “now what are you going to do?”
“I’m free to do whatever I want to do,” was Adam’s simple answer. “That is, I’m free to go wherever the road takes me.”
“You’re going to travel?”
“I don’t know. That’s not exactly what I meant. But if life leads me down the path of travel, then I’ll take that road. If the capricious hands of fate bar my way, then I won’t move a muscle.”
“But how are you going to live? How are you going to make money?”
“I’m not above sleeping on park benches and it’s not beneath me to lie in the penthouses of the charitable. There is wisdom everywhere.”
She raised her eyebrows, jutted out her jaw, shook her head and sighed a deep sigh.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I don’t expect anyone to understand. I haven’t counted on you to agree with me on this. But you are invited anyhow.”
She said nothing.
They’d been together a few years and knew all each other’s dirty tricks. This one took her by surprise. They’d been through the wars and the salad days together. All the great speeches and revolutions of the world were played out in a great cosmic melodrama in which they were scriptwriters, actors and audience. They didn’t always have a lot to say but occasionally silence still said a lot.
“I’ve got to find my own way in life,” he said, “my own path.”
“But how are you going to live,” she said, “without money?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I could get a job tomorrow but only if I’m supposed to. Now, whatever it is I need to do, I’ll do it. This isn’t about not working.”
She said nothing.
“It’s about respect, how’s that? I wouldn’t respect myself if I didn’t follow life according to my own plan, and that’s to listen to the wind. You know, I’m picking up a handful of sand right now and - and - and no matter how hard I try, see, I know I’m going to lose a few grains along the way, right? But it’s okay. I’m not hoarding grains of sand, I’m going to throw them into the air and see which way they drift.” His jolly little laugh didn’t endear his argument to her.
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. Follow the wind?”
“Ugh, this is bullshit. You’re talking like an idiot.”
He said nothing.
“I’ll call my brother, he’ll have you working down at the dock by tomorrow.”
“Don’t.”
“How are you going to pay your rent, how are you going to eat?”
“I’ll find a way.”
“Okay,” she said clasping her hands over her knees, “we’ll see. Don’t expect me to support you.”
They just went to bed and rolled away from each other and dreamed.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Chapter II, pt. i
“Did you see this?” Thomas asked. The headline read: REPUBLICANS NOMINATE FALCONER FOR PRESIDENT.
“Yeah,” Adam said.
“Did you know,” Thomas went on, “did you know he was the first governor to successfully pass a law that required citizens of Arizona to carry an RFID card.”
“Uh huh.”
“The next step after that is to chip everybody.”
Thomas was a budding journalist. And a conspiracy nut, so ‘they’ claimed but for those that knew him, he was a fount of hidden knowledge. And he had the quickest wit of anyone Adam knew.
“ ‘And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads. And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.’ That’s from revelations. It‘s happening, man, it‘s all happening,” Thomas gave his newspaper a great shake and it unkinked over his lap as he casually spoke, “lambs to the slaughter.
“Did you see this, another UFO sighting. They take these things so serious now, everything’s so serious now.”
Adam looked up from his cup of chai.
“In the news,” Thomas went on, “everything’s got a nasty edge to it.”
“It’s always been that way,” Adam said.
“Not like this, it’s worse these days. The way you’re told to report news is like every little event could end up being a matter of national security.”
“TV’s all tits and cars, entertainment to keep you stupid.”
“Well, here’s how it is. You wake up, you read your morning paper and you get scared. You go to work and swap horror stories and paranoid fantasies with your co-workers. Then you go home and TV is your pacifier. It’s your baba.”
“I still say it’s always been that way,” he sipped his tea, Thomas sipped his coffee. “But then,” Adam continued, “I don’t know anymore. About memory, if it can be trusted, you know what I mean?” and he pointed at his temple.
“No, but I’m ready to be enlightened.”
“Ever since the accident, you know.”
“Right.”
“Well, did you ever get the feeling that your memories could be wrong?”
“Wrong? Like they were planted there…”
“No--”
“…by a UFO?”
“No, I mean, all my memories, before the accident like, they don’t belong to me anymore. I mean, not to the me I am today.”
“Well, that makes sense kind of.”
“Yeah, but it’s more than that. My memories just seem wrong. Like they’re backwards and there’s spots missing and I get new ones too. Like really early memories, early, early childhood memories. Stuff that I know happened and they’re real, the memories, but they don’t seem like they should be there. I don’t know how many people can remember being born, I mean, I don’t know … I do.”
Thomas sat there feeling sorry for his friend. The accident must have really knocked his brain around.
“Hey, you don’t have to believe me. The feeling of being born was just like when I woke up after the accident. It was the same.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“There’s other stuff too. There are big blotches missing from around the time of the accident. I don’t really remember much at all about the accident. Mostly it comes out in dreams but …” he pursed his lips then bit his nails.
“Well, we were at the park, sitting on the grass.”
“You were there?”
“Yeah, Leah was telling us how she used to eat her boogers, then it started raining and we went our separate ways.”
“That‘s right. I remember sitting on the grass, laughing, with sunglasses on.”
“Yup,” Thomas looked back down at the newspaper, “look at this: ‘Controversy over genetic research at local area hospital.’” He had to laugh. Adam dipped his bag of tea repeatedly, compulsively, glancing nervously around the room as he did so. He always felt eyes on him everywhere he went, people nudging elbows, nodding in his direction, low talking, wheels spinning, how will they get in on the action? They wanted to talk to him, wanted a piece of him, at least wanted to be in the background when the cameras rolled. There’s the freak. He’s the one.
“I remember walking,” Adam spoke low, wary of prying ears, “walking for the first time. Falling over, steadying myself on wobbly knees.” Thomas folded up his newspaper and put it on the table, he was generally concerned about his friend’s mental well-being. “But it’s like a movie,” Adam continued, “watching somebody else’s life.”
Thomas took his empty coffee cup between his thumb and middle finger and shook it. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get a beer.”
“Yeah,” Adam said.
“Did you know,” Thomas went on, “did you know he was the first governor to successfully pass a law that required citizens of Arizona to carry an RFID card.”
“Uh huh.”
“The next step after that is to chip everybody.”
Thomas was a budding journalist. And a conspiracy nut, so ‘they’ claimed but for those that knew him, he was a fount of hidden knowledge. And he had the quickest wit of anyone Adam knew.
“ ‘And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads. And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.’ That’s from revelations. It‘s happening, man, it‘s all happening,” Thomas gave his newspaper a great shake and it unkinked over his lap as he casually spoke, “lambs to the slaughter.
“Did you see this, another UFO sighting. They take these things so serious now, everything’s so serious now.”
Adam looked up from his cup of chai.
“In the news,” Thomas went on, “everything’s got a nasty edge to it.”
“It’s always been that way,” Adam said.
“Not like this, it’s worse these days. The way you’re told to report news is like every little event could end up being a matter of national security.”
“TV’s all tits and cars, entertainment to keep you stupid.”
“Well, here’s how it is. You wake up, you read your morning paper and you get scared. You go to work and swap horror stories and paranoid fantasies with your co-workers. Then you go home and TV is your pacifier. It’s your baba.”
“I still say it’s always been that way,” he sipped his tea, Thomas sipped his coffee. “But then,” Adam continued, “I don’t know anymore. About memory, if it can be trusted, you know what I mean?” and he pointed at his temple.
“No, but I’m ready to be enlightened.”
“Ever since the accident, you know.”
“Right.”
“Well, did you ever get the feeling that your memories could be wrong?”
“Wrong? Like they were planted there…”
“No--”
“…by a UFO?”
“No, I mean, all my memories, before the accident like, they don’t belong to me anymore. I mean, not to the me I am today.”
“Well, that makes sense kind of.”
“Yeah, but it’s more than that. My memories just seem wrong. Like they’re backwards and there’s spots missing and I get new ones too. Like really early memories, early, early childhood memories. Stuff that I know happened and they’re real, the memories, but they don’t seem like they should be there. I don’t know how many people can remember being born, I mean, I don’t know … I do.”
Thomas sat there feeling sorry for his friend. The accident must have really knocked his brain around.
“Hey, you don’t have to believe me. The feeling of being born was just like when I woke up after the accident. It was the same.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“There’s other stuff too. There are big blotches missing from around the time of the accident. I don’t really remember much at all about the accident. Mostly it comes out in dreams but …” he pursed his lips then bit his nails.
“Well, we were at the park, sitting on the grass.”
“You were there?”
“Yeah, Leah was telling us how she used to eat her boogers, then it started raining and we went our separate ways.”
“That‘s right. I remember sitting on the grass, laughing, with sunglasses on.”
“Yup,” Thomas looked back down at the newspaper, “look at this: ‘Controversy over genetic research at local area hospital.’” He had to laugh. Adam dipped his bag of tea repeatedly, compulsively, glancing nervously around the room as he did so. He always felt eyes on him everywhere he went, people nudging elbows, nodding in his direction, low talking, wheels spinning, how will they get in on the action? They wanted to talk to him, wanted a piece of him, at least wanted to be in the background when the cameras rolled. There’s the freak. He’s the one.
“I remember walking,” Adam spoke low, wary of prying ears, “walking for the first time. Falling over, steadying myself on wobbly knees.” Thomas folded up his newspaper and put it on the table, he was generally concerned about his friend’s mental well-being. “But it’s like a movie,” Adam continued, “watching somebody else’s life.”
Thomas took his empty coffee cup between his thumb and middle finger and shook it. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get a beer.”
Monday, June 16, 2008
TMODM pt. III
First day back at home. Luckily his phone was lost in the accident, no messages. He could only imagine the kinds of reporters and radio DJs lining up to interview him, he had no stomach for fanfare. Or at least, no desire for it. His mom had been by the place to clean out the perishables from the fridge when he was laid up. His bills were paid. For the first time in weeks, he was a free man. Now that he had all that free time on his hands the possibilities were limitless, he could go for a walk, go downtown, check on his friends, he wasn’t ready to check his e-mail but now that he was free the first thing he did was turn on the TV. Like hundreds of millions of others he’d sit on the couch and dispassionately watch TV.
Tits and cars, tits and cars. That’s the first thing he noticed. It never struck him before but something deep inside him stirred and got all shook up in his accident. It seemed like the world around him had turned into a young man’s wet fantasy. Television and billboards no longer sold him a better mind or a better life, they sold him better sex, better social status, a status that seemed further and further out of reach but could be his if he only ACT NOW for low introductory interest rates. Giant chorus lines of leggy women kicked at him from behind the plasma, wind-blown open-shirted men with hard bodies and women draped over them like fertile ornaments said this could be yours but he didn’t want it to be his. What would the end result of all this be? It wasn‘t just TV and billboards, the entire world around him was saturated with media, it bled the stuff. Before long he was convinced that tombstones were the next thing to go. JANE B. BELOVED AUNT, CHOSE PEPSI. HERE LIES JOHN DOE, HAVE A COKE AND A SMILE AND SHUT THE FUCK UP. You couldn‘t walk down a dark alley without some entity in a trench coat saying, “Hey buddy, you gotta see this.” Image after image flashing at blazing speed, dizzying, made him wonder if he was the one that was weird, if he was crazy for not buying and not buying into all this. Of course he was, if everyone else was thinking one thing then he would have to be crazy to think another. “Come on,” the serpent TV said, “you’re young, don’t be so uptight. You think too much. You need to get laid. You need to fuck as many chicks as you can, cause that’s what we do. Welcome to the dream, this is what life’s all about. You know it feels good, don’t worry about all that other stuff, this is what you need. Your mind isn’t your greatest asset it’s your body, come on, put it to work. We’ll start you off slow, we’ll be gentle at first. And don’t resist because you will join us or you will be crushed.”
Everybody needed bigger cars and bigger tits and bigger bank accounts and the positive images pit pious green warriors carbon friendlier than thou. Media was a skirmish and he found himself a pacifist. No, not a pacifist, a civilian. There you go walking down the street, minding your own business then WHAM! solicitation. The battle the media waged was in the mind. Uncle Sam was no longer an avuncular figure of brave stoicism, he was a slut in the passenger seat of a convertible waiting around for a driver, any driver, YOU! Of course. What better propaganda was there than tits and cars? A better life, a better mind, a person could live without those things but take away what entertains them most and they react just like junkies.
The incidental jingle for CNN’s Election Center trumpeted him back to reality at large.
“Thank you everyone who voted for me,” the man at the podium says. The crowd starts to erupt, his voice beginning to lose the fight, “a vote for me is a vote for change--” He waves to the good people, a man at the height of his powers, a man who craves more.
“Arizona Governor Henry Falconer,” the Election Center host begins, “accepts the Republican nomination for President (dramatic pause) of these United States. We turn now to--”
He turned off the TV. Who watched that stuff? Who really cared?
Tits and cars, tits and cars. That’s the first thing he noticed. It never struck him before but something deep inside him stirred and got all shook up in his accident. It seemed like the world around him had turned into a young man’s wet fantasy. Television and billboards no longer sold him a better mind or a better life, they sold him better sex, better social status, a status that seemed further and further out of reach but could be his if he only ACT NOW for low introductory interest rates. Giant chorus lines of leggy women kicked at him from behind the plasma, wind-blown open-shirted men with hard bodies and women draped over them like fertile ornaments said this could be yours but he didn’t want it to be his. What would the end result of all this be? It wasn‘t just TV and billboards, the entire world around him was saturated with media, it bled the stuff. Before long he was convinced that tombstones were the next thing to go. JANE B. BELOVED AUNT, CHOSE PEPSI. HERE LIES JOHN DOE, HAVE A COKE AND A SMILE AND SHUT THE FUCK UP. You couldn‘t walk down a dark alley without some entity in a trench coat saying, “Hey buddy, you gotta see this.” Image after image flashing at blazing speed, dizzying, made him wonder if he was the one that was weird, if he was crazy for not buying and not buying into all this. Of course he was, if everyone else was thinking one thing then he would have to be crazy to think another. “Come on,” the serpent TV said, “you’re young, don’t be so uptight. You think too much. You need to get laid. You need to fuck as many chicks as you can, cause that’s what we do. Welcome to the dream, this is what life’s all about. You know it feels good, don’t worry about all that other stuff, this is what you need. Your mind isn’t your greatest asset it’s your body, come on, put it to work. We’ll start you off slow, we’ll be gentle at first. And don’t resist because you will join us or you will be crushed.”
Everybody needed bigger cars and bigger tits and bigger bank accounts and the positive images pit pious green warriors carbon friendlier than thou. Media was a skirmish and he found himself a pacifist. No, not a pacifist, a civilian. There you go walking down the street, minding your own business then WHAM! solicitation. The battle the media waged was in the mind. Uncle Sam was no longer an avuncular figure of brave stoicism, he was a slut in the passenger seat of a convertible waiting around for a driver, any driver, YOU! Of course. What better propaganda was there than tits and cars? A better life, a better mind, a person could live without those things but take away what entertains them most and they react just like junkies.
The incidental jingle for CNN’s Election Center trumpeted him back to reality at large.
“Thank you everyone who voted for me,” the man at the podium says. The crowd starts to erupt, his voice beginning to lose the fight, “a vote for me is a vote for change--” He waves to the good people, a man at the height of his powers, a man who craves more.
“Arizona Governor Henry Falconer,” the Election Center host begins, “accepts the Republican nomination for President (dramatic pause) of these United States. We turn now to--”
He turned off the TV. Who watched that stuff? Who really cared?
Friday, June 13, 2008
Turn me on, dead man prologue (READ THIS FIRST)
PROLOGUE
Rain tacks against the windshield. Wiper-blades rub and groan in the turbulence. The road winds about gyrating, twisting. Daniel’s head bobs skillfully, expertly and enthusiastically. Henry Falconer’s foot presses down on the accelerator. He hears the drums, droning in slowly from across the horizon, then creeping up behind them, steadily rising. He wonders agape in ecstasy as they pass a large patch of dark woods if there are any owls watching them. That would be perfect.
The owl is the illuminated one, it sees in the dark. The drums beat, beat, beat. He closes his eyes just for a moment, head lolling back, just for a moment. He watches the road. Catholics believe that every wad that isn't shot during intercourse between a man and a woman is murder. He almost laughs, watch the road he tells himself, watch the road. In this greatest of moments when flesh is joined to flesh, Daniel becomes Moloch, the ancient deity in whose name countless children were sacrificed at Carthage millennia ago. He allows his eyes to close, just for a moment, just at the right moment. Fire. Inferno. Owls. Bloody teeth. No teeth, no teeth, don‘t think about teeth. The bombs drop. The drums boom and thunder and … crash.
Crash?
The airbag punches him in his face, he never saw it coming. Daniel’s face lies limp on his cock. A fine powder envelopes the inside of the car, like the opening of an ancient tomb. A tomb for kings, a tomb of everlasting life. In a moment he can shake it off, in a moment. The voice of a woman (boo and hiss) comes out of the backseat, no, the radio, or…
“Mr. Falconer, this is OnStar we've been notified that you were in an accident. Are you okay, sir?”
He tries to talk but it’s hard for him to move his jaw for some reason, it all comes out vowels at first like talking to a dentist.
“I’m sending help, right away,” the voice declares.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” he says, straining, “wait, wait, wait. I want you … ohh … to do something for me. I want you to type in my name with my password M-O-L-O-C-H, got it? What’s it say?”
“It says KMA, sir.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Uh, yes I do sir.”
“Yeah? Well it means Kiss My Ass in case you forgot. I’ll handle this, and you’re just going to forget all about it, right?”
“Yes, sir, anything you wish, sir.”
He manages to move Daniel off him and gets out of the car. He must have drifted into the oncoming lane, there was a bend just ahead, he didn’t even see the other car. Within a couple seconds he’s on his phone.
“Yeah this is Falconer. I need some help, I uh … I really fucked up here. This is, this is … goddamn Chappaquiddick, right here. Okay, thank you. Come quick, we’re just out here in the middle of the road where anyone can see.”
He closes his phone. Dumb, he says to himself, dumb, dumb, dumb. He wanders around to take a look at the other driver. He’s a bloody mess. He’s dead, there’s no question about it. Daniel too. He says a secret little prayer to ensure the ghosts of the two men don’t wander too far from here and if they do wander, the only place to go is down.
Rain tacks against the windshield. Wiper-blades rub and groan in the turbulence. The road winds about gyrating, twisting. Daniel’s head bobs skillfully, expertly and enthusiastically. Henry Falconer’s foot presses down on the accelerator. He hears the drums, droning in slowly from across the horizon, then creeping up behind them, steadily rising. He wonders agape in ecstasy as they pass a large patch of dark woods if there are any owls watching them. That would be perfect.
The owl is the illuminated one, it sees in the dark. The drums beat, beat, beat. He closes his eyes just for a moment, head lolling back, just for a moment. He watches the road. Catholics believe that every wad that isn't shot during intercourse between a man and a woman is murder. He almost laughs, watch the road he tells himself, watch the road. In this greatest of moments when flesh is joined to flesh, Daniel becomes Moloch, the ancient deity in whose name countless children were sacrificed at Carthage millennia ago. He allows his eyes to close, just for a moment, just at the right moment. Fire. Inferno. Owls. Bloody teeth. No teeth, no teeth, don‘t think about teeth. The bombs drop. The drums boom and thunder and … crash.
Crash?
The airbag punches him in his face, he never saw it coming. Daniel’s face lies limp on his cock. A fine powder envelopes the inside of the car, like the opening of an ancient tomb. A tomb for kings, a tomb of everlasting life. In a moment he can shake it off, in a moment. The voice of a woman (boo and hiss) comes out of the backseat, no, the radio, or…
“Mr. Falconer, this is OnStar we've been notified that you were in an accident. Are you okay, sir?”
He tries to talk but it’s hard for him to move his jaw for some reason, it all comes out vowels at first like talking to a dentist.
“I’m sending help, right away,” the voice declares.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” he says, straining, “wait, wait, wait. I want you … ohh … to do something for me. I want you to type in my name with my password M-O-L-O-C-H, got it? What’s it say?”
“It says KMA, sir.”
“Do you know what that means?”
“Uh, yes I do sir.”
“Yeah? Well it means Kiss My Ass in case you forgot. I’ll handle this, and you’re just going to forget all about it, right?”
“Yes, sir, anything you wish, sir.”
He manages to move Daniel off him and gets out of the car. He must have drifted into the oncoming lane, there was a bend just ahead, he didn’t even see the other car. Within a couple seconds he’s on his phone.
“Yeah this is Falconer. I need some help, I uh … I really fucked up here. This is, this is … goddamn Chappaquiddick, right here. Okay, thank you. Come quick, we’re just out here in the middle of the road where anyone can see.”
He closes his phone. Dumb, he says to himself, dumb, dumb, dumb. He wanders around to take a look at the other driver. He’s a bloody mess. He’s dead, there’s no question about it. Daniel too. He says a secret little prayer to ensure the ghosts of the two men don’t wander too far from here and if they do wander, the only place to go is down.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Turn me on, dead man part II
The day had come. He was to be released from hospital after what seemed a lifetime. How short amounts of time feel longer to children, that’s how it felt to him. The entirety of his new lease on life had been spent in an antiseptic prison. A brand new sports car parked in a garage.
“Before you leave,” the nurse began, “there’s something you need to be made aware of. When you walk out the door today, you may be in for a bit of a shock. It’s a circus out there.”
“A circus,” he said, “I’d seen a couple people marching out there with signs.”
“Right, now, it seems just about every religious group, right-wing, left-wing, media outlet, you name it, has picked up on your story. Some of them have been camped there for days.”
“My story. What’s my story.”
“It’s the blood, Adam,” his mother chimed in from the foot of his bed, “your blood.”
“Blood, okay,” he said.
“When the military brought you here,” the nurse continued “there was an issue of security, they wouldn’t tell us why or what that issue was.”
“The military,” he said, surprised.
“The word leaked out that it had to do with some kind of genetic manipulation or…” the nurse trailed off.
“I,” he began cautiously “was genetically manipulated?”
“Well not you, you see.”
“The blood,” his mom chimed in again.
“Right,” the nurse went on, “due to the internal injuries you sustained in your crash, you lost a lot of blood and the word is the military, who found you, were able to make genetic copies of your blood and transfuse it back into you at their base.”
“They’re allowed to do this?” he asked.
“Well, no frankly. Hence, the circus.”
“This,” he began, then started over, “let me see if I got this straight. I was involved in a car crash. I sustained multiple internal injuries which kept me in a coma for three days. During that time, the military picked me up, presumably from the side of the road, and took me back to their base, where they proceeded to clone my blood to save me from death. Then, when the army was finished saving my life, for some reason, they took me to this hospital where I’ve been recovering every since.”
“It appears,” the nurse said, “that’s exactly right.”
The glass double doors to the hospital entrance sucked into the walls star trek style and Adam and his mother were instantly descended upon by the throng. He didn’t know what to expect. Hostility? Could he be the focus of these homemade sign wielding people’s ire? He scanned a couple signs:
YOU CAN’T PLAY GOD
CLONED BLOOD IS NOT OWNED BLOOD
One particularly elaborate sign read: ‘GOD CALLED HIS SON HOME’ and had a picture of a lamb in a cage with a ray of sun shining on it. The sentiment of the signs was simple, LET THE BOY DIE.
The reporters spewed station ID’s and questions in his direction and the cold black eyes of the cameras captured him from every conceivable angle but his attention was transfixed to a man off some distance. He wore a blue tennis shirt and light brown khakis with dark sunglasses and was screaming through a bullhorn.
“9-11 was an inside job. What else is our government covering up? Why did the military (and he emphasized the word suspiciously) take this young man to their facility? They say it was to save his life, I say it was to put a chip in his brain. People, the military have been experimenting with genetics since the LBJ administration. The military doesn’t save lives, it ends them. The military’s genetic research is in one area and one area only, to create the superhuman soldier. They put a chip in this man to track his every movement and you will be next. You will be next.”
By the time the man was finished, Adam was in his mom’s car and they were driving away. He hadn‘t answered a single question and was worried that he hadn‘t seen the last of the reporters. For some reason he couldn’t take his eyes off the man with the bullhorn, trying to penetrate those dark lenses.
“Before you leave,” the nurse began, “there’s something you need to be made aware of. When you walk out the door today, you may be in for a bit of a shock. It’s a circus out there.”
“A circus,” he said, “I’d seen a couple people marching out there with signs.”
“Right, now, it seems just about every religious group, right-wing, left-wing, media outlet, you name it, has picked up on your story. Some of them have been camped there for days.”
“My story. What’s my story.”
“It’s the blood, Adam,” his mother chimed in from the foot of his bed, “your blood.”
“Blood, okay,” he said.
“When the military brought you here,” the nurse continued “there was an issue of security, they wouldn’t tell us why or what that issue was.”
“The military,” he said, surprised.
“The word leaked out that it had to do with some kind of genetic manipulation or…” the nurse trailed off.
“I,” he began cautiously “was genetically manipulated?”
“Well not you, you see.”
“The blood,” his mom chimed in again.
“Right,” the nurse went on, “due to the internal injuries you sustained in your crash, you lost a lot of blood and the word is the military, who found you, were able to make genetic copies of your blood and transfuse it back into you at their base.”
“They’re allowed to do this?” he asked.
“Well, no frankly. Hence, the circus.”
“This,” he began, then started over, “let me see if I got this straight. I was involved in a car crash. I sustained multiple internal injuries which kept me in a coma for three days. During that time, the military picked me up, presumably from the side of the road, and took me back to their base, where they proceeded to clone my blood to save me from death. Then, when the army was finished saving my life, for some reason, they took me to this hospital where I’ve been recovering every since.”
“It appears,” the nurse said, “that’s exactly right.”
The glass double doors to the hospital entrance sucked into the walls star trek style and Adam and his mother were instantly descended upon by the throng. He didn’t know what to expect. Hostility? Could he be the focus of these homemade sign wielding people’s ire? He scanned a couple signs:
YOU CAN’T PLAY GOD
CLONED BLOOD IS NOT OWNED BLOOD
One particularly elaborate sign read: ‘GOD CALLED HIS SON HOME’ and had a picture of a lamb in a cage with a ray of sun shining on it. The sentiment of the signs was simple, LET THE BOY DIE.
The reporters spewed station ID’s and questions in his direction and the cold black eyes of the cameras captured him from every conceivable angle but his attention was transfixed to a man off some distance. He wore a blue tennis shirt and light brown khakis with dark sunglasses and was screaming through a bullhorn.
“9-11 was an inside job. What else is our government covering up? Why did the military (and he emphasized the word suspiciously) take this young man to their facility? They say it was to save his life, I say it was to put a chip in his brain. People, the military have been experimenting with genetics since the LBJ administration. The military doesn’t save lives, it ends them. The military’s genetic research is in one area and one area only, to create the superhuman soldier. They put a chip in this man to track his every movement and you will be next. You will be next.”
By the time the man was finished, Adam was in his mom’s car and they were driving away. He hadn‘t answered a single question and was worried that he hadn‘t seen the last of the reporters. For some reason he couldn’t take his eyes off the man with the bullhorn, trying to penetrate those dark lenses.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Turn me on, dead man part I
It was the happiest moment of his life. The moment of life. Screaming into existence like a beam of purest radiance.
All the joy and expectation of a life ahead, a life of possibility, of surprise, a life that knew nothing save potential flooded into being. To know nothing of jealousy or envy, disappointment or rage that was for this one true moment to be. To be!
He opened his eyes. His eyelids were lead weights and the light hurt and to know this struggle was to know existence. To know!
He glowed love, to be was to love that was the first thing he knew.
He also knew there was a lifetime of knowledge and experience behind him. He knew through some prior existence that he was in a hospital bed but not how he got there. He knew what to do next, he pushed a button and a nurse came running from down the hall.
The first face he saw, he recognized from a thousand memories or more. It was his brother. Everything was a revelation now.
“Hey buddy, how you feeling?”
He gave his brother the thumb’s up and tried to smile. His brother left the room in a jerky dash. Mike. Mike was his name. He was Adam. Everything was fresh and new. To be really alive for the first time! He looked out the window at the blue sky streaked with whiteness, he saw the tops of some grey and light brown buildings. To know that this world was his to explore!
Mike scrambled back into the room with a small ageing woman he recognized as his mother. She was quiet except for the hup, hup, hup of her sobbing. Adam was happy to see her, an old friend from a past life. He felt like he could communicate with eye blinks and tried to reassure her.
After a time, he slept.
The things outside the window fly by a bit too fast, he can’t make out what they are, then the uniforms crowd around him.
“He’s gone,” one uniform says.
No.
“Grab his legs.”
No!
He sees the world through tinted lenses, laughing all the time. He sits on the grass one minute, laughing, then he feels his legs being pulled up.
“Don’t say these things to me,” he tries to say, “I’m alive goddamnit!” No one listens.
He runs across the grass to a building surrounded by trees. Only one way out. He opens the door to the building to get to the other side. Empty white room. He opens another door.
Empty white room.
He was sitting on the grass laughing.
Another door. And another. And another.
Empty, empty, empty.
On and on opening doors, finding nothing but empty space, he gets to what must be the center of the universe or maybe the center of his mind. “My God," he says, "it’s so empty.”
Sitting on the grass in an open field, he remembers laughing. He leaves, driving away.
What was he laughing about, again?
He understands that he is not alone in the room and that it is not really empty. A presence is felt, something that has always been there even when he thought he was alone. It’s Him. Here he is in the center of his mind and it is so empty and he is not alone because he knows He is there. And there’s no fooling Him, there’s no pretense, there’s no convincing, there’s just Truth. He screams at the top of his lungs and no uniform hears him.
What was so funny?
“What do you remember about the accident,” the nurse asked. She oozed syrup from every syllable.
“Not much,” he’d been there a week and still he spoke with difficulty. “Um, The road was wet.” He strained to remember more.
“It’s okay,” she squeezed his hand and leaned in, smiling. “Car accidents are very traumatic. But you’re here. You survived!” She slapped her knee on ‘vived’ to emphasize the miraculous nature of the event.
“Um, it happened pretty quick.”
“Of course.”
“I was trapped. I could hear myself squealing like a pig. Screaming, like.”
“Ssshhh,” she patted his hand. “I was in an accident. Not as bad as yours, but I was shaken up about it for a long time.”
“They said I was missing for three days.”
“Yes. It must have been about half a year before I could ride in a car without wincing at every turn, and tensing my legs when we went the speed limit.” She stared outside, the squares of the window hid her moist pupils. She caught herself and turned back to him, smiling a big Stepford Wife smile.
“I feel fine.”
She began to say something.
“Actually,” he interrupted, “I feel great.”
He started to understand her emphasis. To be, to know he was alive. A new soul.
The hospital staff marveled at his recovery. Occasionally they’d find him shuffling and wandering down the halls, staring out the windows, studying the contents of the snack machine like a monument. They found he was a quick study. He became a master of knowing when and how to sneak off unnoticed, holding court with the other patients and visitors, entertaining the children. They wondered about his mental state.
“Many times,” the nurse began cautiously, “patients recovering from near death experiences go through a period of readjusting to reality. They view their post-accident life as ‘bonus time.’ They take uncalculated risks, their behavior becomes slightly brash and unpredictable. Does this sound familiar?” She smiled.
He nodded. Psychological examinations were much easier when he was agreeable. But not too agreeable.
“You have a new lease on life, and that’s something really special. But you need to take it easy. Slow down, take a deep breath and say ‘ah, I can relax now.’ You can’t live every moment all at once.”
He thought about that for a long time after she left.
Something began to happen as he entertained the children. He grew sensible to pain. He knew which kids were really sick and which ones would get better. He took a keen and special interest in one little girl in particular, Abbie.
Abbie was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of seven and had been at the hospital six months for treatment, he knew she was dying. But he didn’t treat her any extra special than he had Julio, the five year-old boy who had his tonsils removed the day earlier. In five minutes time, they were all old friends of his.
A few nights before he was to be released, he couldn’t sleep. Abbie had the soul of an artist and such was her pain that she made you feel it, for Adam it was agony. It was too big for her little body to contain and she sent it flowing out in waves down the halls and undulating up and over the stairs into his mind, lapping like a sea of broken glass. At the right time he left his room and trod silently down the halls where he wouldn’t be stopped and made it all the way to her room. He knew no visitors were allowed at that time of night but she was afraid and her pain called out to him. Her bald little head looked too big for her body, she was top heavy and her shallow little breaths didn’t even disturb the thin blanket that covered her. He looked in from the doorway and thought about what he’d like to say to her, rolling the words over in his mind getting them just right and sending them to her just like he would a paper boat on a lake.
Abbie’s mother returned from the down the hall with a can of coke.
“Can I help you,” she asked.
“You know,” he replied, “if you think thoughts of her, make sure they’re positive.”
Her face turned five shades of red. “Don’t you ever tell me how to help my daughter,” she said, trying not to yell. “What are you doing here, anyway? You know, I ought to call the police--”
A male nurse peeked his head from around the corner down the hall and interrupted her, “Miss, is everything okay?”
She turned back to Adam but he was gone. When she looked into Abbie‘s room she was smiling.
It was the first time he had gone to someone in the spirit of love and was met with aggression. When he returned to bed the pain was gone but he still couldn’t sleep. To be was to love and to love was to know pain, that was the second thing.
All the joy and expectation of a life ahead, a life of possibility, of surprise, a life that knew nothing save potential flooded into being. To know nothing of jealousy or envy, disappointment or rage that was for this one true moment to be. To be!
He opened his eyes. His eyelids were lead weights and the light hurt and to know this struggle was to know existence. To know!
He glowed love, to be was to love that was the first thing he knew.
He also knew there was a lifetime of knowledge and experience behind him. He knew through some prior existence that he was in a hospital bed but not how he got there. He knew what to do next, he pushed a button and a nurse came running from down the hall.
The first face he saw, he recognized from a thousand memories or more. It was his brother. Everything was a revelation now.
“Hey buddy, how you feeling?”
He gave his brother the thumb’s up and tried to smile. His brother left the room in a jerky dash. Mike. Mike was his name. He was Adam. Everything was fresh and new. To be really alive for the first time! He looked out the window at the blue sky streaked with whiteness, he saw the tops of some grey and light brown buildings. To know that this world was his to explore!
Mike scrambled back into the room with a small ageing woman he recognized as his mother. She was quiet except for the hup, hup, hup of her sobbing. Adam was happy to see her, an old friend from a past life. He felt like he could communicate with eye blinks and tried to reassure her.
After a time, he slept.
The things outside the window fly by a bit too fast, he can’t make out what they are, then the uniforms crowd around him.
“He’s gone,” one uniform says.
No.
“Grab his legs.”
No!
He sees the world through tinted lenses, laughing all the time. He sits on the grass one minute, laughing, then he feels his legs being pulled up.
“Don’t say these things to me,” he tries to say, “I’m alive goddamnit!” No one listens.
He runs across the grass to a building surrounded by trees. Only one way out. He opens the door to the building to get to the other side. Empty white room. He opens another door.
Empty white room.
He was sitting on the grass laughing.
Another door. And another. And another.
Empty, empty, empty.
On and on opening doors, finding nothing but empty space, he gets to what must be the center of the universe or maybe the center of his mind. “My God," he says, "it’s so empty.”
Sitting on the grass in an open field, he remembers laughing. He leaves, driving away.
What was he laughing about, again?
He understands that he is not alone in the room and that it is not really empty. A presence is felt, something that has always been there even when he thought he was alone. It’s Him. Here he is in the center of his mind and it is so empty and he is not alone because he knows He is there. And there’s no fooling Him, there’s no pretense, there’s no convincing, there’s just Truth. He screams at the top of his lungs and no uniform hears him.
What was so funny?
“What do you remember about the accident,” the nurse asked. She oozed syrup from every syllable.
“Not much,” he’d been there a week and still he spoke with difficulty. “Um, The road was wet.” He strained to remember more.
“It’s okay,” she squeezed his hand and leaned in, smiling. “Car accidents are very traumatic. But you’re here. You survived!” She slapped her knee on ‘vived’ to emphasize the miraculous nature of the event.
“Um, it happened pretty quick.”
“Of course.”
“I was trapped. I could hear myself squealing like a pig. Screaming, like.”
“Ssshhh,” she patted his hand. “I was in an accident. Not as bad as yours, but I was shaken up about it for a long time.”
“They said I was missing for three days.”
“Yes. It must have been about half a year before I could ride in a car without wincing at every turn, and tensing my legs when we went the speed limit.” She stared outside, the squares of the window hid her moist pupils. She caught herself and turned back to him, smiling a big Stepford Wife smile.
“I feel fine.”
She began to say something.
“Actually,” he interrupted, “I feel great.”
He started to understand her emphasis. To be, to know he was alive. A new soul.
The hospital staff marveled at his recovery. Occasionally they’d find him shuffling and wandering down the halls, staring out the windows, studying the contents of the snack machine like a monument. They found he was a quick study. He became a master of knowing when and how to sneak off unnoticed, holding court with the other patients and visitors, entertaining the children. They wondered about his mental state.
“Many times,” the nurse began cautiously, “patients recovering from near death experiences go through a period of readjusting to reality. They view their post-accident life as ‘bonus time.’ They take uncalculated risks, their behavior becomes slightly brash and unpredictable. Does this sound familiar?” She smiled.
He nodded. Psychological examinations were much easier when he was agreeable. But not too agreeable.
“You have a new lease on life, and that’s something really special. But you need to take it easy. Slow down, take a deep breath and say ‘ah, I can relax now.’ You can’t live every moment all at once.”
He thought about that for a long time after she left.
Something began to happen as he entertained the children. He grew sensible to pain. He knew which kids were really sick and which ones would get better. He took a keen and special interest in one little girl in particular, Abbie.
Abbie was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of seven and had been at the hospital six months for treatment, he knew she was dying. But he didn’t treat her any extra special than he had Julio, the five year-old boy who had his tonsils removed the day earlier. In five minutes time, they were all old friends of his.
A few nights before he was to be released, he couldn’t sleep. Abbie had the soul of an artist and such was her pain that she made you feel it, for Adam it was agony. It was too big for her little body to contain and she sent it flowing out in waves down the halls and undulating up and over the stairs into his mind, lapping like a sea of broken glass. At the right time he left his room and trod silently down the halls where he wouldn’t be stopped and made it all the way to her room. He knew no visitors were allowed at that time of night but she was afraid and her pain called out to him. Her bald little head looked too big for her body, she was top heavy and her shallow little breaths didn’t even disturb the thin blanket that covered her. He looked in from the doorway and thought about what he’d like to say to her, rolling the words over in his mind getting them just right and sending them to her just like he would a paper boat on a lake.
Abbie’s mother returned from the down the hall with a can of coke.
“Can I help you,” she asked.
“You know,” he replied, “if you think thoughts of her, make sure they’re positive.”
Her face turned five shades of red. “Don’t you ever tell me how to help my daughter,” she said, trying not to yell. “What are you doing here, anyway? You know, I ought to call the police--”
A male nurse peeked his head from around the corner down the hall and interrupted her, “Miss, is everything okay?”
She turned back to Adam but he was gone. When she looked into Abbie‘s room she was smiling.
It was the first time he had gone to someone in the spirit of love and was met with aggression. When he returned to bed the pain was gone but he still couldn’t sleep. To be was to love and to love was to know pain, that was the second thing.
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