Extinct

Let me tell you the Gospel: first of all, it has nothing to do with God or the bible or anything Testament-oriented. The Gospel is the truth of all truths, and I have it. I told it to Ricky on the last day of the year and the next day he died of ink poisoning, so take that for what it's worth. But I'll tell it to you not because I'm worried about you dying the next day or because I want that to happen or anything, but because I have to tell somebody, just like all those fools in the bible did.

The Gospel is this: It is all an illusion.

I went to the museum with my father once, I remember because it was one of the three times I ever saw him in my life, and we looked at the dinosaurs. I had never seen bones that big, it was a radical sight and I near about lost my mind over it. My father, he said to call him Bill, stood behind me with his hands in his pockets and I could hear him jingling his change around, and he said those dinosaurs were extinct. Extinct, I said. Extinct? I knew about it, I'm not dumb and I've been to schooll, but for some reason when he said that word right then I sure heard it different. Extinct meaning they're not around anymore. They're all dead. No more dinosaurs.

And yet I had trouble with that because there they were, standing right in front of me with mouths open and teeth looming, with vengeance. I could see them, how could they be extinct?

They're dead, my father said. Bill. I know. Does he think I don't know? But none of us were here when they were alive, we couldn't see them. But they lived, the walked the earth. So was all that a dream? Since no one was here to see it? Was it an illusion? Or were these bones an illusion? When Bill dropped me off at my apartment where my sylph of a mother was be walking around the house in her fake ruby slippers, the dinosaurs were only alive in my mind. An illusion, a remembrance. Just like Ricky, who's still dead. And just like Bill, just like the third time I saw him when he took me to a baseball game and left me there, just off to take a piss and I'm alone in the stands after the seventh inning. And I went home that day, when I managed to be lucid enough to call my mother from a pay phone collect. But it was an elemental game that I wasn't even really watching anyway, because I knew somehow that it was the last time I was going to see Bill, so I was taking him in piece by piece as he sat next to me. His dark muzzle, his eyes that never stopped moving and his hands that were dry worked constantly, thumbing little circles on his knees. His blue-jeaned knees that bounced up and down to an extinct beat. Dead. Imaginary. But alive in his mind.

So I'll go home and hide behind the tapestry of the living room curtain, hot and heavy breath all around me that suddenly seems so real that it will never, never go away.

The Tower, Part III

The second level of the tower was bright, bright, bright. It was like walking into a scream. When she was finally able to open her eyes, she saw that the room was full of hospital equipment. Shiny, gripping metals and pale green sheets, people everywhere. It was a stark contrast to the dark and hulking shapes of the Things below. Doctors and nurses scurried by; some she recognized, some she didn’t.

Against one wall she saw her mother, straight-backed in a plastic chair, her eyes wide and staring. Her purse clutched tightly in her lap. Ingrid felt her throat swell, she wanted to run to her mother, let herself be swooped up, but she clung to the curved stone wall. These things were not really here. Her mother was back in the hotel, asleep. Or perhaps wandering the dark streets, calling out for her, worried, afraid? This version of her mother looked wide awake and frozen. Someone in the puppy-printed pajamas the nurses always wore rushed past her. Without thinking, Ingrid reached out a hand. She grabbed a handful of stiff fabric, and the woman whirled around.

“Yes, Ingrid?” she said. She seemed mildly impatient, but Ingrid saw that she had creased, kind eyes.

“Um.” Ingrid had not imagined what she would say. The woman glanced in the direction she had been going.

“I know,” said the woman. She patted Ingrid’s shoulder through the heavy coat. “We’re operating on you right now.”

“You are?”

“Yes. Over there.” She bent to make her eyes level with Ingrid’s and pointed across the vast white space. A circle of doctors stood around something, illuminated by a giant eye of light. “I have to go get them something important. Excuse me, honey.”

“Wait.” She grabbed the nurse’s tunic again, and the nurse wrapped Ingrid’s hand in both of hers. They were soft as grandmother hands.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Just keep going.” She cupped Ingrid’s cheek in her hand for a moment. Then she moved away.

A doctor with a paper mask at his throat was talking with Ingrid’s mother. He had a thick mustache and a deep, rowboat voice. Ingrid couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Ingrid knew she was going to die. Her body was small and sick. The vacation was a plan of distraction, of man-behind-the-curtain illusion. She hadn’t really been afraid until this moment.

She must have been a very bad girl.

She backed away from the surgical carnival. Her hand found the stone, and then a metal staircase. Up.

In the Middle

He leaves the light on and pads down the hallway, noticing the walls for the first time. They are covered with dusty frames, pictures of people he doesn’t recognize. As he looks closer he realizes that they are all the same face; the same family, yes, but also, somehow, the exact same face. The same face on all the little babies, fat with clenched fists like balls of dough, and the same face under every greasy comb-over, above each too-tight tie and under every teased cloud of hair.

He’s wearing pajama pants that droop in the seat, as pajama pants always do on him, because he’s very thin. He takes a few steps, closer to the living room, where he senses someone waiting. It’s an old house, not kept up, bitter dust in his nostrils and crawling, shadowy corners. He must be dreaming, he thinks. That’s always the proper explanation for the unexplainable. He’s so cold though; he must be awake. He couldn’t possibly sleep through this much cold. But since he woke up in a strange bed in a strange house, he doesn’t know where any of his sweatshirts are. So he’s vulnerable, shivering and clasping his hands over his thin arms. The living room is very dimly lit by a bluish glow coming through the window.

She is sitting on the couch, her chin in her hand, looking out the window with one of those I’m-here-but-I’m-not looks on her face. She has that look a lot. He knows her; she’s from his media art class.

Hello, professor, she says without looking at him. He sits on the couch next to her. It’s scratchy, a shredded material that feels about a thousand years old, as brittle as burnt paper.

What are we doing here, he asks her. Where are we?

She looks at him then, turns her face away from the window and toward his. It’s as if she’s wearing the moonlight; her face is still glowing with it, even in shadow.

We’re in limbo, she says. In the middle of everything.

Oh, he says. So it is a dream.

She snorts, not a laugh but more a sound of mockery, and turns back toward the window. Her wrist is lying next to him, and on that wrist is a braided cord with a silver tag dangling from it. He remembers the brush of something cold and metal against his arm as he wrapped them around his naked torso in the hallway, he looks at his own wrist. A matching bracelet, a silver tag.

Are we dead? He asks. He fears annoying her. He feels as though she could get up and walk out the door without warning, and he wouldn’t know whether to follow her or not. So he treads carefully.

Dead? She says, dreamily. Everyone is dead. We’re more alive than most people.

Wait, he says. Wait. You’re in my class?

Yes.

And you made that collage with all the family photos that have the same face?

Yeah, she says. She turns back to him, smiling now. You remembered? I wasn’t sure you liked it, she says.

Oh. Well, I didn’t, really.

She drops the smile. Glances down at his skinny, bare chest. He drapes his arms over it, trying to look casual. He looks back toward the hallway, at the parade of photos.

Oh, she says. Bored. I put those up. I thought it needed…something. And she turns away from him again, sighs and gets up. Heads somewhere that looks like a dark kitchen. He follows her.

Is this your house?

She’s standing in the bright yellow light of the open refrigerator, her face and eyes burned into focus. She takes out a block of cheddar cheese and begins to slice some on the counter.

It’s everyone’s house, she says. Not mine, not yours. But it’s ours.

He is starting to get annoyed with her indifference.

Then where is everyone else?

She stops cutting, holds out a slice of cheese to him. She’s chewing and doesn’t meet his eyes. Because he doesn’t know how not to be polite, he takes it. When he brings it to his mouth it’s nothing but dust. It crumbles and disappears in his fingers. But I’m not really here, he says. And you are. I can’t even eat this cheese.

Yeah, she says, putting the cheese back. She takes out a beer and cracks it open against the counter. That’s how I was at the beginning. You get better.

Better at what?

At dealing, she says. She takes a long swallow from the beer, hands it to him. It’s warm and the bottle feels gritty. When he tips it back nothing comes out. It’s empty.

He gives it back to her and she takes another sip. Wipes her mouth with her fingers.

Well, she says. Are you going to get dressed? Her eyes are on the waistband of his thin plaid pajama bottoms. He’s aware of the little trail of dark hair that disappears into them.

I don’t have any clothes here, he says.

She laughs, and he feels like a child. Like she’s the teacher and he’s the student. And he’s fallen into one of her bizarre art projects. It must be a dream, still.

She steps closer to him and reaches her arms around his neck. She leans into him and feels her breasts through her gauzy tank top. She’s not wearing a bra. When she pulls away he feels warm all over, and notices that his arms are covered in a dark fabric. He feels it and runs his hands over his chest. It’s a flannel shirt, buttoned and tucked into pants that look like something he’d wear. But they’re not his, not exactly.

Thanks, he says, because he can’t stop being polite.

I'm an old man

I’m an old man and I look like one. I remember when a young man wasn’t such a big deal; they were everywhere and I was one of them. And I didn’t even notice. Now a young man is so straight, so tall, so airborne with hope. His neck is loose and relaxed, his skin strong and smooth. Shaped tightly against his jaw. His hair is shiny and cut short and curves against his forehead above his bright, glittering eyes. This kind of man is a foreigner to me now. I stare at him when I see him, and he doesn’t even look in my direction. I stare and take in the sureness of his gait, his easy, effortless strides. Palms open and relaxed, arms swinging gracefully. His body is a mechanical miracle. He doesn’t even know it. He is thinking about where he’s going, who he’s going to meet, what he’s going to say, how he’s going to impress them. Maybe he’s thinking about food, a cheeseburger he can eat without concern for cholesterol or slipping dentures or heart medicine, he can just eat and taste every bite and enjoy it without even thinking twice. It’s all so natural for him, moving, eating, kissing, bathing, pissing. His bowels work like clockwork, no matter what he eats. They just do their business and he goes about his day, without having to worry whether the next one will feel like a sock full of pebbles or a pinecone decorated with razor blades. I remember being this man. I just can’t believe he’s gone.

I’m eighty-eight, which is a nice round number, and I’d be happy to die at this age. It seems like a good, even number. But they tell me I could live another ten years. Ten years! It seems like an eternity. But when I think about where I was ten years ago, at seventy-eight, it seems like it was this morning. And I thought I was going to die any minute then. How will it be at ninety-eight, what else will be hurting, burning, aching, drooping, softening? What will those ten years be like, if they happen? If they come? Ten years of more disintegration, more deterioration, more degradation? More family members coming around for their necessary visits, their begrudging obligations, behind their eyes a little jump of glee when you cough. Maybe you’re reaching the end, maybe it’s almost time for them to be released. Freed from you and these visits, the bills, the Christmas cards. They could tidy up, cross you off the list and fold your photos, your life, into a dusty album. You become an ancestor. A name and a face in a picture for future generations. No more than two seconds spent trying to remember who beget who and maybe, maybe someone recalling what you did for a living. But probably not.

I realize I’m sounding pretty bleak. It’s how I’ve felt these last few days. Weeks, years, who knows. I lose count. Everything blends together and the only way to mark off the passing of another day is by another successful bowel movement. An unsuccessful one is a waste of a day. May as well have never gotten out of bed. Those days don’t count.

I’m sitting on my bed, feet on the floor. My hands on my knees are knobby on knobby, gnarled on gnarled. I’m a withering tree. Branches drying up and shrinking, crumbling, leaves turning browner every day. I don’t have any pants on yet when she comes in.

“Morning,” she says. She goes to the closet, takes out my brown corduroy trousers. She leaves the hanger askew and she knows I hate that. She lays them on the bed and takes my hand from my knee. “Come on,” she says. She’s gentle as a lamb. “Pants.”

“God damn it,” I say. I pull my hand away. I don’t mean to be gruff with her. I hate myself like this. But it just comes out that way. “I’ve told you I can put them on myself.”

She backs away. Clasps her hands behind her back. I can’t look at her face.

“Just get my my shirt,” I say. “Please.”

When her back is turned at the closet door, I ease one foot at a time into the pants, still sitting. Then I steady myself against the bed frame and pull myself up. She stays turned around for longer than it takes to select a shirt, but I know that she’s giving me a respectful amount of time. I can’t stand the thought of her pulling my pants up for me, getting too close a look at my old body in my underwear and undershirt. There are some things that require a modicum of dignity. I pull up the pants, elastic waist with no buttons. I had to give them up unless I want her buttoning my trousers for me. My fingers don’t understand buttons anymore. And I can’t seem to explain it to them.

Somehow she knows when it’s safe to turn around. I let her help me with my shirt and do the snaps. I tuck myself in though. It’s not right to have a young girl shove her hands down an old man’s pants, even under the guise of eldercare.

“What do you want to do today?” She asks this as if there are so many choices. As if I could do anything in the world, all I have to do is say the word.

“Sky diving,” I say. She smiles at me, one of those smiles that make her huge eyes twinkle.

She straps on my watch. From the forties, and it still works. It was my father’s. I guess it’s the kind of thing every father should pass down to his son. It occurs to me, every time I put it on, that I probably should have passed it down to my son. Don’t know why I didn’t. But as soon as I have that thought I let it go, it comes and it disappears again like a shooting star. And when it’s over, it’s over. I move on to thinking about moving my feet. Walking to the bathroom. It takes all of my attention. No time anymore to think about watches and sons. Time to coax out a pinecone.

Chunky or Smooth

Eleanor walked to work down a street lined with food.‭ ‬Flanked by folding tables heaped with ruffles of kale,‭ ‬bunches of bok choy.‭ ‬Big piles of leafy greens like tulle skirts stuffed into boxes and crates.‭ ‬Home-baked‭ ‬pillows of bread wrapped in cellophane:‭ ‬pumpernickel,‭ ‬rye,‭ ‬great rounds of sourdough still warm to the touch.‭ ‬Baskets of strawberries ripened to‭ ‬a‭ ‬finger-staining red,‭ ‬jars of perfect green pickles.‭ ‬Brownies,‭ ‬chocolate-chip cannoli,‭ ‬peach pie,‭ ‬barbecued sweet corn.‭ ‬It was the first day of summer.

She was starving.‭ Her most recent diet allowed only grapefruit slices and dry wheat toast for breakfast.‭ ‬Clear vegetable broth for lunch and dinner.‭ ‬A woman selling cakes‭–‬ big,‭ ‬beautiful white cakes plastered with butter cream and sprinkled with coconut‭– ‬was looking through a box of something and had her back turned.‭ ‬Eleanor thought,‭ ‬as she passed by in the shuffle of bodies and bags and strollers,‭ ‬of reaching a hand out and taking a hunk of that cake.‭ ‬Pressing it into her mouth,‭ ‬stuffing it into the gaps behind her molars,‭ ‬sugary icing in the space under her tongue.‭

The crowd loosened at the end of the street,‭ ‬where the food tapered off and‭ ‬gave way to homemade crafts and local artwork.‭ ‬Eleanor stopped at a table of peanut butter in gingham-covered jars tied with ribbons and precious little tags,‭ ‬scalloped with special crafting scissors around the edges and printed in‭ ‬a curly hand:‭ "‬peanut butter,‭ ‬$8.00‭" ‬which was,‭ ‬Eleanor thought,‭ ‬an outrageous price.‭ ‬She stopped to pick up a jar,‭ ‬just to heft it in her hand,‭ ‬as this was a morning when a thick peanut butter sandwich‭ ‬sounded like a freshly made bed,‭ ‬and an egg-shaped woman looked up from her copy of‭ "‬Tales of Sorrow and Madness.‭” ‬She tipped her chin at Eleanor.‭

"Peanut butter's‭ ‬eight dollars.‭" ‬As if she couldn't read.‭ ‬Or would dare to haggle.‭ ‬Eleanor turned the jar in her hand.‭
“Chunky or smooth‭?”
Sorrow/Madness looked up.‭ "‬Pardon‭?"
Eleanor held up the jar,‭ ‬conscious suddenly of how she looked‭; ‬hulking over the cutesy jars of peanut butter,‭ ‬her‭ ‬heavy‭ ‬arms in‭ ‬their short sleeves and her raw-dough face,‭ ‬hair flat against her forehead.‭ ‬She tried to brighten her voice,‭ ‬to stand up a bit straighter.‭ "‬Is it chunky or smooth‭?"
"Smooth,‭ ‬hon.‭" ‬Sorrow/Madness‭ ‬went back to her book.‭ ‬Eleanor looked down at the jar,‭ ‬rolled it a bit,‭ ‬and noticed a thick layer of oil at the top.‭

There was a boy a few yards away,‭ ‬watching her from the shade of a nearby awning.‭ ‬She‭ ‬became aware of him with a charge of energy and a tiny bit of panic,‭ ‬the way your body zings when you realize you’ve forgotten an important appointment.‭ ‬She kept her head down and tried to sneak glances at him from the corner of her eye.‭

He was tall and dressed like an elderly gentleman.‭ ‬She saw a worn‭ ‬leather briefcase,‭ ‬a creased plaid shirt buttoned high around a thin,‭ ‬smooth neck.‭ ‬A square face with a thinly pointed nose,‭ ‬black framed glasses.‭ ‬Dark curls.‭ ‬He looked about fourteen or fifteen.‭ ‬Then she looked straight into his eyes without meaning to.‭ ‬Caught them,‭ ‬or was caught by them.‭ ‬The peanut butter slipped in her hand.‭ ‬She fumbled it,‭ ‬and the boy moved as if to help her,‭ ‬but she recovered it in time.‭ ‬He smiled a little, right at ‬her.

‭ She tried to make herself small,‭ ‬tried to move on,‭ ‬escape.‭ ‬People looking at her,‭ ‬any people,‭ ‬made her weak and heavy and liquid about the knees.‭ ‬She got hot at the shoulders and cold in the stomach.‭ ‬It was a very unsettling feeling.‭ ‬She likened it,‭ ‬in her mind,‭ ‬to rotting.‭ ‬Every time another person’s eyes landed on her body,‭ ‬her face,‭ ‬her hair,‭ ‬her clothes,‭ ‬she rotted away before them.‭ ‬Died a little.‭ ‬Of shame,‭ ‬embarrassment,‭ ‬something undefined and crucial,‭ ‬she never knew.‭ ‬But it was upsetting,‭ ‬and enough to make her wish for invisibility over any other super power in the world.‭ ‬To be able to hide in plain sight.‭ ‬To witness the world,‭ ‬observe it,‭ ‬take it in,‭ ‬but not to be part of it.‭ ‬To watch it like a play where the players knew nothing of its audience,‭ ‬of all the pairs of eyes tracking their moves and quirks and unflattering angles.‭ ‬Of the lights,‭ ‬the heat.‭ ‬The warmth of living in the sun.‭ ‬She was a shadow creature,‭ ‬a bridge troll.‭ ‬Something that lived under rocks and scurried into dark corners,‭ ‬but unfortunately she had needs to meet beyond those of a bridge troll,‭ ‬and so she had to work and interact and move about in the player's world.‭ ‬On the stage.‭ ‬She hated every minute of it.‭ ‬She never knew her lines.‭ ‬Never knew what scene she was in.‭ ‬Dreaded the reviews.‭

The boy was still‭ ‬staring.‭ ‬Eleanor put the jar down.‭ ‬Turned her bulk into the sun.‭ ‬It took all of her will power not to look back at him,‭ ‬to see if he was still watching her.