"A lifetime," she said. "And you? You're so old. How did all that time go by? How does any time go by at all?"
"Last time I saw you," Tommy thought, "was in high school, I think. You were going out with Captain. That's what we called him, anyway. I forget what his real name was."
"George Capelli," she said, and he thought he felt a smile in her voice.
"All those names," he sighed, "who can ever keep track? We meet so many people, here in the city. We see them by the hundred, by the million, every day and every one of them has a name, and they come and go so fast, and you never know their story, certainly not the whole of it. Don't you ever wonder? Don't you ever imagine how it could possibly happen? Each and every person you meet has come a whole lifetime to that point of contact and you could never track back the lines, and even the fact of you meeting them could have been prevented or avoided by any one of a billion tiny actions and reactions and rearrangement of the elements. That you and I even knew each other once upon a time is almost, almost but not quite, impossible."
"I remember you from science class," she said. "We were partners, remember? Lab partners. That's when I called you Tommy Turtle."
"Everybody called me Tommy Turtle," he replied, "because I was always so slow, and because of my last name too, of course."
"I thought I made it up," she said and he shook his head. On the outside Jimmy Blanks noticed that shaking and shook his own. The old man's dreaming, he said to himself.
"Maybe you did," Tommy told her. "Who can remember?"
"It was because of your glasses," she said, "you had those tortoise shell glasses. I think you were even the only kid in our grade to did wear glasses. It made you look smart."
"Fooled you, huh?" he wanted to laugh. So that's why she volunteered to be his lab partner. He had thought that maybe she liked him. That's what had set the whole thing off, the dreams and daydreams, the fantasies and hopes, the million hours up there in his head where he and Margaret Garfield would be kissing or at least holding hands so that everyone in the school would see, but it was only because she thought he was smart, because he wore glasses, when really the reason he wore glasses was that he just couldn't see very well. It had nothing to do with intelligence. She must have figured it out sometime, because they both did really lousy in that class. The experiments never went well. Either he'd set something on fire or stuff would blow up. The things that were supposed to turn blue overnight never did. They never even turned anything.
"I guess I dragged you down," he wanted to apologize.
"I was just as dumb as you," she confided. "Probably dummer. I didn't care about anything in school. All I cared about then was whether or not George Capelli had noticed me that day. I was after him for years. You're right, though. I finally did get him, in high school, for about a month, until I let him go all the way. Boy, that was stupid. That was the last time I ever 'had' George Capelli."
"He was like that," Tommy said.
"I know!" she replied, "I even knew it then. He'd done the same thing to every other girl who let him. Still, he was the captain."
"All aboard," Tommy muttered, and Jimmy Blanks shook his head once again.
"Still nothing?" asked the prettier nurse, the one who didn't try to run him over every time she came by.
"He's just mumbling nonsense," Jimmy told her.
"Hey," he called out before she got away, "did those blood tests come back?"
"Yes," she said, "the doctor has seen them. You'll have to ask him."
"Where is he?" Jimmy asked, looking around.
"He got called into surgery," she shrugged. "Be back in a while."
"That's just peachy," Jimmy sighed after she left. "I sure could use a cup of coffee," but he didn't get up. He was certain that someone was guaranteed to swipe that chair if he so much as stood up once again, and he was damned if he was going to let that happen.
"I'm not going to stand here all night." he declared.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Three
"I'm Margaret," she said, "Margaret Garfield."
"Of course you are," he replied, "Of course. How could I forget?"
But he had forgotten, and she didn't look like Margaret Garfield, not the Margaret Garfield he remembered, that face was not her face, the face he must have spent a thousand hours staring at while pretending to be paying attention to Mr. Scorpio, their eighth grade science teacher. That Margaret Garfield was the most beautiful girl in the world. How he'd dreamed about that face, dreaming while wide awake, a practice that became the source of all his later troubles in life. Does not use time wisely. Does not seem to possess the ability to focus. Reckless and careless. Not to be promoted. Not to find his place in the world. Story teller. Mischief maker. Liar. A fool.
He was a fool about Margaret Garfield and he didn't care he knew it, as long as they didn't tell HER! At thirteen, Tommy was still the shortest kid in class and the tallest kid was, you guessed it, Margaret Garfield. It seemed her long black hair was even taller than he was, and she had it all, everything a girl that age could want. She was the first to arrive at every stage of development, and the way she carried herself you would have thought she was in high school already. Rumor had it she had a boyfriend who was sixteen, but when it came to Margaret Garfield, rumor had a lot of things. As he considered it now, rumors were all he knew about her after that one year they were in the same classroom.
"Whatever happened to you?" he mumbled.
"What are you talking about?" That would be Jimmy Blanks. "What do you mean, whatever happened to me? Is there something you don't like about me now? What a surprise! You never did give me any credit, and look who's here, look who's right by your side, who checked in on you, and brought you here, and stayed with you, and now you're giving me this? Whatever happened to what?"
The old man didn't say anything, didn't even know he'd spoken out loud. Jimmy got up and paced a bit as best he could in the crowded and hurried hallway. The whole place was lined with these portable beds that orderlies and nurses kept shoving this way and that, as patients were hustled in and out of rooms and doctors shouted orders. Jimmy had grabbed a desk chair with wheels from behind one of the nurses' stations and now that he'd jumped up and stalked about he saw that one of the nurses was eyeing the thing, so he scampered back and plopped his ass back down on it before she came and took it back.
"Whatever happened to YOU?" he grumbled, reminiscing. Uncle Tommy was one those people, the kind you could never be too sure about. Everybody thought he was a secret drunk, but Jimmy had scoured the old man's apartment more than once and never found any alcohol or even narcotics in the place. He kept to himself and in public was never known to drink or even swear too much. He always looked like he was waiting for a conversation to happen, a conversation about something interesting, but since the people he hung around were all stupid and boring it never did take place, and Tommy had to settle for small talk, gossip and idiotic opinions about unimportant things. That group of guys he stuck with, year after year and their once a week card game, Jimmy never knew what his uncle saw in them, or what they saw in him for that matter.
There was Larry Moscone, best friend since childhood, sanitation engineer par excellence. This was a guy who seemed to know all there was to know about every back alley and every lousy neighborhood across the five boroughs, though as far as Jimmy knew, he'd circled the same old route in Queens for something like forty years. It was like he'd made a study of bad things and where they'd happened, and marked his own mental map with little red squares and never forgot a thing, like he was some kind of elephant of urban crime. He also had a thing about fire hydrants, and which ones smelled like piss.
Ricky Bourbon - not his real name but who the hell knew what his real name was - was also known as The Fat Guy. Larry was Larry, but Ricky was The Fat Guy, and Ron was The Straight Man. Between The Fat Guy and The Straight Man you got to hear every freaking joke that was ever told on the Tonight Show through generations of lousy monologues. The Fat Guy, at least, was a corporate lawyer, very smart and successful in life, with three kids, all of whom went on to get doctorates in various branches of science, and The Fat Guy's wife was a member of the City Council a couple of times. You might have thought at least The Fat Guy would come up with some scrap of interesting conversation, but Tuesdays were his brain's night off from everything, and as far as Jimmy knew, Tommy never saw him on any other occasion, not even a wedding or a funeral. Tommy was just a prop in The Fat Guy's life. At least Ron was more of a friend, but Ron was the first to go, struck down by the Q32.
"Whatever happened to Ricky Bourbon?" Jimmy Blanks said to his uncle once he'd reconquered his seat and swung it around so his face was close to the old man's, but Tommy said nothing. He was flat on his back, his big old nose sticking straight up in the air and his wide open eyes were gaping up at the ceiling as if there was something to see. There wasn't. Jimmy had checked. At least the ceiling didn't seem to be as filthy as the walls.
"Don't they ever clean those walls?" he asked a passing nurse, gesturing at the line of mold that might have passed for decoration, even wainscotting in the right light. She sniffed and didn't bother to answer as she brushed by, and maybe that subtle collision between her left hip and his right shoulder was no accident.
"They want me to go," Jimmy thought. "Like I'm in their way, like I'm causing trouble for THEM! Who lost the blood samples, huh? Who had to take them again? Who's taking forever to get the results? I'm just doing the right thing here. What right have they got?"
"Whatever happened to you?" he snorted.
"Of course you are," he replied, "Of course. How could I forget?"
But he had forgotten, and she didn't look like Margaret Garfield, not the Margaret Garfield he remembered, that face was not her face, the face he must have spent a thousand hours staring at while pretending to be paying attention to Mr. Scorpio, their eighth grade science teacher. That Margaret Garfield was the most beautiful girl in the world. How he'd dreamed about that face, dreaming while wide awake, a practice that became the source of all his later troubles in life. Does not use time wisely. Does not seem to possess the ability to focus. Reckless and careless. Not to be promoted. Not to find his place in the world. Story teller. Mischief maker. Liar. A fool.
He was a fool about Margaret Garfield and he didn't care he knew it, as long as they didn't tell HER! At thirteen, Tommy was still the shortest kid in class and the tallest kid was, you guessed it, Margaret Garfield. It seemed her long black hair was even taller than he was, and she had it all, everything a girl that age could want. She was the first to arrive at every stage of development, and the way she carried herself you would have thought she was in high school already. Rumor had it she had a boyfriend who was sixteen, but when it came to Margaret Garfield, rumor had a lot of things. As he considered it now, rumors were all he knew about her after that one year they were in the same classroom.
"Whatever happened to you?" he mumbled.
"What are you talking about?" That would be Jimmy Blanks. "What do you mean, whatever happened to me? Is there something you don't like about me now? What a surprise! You never did give me any credit, and look who's here, look who's right by your side, who checked in on you, and brought you here, and stayed with you, and now you're giving me this? Whatever happened to what?"
The old man didn't say anything, didn't even know he'd spoken out loud. Jimmy got up and paced a bit as best he could in the crowded and hurried hallway. The whole place was lined with these portable beds that orderlies and nurses kept shoving this way and that, as patients were hustled in and out of rooms and doctors shouted orders. Jimmy had grabbed a desk chair with wheels from behind one of the nurses' stations and now that he'd jumped up and stalked about he saw that one of the nurses was eyeing the thing, so he scampered back and plopped his ass back down on it before she came and took it back.
"Whatever happened to YOU?" he grumbled, reminiscing. Uncle Tommy was one those people, the kind you could never be too sure about. Everybody thought he was a secret drunk, but Jimmy had scoured the old man's apartment more than once and never found any alcohol or even narcotics in the place. He kept to himself and in public was never known to drink or even swear too much. He always looked like he was waiting for a conversation to happen, a conversation about something interesting, but since the people he hung around were all stupid and boring it never did take place, and Tommy had to settle for small talk, gossip and idiotic opinions about unimportant things. That group of guys he stuck with, year after year and their once a week card game, Jimmy never knew what his uncle saw in them, or what they saw in him for that matter.
There was Larry Moscone, best friend since childhood, sanitation engineer par excellence. This was a guy who seemed to know all there was to know about every back alley and every lousy neighborhood across the five boroughs, though as far as Jimmy knew, he'd circled the same old route in Queens for something like forty years. It was like he'd made a study of bad things and where they'd happened, and marked his own mental map with little red squares and never forgot a thing, like he was some kind of elephant of urban crime. He also had a thing about fire hydrants, and which ones smelled like piss.
Ricky Bourbon - not his real name but who the hell knew what his real name was - was also known as The Fat Guy. Larry was Larry, but Ricky was The Fat Guy, and Ron was The Straight Man. Between The Fat Guy and The Straight Man you got to hear every freaking joke that was ever told on the Tonight Show through generations of lousy monologues. The Fat Guy, at least, was a corporate lawyer, very smart and successful in life, with three kids, all of whom went on to get doctorates in various branches of science, and The Fat Guy's wife was a member of the City Council a couple of times. You might have thought at least The Fat Guy would come up with some scrap of interesting conversation, but Tuesdays were his brain's night off from everything, and as far as Jimmy knew, Tommy never saw him on any other occasion, not even a wedding or a funeral. Tommy was just a prop in The Fat Guy's life. At least Ron was more of a friend, but Ron was the first to go, struck down by the Q32.
"Whatever happened to Ricky Bourbon?" Jimmy Blanks said to his uncle once he'd reconquered his seat and swung it around so his face was close to the old man's, but Tommy said nothing. He was flat on his back, his big old nose sticking straight up in the air and his wide open eyes were gaping up at the ceiling as if there was something to see. There wasn't. Jimmy had checked. At least the ceiling didn't seem to be as filthy as the walls.
"Don't they ever clean those walls?" he asked a passing nurse, gesturing at the line of mold that might have passed for decoration, even wainscotting in the right light. She sniffed and didn't bother to answer as she brushed by, and maybe that subtle collision between her left hip and his right shoulder was no accident.
"They want me to go," Jimmy thought. "Like I'm in their way, like I'm causing trouble for THEM! Who lost the blood samples, huh? Who had to take them again? Who's taking forever to get the results? I'm just doing the right thing here. What right have they got?"
"Whatever happened to you?" he snorted.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Two
They came rushing into his mind like wind through a tunnel, like individual pieces of a strong summer breeze was the way he would have described it, and then they scattered throughout his body, each one seeking a home in a blood cell or a skin cell or otherwise occupying their own little space. At first he thought it was the result of some injection. The nurses had probably stabbed him again with one of their crazy notions of helping ease the pain, as if he were so close that he could feel it. That old body was a hundred miles away by now, but this, this particle wave of disturbance that rippled within him had started at the nostrils, yes, at the very nose hairs he knew had to be sticking out all over like they always did in public. He'd breathed them in, and in they came, so many of them, and it was as if they were all over his innards all at once and all of them trying to make themselves heard, they were shouting.
"Do you know your name?"
"He doesn't even know where he lives." That would be Jimmy.
"I thought I saw him open his eyes there for a moment," the passing doctor muttered, glancing with annoyance at the man sitting there beside the gurney, checking his cellphone and taking up space.
"He does that," said the man, who had to be Jimmy. "He goes in and out, you never know if he can hear you or not. Been like that for a long time now. Sometimes I'm sure he's just pretending, just putting on a show of being deaf or something. Easier for him that way, acting like he never did nothing, like an innocent child. You can get away with anything when you get up there, like people don't remember, like nothing ever happened, like he never did nothing."
Like you, Tommy snarled for a moment, you who really never did do nothing, not for anyone, not for anything, but let it go, he told himself, let it all go. What are these things crawling around inside my skin? They were talking too, babbling like Jimmy and he couldn't quite make out what they were saying, or even if they were really even there. Maybe they turned on the air conditioning, he thought, and it's all just goosebumps, but he never had goosebumps beneath his skin before, especially not ones that got around like this, and the ones who'd made it up inside his head, now rattling around inside his brain were making louder noises, whispers and almost words like hissing, like snakes curdling through the grey matter, flashing about and talk about putting on a show. It felt like fireworks and tasted like lemon thyme.
"Maybe I know you?"
"Haven't we met?"
"What time is it?"
"What year is it?"
"You ever seen my Ricky? You would know him."
"Over this way."
"I never forget a face."
"Do you have a light?"
"What are the odds?"
"Can you hear me now?"
Every particle, every beam, every shaft of light shimmering across the hemispheres of his brain had a question for him, each in a different voice, a different tone. Some of them sounded familiar. Others were clearly strangers. Some spoke other languages, not even English. They all seemed anxious, hurried, worried, but they couldn't stick, couldn't stay still but flitted about, no sooner coming close than scattering away, like flame-crazed moths frightened off by the heat. It was like being tickled all over inside. Tommy didn't know how to answer them back. They were firing too fast and then they were gone, replaced by others rippling through. Then, as suddenly as they'd swept in they ushered themselves back out, as quick as an inhale and an exhale, and then there was only one.
"I remember you," a soft tone hushed inside his ear. "Sure I do. You're Tommy Turtle."
Who was it? She sounded familiar but no more so than the young lady at the corner coffee shop who took his drink order on a Sunday morning.
"Nobody calls me that," he thought, "not in a long time. Not in a very long time."
"I used to call you that," she said. "When we knew each other. Do you know my name?"
"How's he going to know your name?" Jimmy Blanks blurted out. "He doesn't even know his own!"
"Just thought I'd try something different," the nurse shrugged. "You don't have to stay here, you know."
"They told me I should," Jimmy said. "In case of the worst, you know."
"They could call you," she suggested.
"Yeah, right. Then I'd have to come all the way back out. No, I'm here so I might as well stick it out. Is there any more news? Anything from those blood tests? They lost the earlier sample, they said, so they took some more. I was waiting to hear."
"Nothing yet," she told him. "The lab's awfully backed up. It could be a long time. He doesn't look like he's going anywhere. Vitals stable. Breathing easy. Probably ought to be at home resting."
"They said he only had hours if that."
"Even so," she said. "Might as well be there than here in this old dump."
"They said just in case," Jimmy mumbled. "You know."
"Okay," the nurse said. "It's up to you. I'll be back around in a bit."
Wait, what? Tommy thought. When you knew me? When we knew each other? I don't think I ever knew a particle before.
"We're always hoping to find someone we know," the voice gently said. "I'm not sure why. We all have each other all the time, but we don't seem to want that. We want someone we used to know."
"There were a lot of you," Tommy nodded inside his mind. "Where did the others go?"
"They didn't know you, and you didn't know them, so they couldn't stick. You couldn't ever see them."
"I can't see you either."
"Here I am," and then, just like that, there she was, he saw her vividly and completely, but still he didn't know her. She looked to be in her forties, just a little gray sprinkled among her long and thick black hair, some beginnings of crow's feet around her eyes, her sharp and dark brown eyes. Those he knew, or it felt like he knew those eyes, but he couldn't place a name to them, to her. He shook his head inside his mind.
"You didn't know me then," she said. "We knew each other in elementary school. I can't show you what I looked like then. When we die, we're the age we were then. We're always that age."
"I wondered about that," Tommy thought. "Like in the afterlife. If I was to see my mom, would she be the mom I knew when I was six? That's how I'd want to see her, but maybe that's not the age she'd want to be in the afterlife. Or my grandma. I'd want her to be around sixty, but wouldn't she rather be sixteen in heaven? But if she was sixteen in heaven, than she'd know nothing about being my mother's mother and of course nothing about me. She'd just be some stupid kid, not my grandmother. It never added up to me, you know. I couldn't work that out in my mind. Unless there were like an infinite number of heavens and every one was perfect just for one person at one age, like my six-year-old self's heaven wouldn't be anything like my thirty-year-old self's heaven. All the people in it would be different, and the feelings too. But then if it was like that, would there be any authentic afterlife or would they all just be like different seasons of a television show? Like, you know, the heaven where Bugsy's rabbit had an adventure, or the heaven where Harry met Sally?"
What am I saying? Tommy wondered, and there was no answer. Did I scare her off? Or bore her away more likely? The silence continued and Tommy felt a swelling of several emotions rising within him all together, confused. Now I'll never know who she was? How could I be so stupid? I used to always talk too much, that was one of my problems. Did I say the wrong thing? Where'd she go. What'd she mean "we". What did she mean "always"? Why was I talking all that nonsense instead of asking about her? Women always like it when you ask about them? I never had any luck with women, probably because I'm an idiot.
"I don't know how many heavens there are," she said, "or even if there are any at all. I've just been right here since the day I died. We all have."
"Here?" Tommy remembered to ask her a question.
"In the mold," she said. "We live in the mold."
"Do you know your name?"
"He doesn't even know where he lives." That would be Jimmy.
"I thought I saw him open his eyes there for a moment," the passing doctor muttered, glancing with annoyance at the man sitting there beside the gurney, checking his cellphone and taking up space.
"He does that," said the man, who had to be Jimmy. "He goes in and out, you never know if he can hear you or not. Been like that for a long time now. Sometimes I'm sure he's just pretending, just putting on a show of being deaf or something. Easier for him that way, acting like he never did nothing, like an innocent child. You can get away with anything when you get up there, like people don't remember, like nothing ever happened, like he never did nothing."
Like you, Tommy snarled for a moment, you who really never did do nothing, not for anyone, not for anything, but let it go, he told himself, let it all go. What are these things crawling around inside my skin? They were talking too, babbling like Jimmy and he couldn't quite make out what they were saying, or even if they were really even there. Maybe they turned on the air conditioning, he thought, and it's all just goosebumps, but he never had goosebumps beneath his skin before, especially not ones that got around like this, and the ones who'd made it up inside his head, now rattling around inside his brain were making louder noises, whispers and almost words like hissing, like snakes curdling through the grey matter, flashing about and talk about putting on a show. It felt like fireworks and tasted like lemon thyme.
"Maybe I know you?"
"Haven't we met?"
"What time is it?"
"What year is it?"
"You ever seen my Ricky? You would know him."
"Over this way."
"I never forget a face."
"Do you have a light?"
"What are the odds?"
"Can you hear me now?"
Every particle, every beam, every shaft of light shimmering across the hemispheres of his brain had a question for him, each in a different voice, a different tone. Some of them sounded familiar. Others were clearly strangers. Some spoke other languages, not even English. They all seemed anxious, hurried, worried, but they couldn't stick, couldn't stay still but flitted about, no sooner coming close than scattering away, like flame-crazed moths frightened off by the heat. It was like being tickled all over inside. Tommy didn't know how to answer them back. They were firing too fast and then they were gone, replaced by others rippling through. Then, as suddenly as they'd swept in they ushered themselves back out, as quick as an inhale and an exhale, and then there was only one.
"I remember you," a soft tone hushed inside his ear. "Sure I do. You're Tommy Turtle."
Who was it? She sounded familiar but no more so than the young lady at the corner coffee shop who took his drink order on a Sunday morning.
"Nobody calls me that," he thought, "not in a long time. Not in a very long time."
"I used to call you that," she said. "When we knew each other. Do you know my name?"
"How's he going to know your name?" Jimmy Blanks blurted out. "He doesn't even know his own!"
"Just thought I'd try something different," the nurse shrugged. "You don't have to stay here, you know."
"They told me I should," Jimmy said. "In case of the worst, you know."
"They could call you," she suggested.
"Yeah, right. Then I'd have to come all the way back out. No, I'm here so I might as well stick it out. Is there any more news? Anything from those blood tests? They lost the earlier sample, they said, so they took some more. I was waiting to hear."
"Nothing yet," she told him. "The lab's awfully backed up. It could be a long time. He doesn't look like he's going anywhere. Vitals stable. Breathing easy. Probably ought to be at home resting."
"They said he only had hours if that."
"Even so," she said. "Might as well be there than here in this old dump."
"They said just in case," Jimmy mumbled. "You know."
"Okay," the nurse said. "It's up to you. I'll be back around in a bit."
Wait, what? Tommy thought. When you knew me? When we knew each other? I don't think I ever knew a particle before.
"We're always hoping to find someone we know," the voice gently said. "I'm not sure why. We all have each other all the time, but we don't seem to want that. We want someone we used to know."
"There were a lot of you," Tommy nodded inside his mind. "Where did the others go?"
"They didn't know you, and you didn't know them, so they couldn't stick. You couldn't ever see them."
"I can't see you either."
"Here I am," and then, just like that, there she was, he saw her vividly and completely, but still he didn't know her. She looked to be in her forties, just a little gray sprinkled among her long and thick black hair, some beginnings of crow's feet around her eyes, her sharp and dark brown eyes. Those he knew, or it felt like he knew those eyes, but he couldn't place a name to them, to her. He shook his head inside his mind.
"You didn't know me then," she said. "We knew each other in elementary school. I can't show you what I looked like then. When we die, we're the age we were then. We're always that age."
"I wondered about that," Tommy thought. "Like in the afterlife. If I was to see my mom, would she be the mom I knew when I was six? That's how I'd want to see her, but maybe that's not the age she'd want to be in the afterlife. Or my grandma. I'd want her to be around sixty, but wouldn't she rather be sixteen in heaven? But if she was sixteen in heaven, than she'd know nothing about being my mother's mother and of course nothing about me. She'd just be some stupid kid, not my grandmother. It never added up to me, you know. I couldn't work that out in my mind. Unless there were like an infinite number of heavens and every one was perfect just for one person at one age, like my six-year-old self's heaven wouldn't be anything like my thirty-year-old self's heaven. All the people in it would be different, and the feelings too. But then if it was like that, would there be any authentic afterlife or would they all just be like different seasons of a television show? Like, you know, the heaven where Bugsy's rabbit had an adventure, or the heaven where Harry met Sally?"
What am I saying? Tommy wondered, and there was no answer. Did I scare her off? Or bore her away more likely? The silence continued and Tommy felt a swelling of several emotions rising within him all together, confused. Now I'll never know who she was? How could I be so stupid? I used to always talk too much, that was one of my problems. Did I say the wrong thing? Where'd she go. What'd she mean "we". What did she mean "always"? Why was I talking all that nonsense instead of asking about her? Women always like it when you ask about them? I never had any luck with women, probably because I'm an idiot.
"I don't know how many heavens there are," she said, "or even if there are any at all. I've just been right here since the day I died. We all have."
"Here?" Tommy remembered to ask her a question.
"In the mold," she said. "We live in the mold."
Monday, May 13, 2013
One
"If you're waiting for the world to get it,
if you're waiting for the world, forget it.
I'm not waiting for the world"
Swervedriver (She Weaves a Tender Trap)
Tommy Tortelli finally found true love where he least expected it, in the moldy corridor of an old hospital emergency room. The timing wasn't so good either. He'd been brought there to die. That should have been enough for one day. It was his nephew, Jimmy Blanks, his dead sister's boy, who'd taken him there, and even though Jimmy couldn't wait for the whole thing to be done with, and didn't mind saying so, over and over again, all the way across town, Tommy didn't blame him for that. He knew from personal experience just how much dying could be a real pain in the ass for the living. His dead sister, for one. He'd done his share of carping about that so that now, lying there half-conscious in the gurney in the hallway, with the hustle and bustle of the sick and the injured and the nurses and the doctors and the visitors and the families and the boy Jimmy bitching about how long it was going to take him to get back home, especially if the old guy kept hanging in there, it was already past eleven and he could feel in his very bones the gaps in the bus schedules after midnight, Tommy would have smiled if the muscles in his face would have let him.
He was ready to die, been ready for a long while by then. He couldn't hardly stand up by himself anymore, or do anything, really, and he was a guy who'd been on his own since the age of fifteen, never needing any help from anybody, well, never much anyway. Hadn't he gone running off to see the world and hadn't he seen a whole bunch of it too. Enough, at least, so when he came back to the city and found the groove he never ventured from the next fifty years he didn't mind at all, didn't complain about his lot in life one bit. Work hard and you'll work hard, that was his own grim motto, and he did his share. He hauled and he lifted, he carried and he fetched, he stocked and he drove, he helped the products of the world find their way around in it, from factory to warehouse, from warehouse to store, from store to dwelling, from homes to landfill, the cycle of life in cardboard and plastic and metal. Tommy had lived alone, almost always. Now and then a cat came and went in and out of his life. Family on holidays. Friends on a weekend and of course Tuesday nights. From where he sat, from where he stood, the planet seemed to grow and grow like a weed all around him, open spaces getting filled, then getting tall, then blotting out the sky. He'd have to go a longer and longer way to get past all the concrete, out somewhere that trees outnumbered cars. Once or twice a summer he'd seek that out and, sitting by a lonely creek in the woods in a hundred degrees of sweat and mosquitos, he'd try and remember his childhood. Faces came out of the past and hovered over his face, shouting, it seemed.
"Do you know your name?"
"He doesn't even know where he is." That would be Jimmy.
"Do you know your name?" she was yelling again and he could feel her unexpectedly sweet breath on his face. He wanted to tell her, not tell her his name because if she wanted to know that she could read the damn tag on the side of the bed, but tell her what he was thinking, what he was feeling, all of the words rushing down from his brain and out through his toes, the trickling alphabet abandoning his mind one by one. Most of all he wanted to tell her to stop bothering with him, but she was just doing her job, he could tell by the blur of light blue that surrounded her puffy wide face.
"He was like this when I found him today," reports Jimmy Blanks for the fifty ninth time, as if the nurse wanted to know. "Nobody else even checks on the guy," he continued. "Only me. You'd think that my sister, who lives down the block, down the very same fricking street, and who used to borrow money from him all the time, you'd think that one time, just even one time when I asked, being nice, to look in on her uncle, just to see, that maybe but no, she's too busy, she's got her chiropracter to see, she's got her toenails to do, she's got laundry out the ass, so it's me, only me, all the way out in Hoboken, that's who. Nobody else. Naturally, I get there and he's exactly like this. So what do I do? I bring him in here, that's what I do. Could have just called and let the EMT have him, but he's family, and you know what they say about family."
She might have known what they said about family, but she'd already walked off in the middle of his speech, just turned on her heels and off to the next helpless sucker in line. It was busy that night, or maybe it was busy like that every night. Tommy didn't know. The thing of it was, he'd been born in that very same place. That was the kicker. Seventy three years and the mold on the wall was probably even older. It was looking all pale green and fuzzy against the dirty gray walls. He thought he could smell it, like lime or maybe it was the color that was fooling him about the smell. If he could just turn his head he could get his big old beaker right up next to it and take a big whiff, and then he would know. He concentrated on that effort, but somehow his neck would not obey his commands and he inwardly sighed. It was the same with his whole damn body. It just wouldn't do what he wanted. He strained, holding his breath as if that would help, then scolded himself for being so stupid as to be holding his breath as if that would help. He was helpless, and hopeless. Here he was, minutes or maybe even moments from death, and all he longed for was to breathe in the odor of the mold on the wall, just to know what it was like. If there is a God, he was thinking, and right then some fat slob, maybe it was even a nurse, came waddling past and bashed into the side of his gurney, causing him to roll over and nearly smack his head against that very wall. Before his head could snap back he struggled to sniff as hard as he could and for just an instant he caught the scent of it. Surprising, he thought. It's like lavendar.
if you're waiting for the world, forget it.
I'm not waiting for the world"
Swervedriver (She Weaves a Tender Trap)
Tommy Tortelli finally found true love where he least expected it, in the moldy corridor of an old hospital emergency room. The timing wasn't so good either. He'd been brought there to die. That should have been enough for one day. It was his nephew, Jimmy Blanks, his dead sister's boy, who'd taken him there, and even though Jimmy couldn't wait for the whole thing to be done with, and didn't mind saying so, over and over again, all the way across town, Tommy didn't blame him for that. He knew from personal experience just how much dying could be a real pain in the ass for the living. His dead sister, for one. He'd done his share of carping about that so that now, lying there half-conscious in the gurney in the hallway, with the hustle and bustle of the sick and the injured and the nurses and the doctors and the visitors and the families and the boy Jimmy bitching about how long it was going to take him to get back home, especially if the old guy kept hanging in there, it was already past eleven and he could feel in his very bones the gaps in the bus schedules after midnight, Tommy would have smiled if the muscles in his face would have let him.
He was ready to die, been ready for a long while by then. He couldn't hardly stand up by himself anymore, or do anything, really, and he was a guy who'd been on his own since the age of fifteen, never needing any help from anybody, well, never much anyway. Hadn't he gone running off to see the world and hadn't he seen a whole bunch of it too. Enough, at least, so when he came back to the city and found the groove he never ventured from the next fifty years he didn't mind at all, didn't complain about his lot in life one bit. Work hard and you'll work hard, that was his own grim motto, and he did his share. He hauled and he lifted, he carried and he fetched, he stocked and he drove, he helped the products of the world find their way around in it, from factory to warehouse, from warehouse to store, from store to dwelling, from homes to landfill, the cycle of life in cardboard and plastic and metal. Tommy had lived alone, almost always. Now and then a cat came and went in and out of his life. Family on holidays. Friends on a weekend and of course Tuesday nights. From where he sat, from where he stood, the planet seemed to grow and grow like a weed all around him, open spaces getting filled, then getting tall, then blotting out the sky. He'd have to go a longer and longer way to get past all the concrete, out somewhere that trees outnumbered cars. Once or twice a summer he'd seek that out and, sitting by a lonely creek in the woods in a hundred degrees of sweat and mosquitos, he'd try and remember his childhood. Faces came out of the past and hovered over his face, shouting, it seemed.
"Do you know your name?"
"He doesn't even know where he is." That would be Jimmy.
"Do you know your name?" she was yelling again and he could feel her unexpectedly sweet breath on his face. He wanted to tell her, not tell her his name because if she wanted to know that she could read the damn tag on the side of the bed, but tell her what he was thinking, what he was feeling, all of the words rushing down from his brain and out through his toes, the trickling alphabet abandoning his mind one by one. Most of all he wanted to tell her to stop bothering with him, but she was just doing her job, he could tell by the blur of light blue that surrounded her puffy wide face.
"He was like this when I found him today," reports Jimmy Blanks for the fifty ninth time, as if the nurse wanted to know. "Nobody else even checks on the guy," he continued. "Only me. You'd think that my sister, who lives down the block, down the very same fricking street, and who used to borrow money from him all the time, you'd think that one time, just even one time when I asked, being nice, to look in on her uncle, just to see, that maybe but no, she's too busy, she's got her chiropracter to see, she's got her toenails to do, she's got laundry out the ass, so it's me, only me, all the way out in Hoboken, that's who. Nobody else. Naturally, I get there and he's exactly like this. So what do I do? I bring him in here, that's what I do. Could have just called and let the EMT have him, but he's family, and you know what they say about family."
She might have known what they said about family, but she'd already walked off in the middle of his speech, just turned on her heels and off to the next helpless sucker in line. It was busy that night, or maybe it was busy like that every night. Tommy didn't know. The thing of it was, he'd been born in that very same place. That was the kicker. Seventy three years and the mold on the wall was probably even older. It was looking all pale green and fuzzy against the dirty gray walls. He thought he could smell it, like lime or maybe it was the color that was fooling him about the smell. If he could just turn his head he could get his big old beaker right up next to it and take a big whiff, and then he would know. He concentrated on that effort, but somehow his neck would not obey his commands and he inwardly sighed. It was the same with his whole damn body. It just wouldn't do what he wanted. He strained, holding his breath as if that would help, then scolded himself for being so stupid as to be holding his breath as if that would help. He was helpless, and hopeless. Here he was, minutes or maybe even moments from death, and all he longed for was to breathe in the odor of the mold on the wall, just to know what it was like. If there is a God, he was thinking, and right then some fat slob, maybe it was even a nurse, came waddling past and bashed into the side of his gurney, causing him to roll over and nearly smack his head against that very wall. Before his head could snap back he struggled to sniff as hard as he could and for just an instant he caught the scent of it. Surprising, he thought. It's like lavendar.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
notes
the idea came from a dream, that i'd written a love story between a dying man and the ghost of a girl he knew as a child (though she died as a grown woman, after a life he knew nothing about, except rumors)
something touching on themes of the movie 'dead man' and the novel 'the hour of the star' in some ways
in and out of consciousness
in and out of drugs
wheelchaired around the grounds
on a gurney in the hallway
flashing back and flashing forward
memories and dreams
visitations
other hospital residents
also the old man on the gurney in the new york hospital and his visiting nephew - some of that floating in and out
her name was margaret garfield
his name?
every time they ask him if he knows his name, he comes up with a new one (un-vocalized) which launches into a new story
All about daydreams
Do ghosts sleep
How did they get stuck
something touching on themes of the movie 'dead man' and the novel 'the hour of the star' in some ways
in and out of consciousness
in and out of drugs
wheelchaired around the grounds
on a gurney in the hallway
flashing back and flashing forward
memories and dreams
visitations
other hospital residents
also the old man on the gurney in the new york hospital and his visiting nephew - some of that floating in and out
her name was margaret garfield
his name?
every time they ask him if he knows his name, he comes up with a new one (un-vocalized) which launches into a new story
All about daydreams
Do ghosts sleep
How did they get stuck
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