Three Vignettes of No Particular Order (second in a series of 10)
I. Impact
It is not so much the impact you feel as it is the slow motion slideshow you experience a millisecond before. You feel the impossibly long slow drown of grief of family and friends and people you’ve met in passing. Folks you never knew. A grocery clerk. An unmet neighbor. You feel the pain of love and of having loved. The excruciating pain of incompletion. It is surpassed only (and at once) by the welcome end of things.
By the euphoria of nothingness.
II. Appointment
“Well,” I start after a long silence, “there was the summer I went a little crazy, I guess.”
She appears to write something in the notebook that I’ve long suspected is actually just a prop.
“Is this the time about the girl?” she asks, still writing. She does not look up.
“That’s right.” My smartass smirk sticks to my face like graffiti. I cannot will it away. “She had interesting nipples and we used to rob convenience stores together. Her father wanted me to join the family business. But I was only 17 and I told him, ‘No, Rich. I’m gonna be a dancer. I’ve got the footwork and the drive. So, a dancer. Or a Presbyterian, maybe. Sometimes I feel the Lord behind my knees when I walk.’”
She writes some more. Casually.
“I thought you were an atheist,” she monotones finally.
“Agnostic,” I correct.
“Atheist. Agnostic,” she says. “They’re both empty attempts to stave off belief in something greater than yourself.”
“Says you,” I grin.
“Yep. Says me.” She appears to be drawing.
“So what do you believe?” I ask, not really caring.
She looks at me. Expressionless. Finally, she says, “I believe you’re trying to use sarcasm to avoid the issues that haunt you. I believe that your pain resides so deep that, for now, you are incapable of embracing it or using it. I believe your entire carriage is an unsuccessful defense mechanism.”
“Are you saying I never wanted to be a dancer?” I ask.
“That’s right, Ray.”
Pause.
“Have a drink with me,” I say. “You can bring your notebook.”
“I don’t drink with Presbyterians,” she says.
“Actually, I’m Catholic. Never did convert.” Pause. “C’mon, Doc. Let’s go find the Virgin Mary in a glass of bourbon.”
“I’ll have to pass, Ray.” She writes some more.
We sit in silence. It is quiet as a womb. I start to say this just for the reaction but do not. Instead I wait.
III. Spider
It is there. Unmoving. Its body the size of a quarter dollar. Add the legs, it becomes a fifty cent piece. I imagine its many patient eyes sizing me up. Its advance on me is nearly indiscernible. Like a minute hand. I watch it watch me. It has been 33 minutes, eight seconds. I have to pee but dare not get up. It owns me.
The currency of the moment is hyperbole.
Hyperbole and then some.
It is not so much the impact you feel as it is the slow motion slideshow you experience a millisecond before. You feel the impossibly long slow drown of grief of family and friends and people you’ve met in passing. Folks you never knew. A grocery clerk. An unmet neighbor. You feel the pain of love and of having loved. The excruciating pain of incompletion. It is surpassed only (and at once) by the welcome end of things.
By the euphoria of nothingness.
II. Appointment
“Well,” I start after a long silence, “there was the summer I went a little crazy, I guess.”
She appears to write something in the notebook that I’ve long suspected is actually just a prop.
“Is this the time about the girl?” she asks, still writing. She does not look up.
“That’s right.” My smartass smirk sticks to my face like graffiti. I cannot will it away. “She had interesting nipples and we used to rob convenience stores together. Her father wanted me to join the family business. But I was only 17 and I told him, ‘No, Rich. I’m gonna be a dancer. I’ve got the footwork and the drive. So, a dancer. Or a Presbyterian, maybe. Sometimes I feel the Lord behind my knees when I walk.’”
She writes some more. Casually.
“I thought you were an atheist,” she monotones finally.
“Agnostic,” I correct.
“Atheist. Agnostic,” she says. “They’re both empty attempts to stave off belief in something greater than yourself.”
“Says you,” I grin.
“Yep. Says me.” She appears to be drawing.
“So what do you believe?” I ask, not really caring.
She looks at me. Expressionless. Finally, she says, “I believe you’re trying to use sarcasm to avoid the issues that haunt you. I believe that your pain resides so deep that, for now, you are incapable of embracing it or using it. I believe your entire carriage is an unsuccessful defense mechanism.”
“Are you saying I never wanted to be a dancer?” I ask.
“That’s right, Ray.”
Pause.
“Have a drink with me,” I say. “You can bring your notebook.”
“I don’t drink with Presbyterians,” she says.
“Actually, I’m Catholic. Never did convert.” Pause. “C’mon, Doc. Let’s go find the Virgin Mary in a glass of bourbon.”
“I’ll have to pass, Ray.” She writes some more.
We sit in silence. It is quiet as a womb. I start to say this just for the reaction but do not. Instead I wait.
III. Spider
It is there. Unmoving. Its body the size of a quarter dollar. Add the legs, it becomes a fifty cent piece. I imagine its many patient eyes sizing me up. Its advance on me is nearly indiscernible. Like a minute hand. I watch it watch me. It has been 33 minutes, eight seconds. I have to pee but dare not get up. It owns me.
The currency of the moment is hyperbole.
Hyperbole and then some.
posted by Ryan at 8:44 PM
2 Comments:
Mmmm. Yummy.
I will buy your book.
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