A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (47 page)

Maybe there
’
s one in my car.

But getting it would be crass.

So instead of lamenting the end of unmediated experience, I will
celebrate
it, revel in the simultaneous living of an experience and its dozen or so echoes in art and media, the echoes making the experience not cheaper but
richer,
aha! being that much more layered, the depth luxurious, not soul-sucking or numbing but edifying, ramifying. So there is first the experience, the friend and the threatened suicide, then there are the echoes from these things having been done before, then the awareness of echoes, the anger at the presence of echoes, then the acceptance, embracing of presence of echoes—as enrichment—and above all the recognition of the value of the friend threatening suicide and having stomach pumped, as both life experience and also as fodder for experimental short story or passage in novel, not to mention more reason to feel experien-tially superior to others one
’
s age, especially those who have not seen what I have seen, all the things I have seen. Another experience that can be checked off, like skydiving, backpacking through Europe, a menage a trois.

Oh these fat kids. Look at these kids, these little porkers. Is that a genetic thing? Disgusting, the existence of fat kids.

So I could be aware of the dangers of the self-consciousness, but at the same time, I
’
ll be plowing through the fog of all these echoes, plowing through mixed metaphors, noise, and will try to show the core, which is still there, as a core, and is valid, despite the fog. The core is the core is the core. There is always the core, that can
’
t be articulated.

Only caricatured.

I go in to see him.

He has a tube sticking out of his mouth, one out of his nose. The one in his mouth seems too thick, the setup almost lewd. His face is milky, drawn, as if the tube has drained more than his stomach, has taken everything, a sort of punishment. He
’
s asleep, sedated, morphine maybe, his head pointing up and to his left, in the direction of the respirator. It looks like his hands are tied to the bed.

His hands are tied to the bed. The bindings are thick, black, Velcro. He must have resisted, or swung at someone.

His legs are spread, his arms out, his left hand still looking tense, gripping something not there. Those little chicken legs of his, bruised up and down from bumping into furniture, drunk. And he
’
s barefoot—

It
’
s too cold to be barefoot—

And the floor isn
’
t as clean as one would expect—

Shouldn
’
t it be cleaner? They should clean—

I could clean—

I have seen this before, somehow, this room, I have been here, this room is the room my mom was brought to for the nosebleed, they brought her first to the emergency room, connected her, tran-fusions, pouring blood into her—

But this room is much too big, too big and white. This huge room, separate from the rest of the ward, must have been built for more than one bed. As is, it is too dramatic, his bed centered in the floor, all this space.

I am standing across the room, unsure whether I want to touch him, to
get
any closer. It won
’
t make a difference. He
’
ll never know. He
’
s asleep.

You could put pictures up in a room like this. It would be nice to have some pictures up, like they have in a dentist
’
s office, something to look at while you
’
re being worked on. .

But then you
’
d be dying, and the last thing you would see would be some LeRoy Neiman print from the 1983 Masters and that would be just too terrible, not that there could ever be any appropriate thing to see before you died—

But if you really liked golf...

They should leave the walls blank.

I lean my shoulder against the wall then rest my head against it and watch for a while, palm on the white cinder block. He was such a skinny kid when he was little, always looked smaller, a few years younger because of it—but he was an amazing swimmer, just amazing, in the pool, in the ocean, a beautiful stroke. I try for a second, something to do, to time my breaths to his, watching his chest rise and fall, the rest of his body immobile, the hands in fists, the hands tied down, as the color continues to drain I watch the stupid fucking dickhead asshole sleep.

Then he gets up. He is awake and he is standing, and pulling the tubes from his mouth, from his arms, the nodes and electrodes, barefoot. I jump.

“
Jesus fucking Christ. What are you doing?
”

“
Fuck it.
”

“
What do you mean, fuck it?
”

“
I mean, fuck it, asshole. I
’
m leaving.
”

“
What?
”

“
Screw it, I
’
m not going to be a fucking anecdote in your stupid book.
”

He is looking through the drawers.

“
What are you looking for?
”

“
Clothes, fuckface. I
’
m getting out of here.
”

“
You can
’
t just leave. You
’
re drugged and everything.
”

“
Oh please. I can do what I want. I
’
m going home.
”

“
I
’
m telling the nurse. You
’
re— You
’
re supposed to stay overnight. And then I stay here until three a.m. or so, when they
say that you
’
re safe and sleeping fine, and then with heavy heart I finally go home, to Toph, to more obligation. Then I come in tomorrow and visit you in the psychiatric ward, and then—
“

“
Listen, dipshit, screw it. This is such fucking garbage. I
’
m just supposed to lie there with my bruised shins and everything, while you get to play the dutiful friend, always there for me, ooh, ooh, all responsible, while I
’
m lost and worthless... Listen, fuck it. I want no part of that. Find someone else to be symbolic of, you know, youth wasted or whatever.
”

“
Listen, John—
“

“
Who
’
s John?
”

“
You
’
re John.
”

“
I
’
m John?
”

“
Yeah. I changed your name.
”

“
Oh. Right. Now, why John again?
”

“
That was my dad
’
s name.
”

“
Jesus! So I
’
m your dad, too. Fuck, man, this is just too much. You are such a freak!
”

“
I
’
m a freak?
I
’
m a freak?
Fuck you I
’
m a freak.
”

“
Okay,
Vm
the freak,
Vm
the freak. Whatever. But I didn
’
t ask you to broadcast all this—
“

“
What the fuck are you talking about? You
’
re the one who put yourself in here in the first place! You
’
re telling me you took a handful of pills in front of me and two cops and you didn
’
t want attention? Fuck you.
”

“
But that doesn
’
t mean—
“

“
Yeah it does.
”

“
It does not.
”

“
Listen, I give you the attention you want, and have been giving it to you for years, listening to you ramble about every fucking up and down you have, about how they wouldn
’
t let you join that one gym, and about this breakup and that, fights with Meredith
and whoever else... I mean, it
’
s not really interesting stuff, I have to tell you, but I
’
ve been listening, all along. I mean, I know you have your therapist convinced that you
’
ve had the worst life of all time—and I can
’
t believe you really told her you had been abused as a child, you fucking liar!—but you know, your current crop of problems, and this new drinking thing—it
’
s all just boredom. Emphasis on the
bore
part. It
’
s
bor-
‘
mg.
You
’
re bored. You
’
re lazy. I mean, every single thing is so boring—alcohol, pills, suicide. I mean, no one will even believe this shit, it
’
s so fucking boring.
”

“
So leave it out then.
”

“
It
’
s not that boring.
”

“
You
’
re sick.
”

“
Whatever. This is mine. You
’
ve given it to me. We
’
re trading. I gave you the attention you wanted, I bail you out, when you spend three days in the psych ward, and say how you
’
re still thinking of doing it, I
’
m the one who comes in and sits on your bed and gives you the big pep talk—anyway, the point is that because of all that, all the shit I put in for you—now I get this, this is mine also, and you, because you
’
ve done it yourself, made yourself the thespian, you have to fulfill that contract, play the dates, go on the road. Now you
’
re the metaphor.
”

He
’
s quiet. He has a pair of scrubs in his hand that he found in a cabinet. He tosses them onto the counter.

“
Fine. Put me in the fucking book.
”

“
Really?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
You
’
re not just doing this for me?
”

“
Does it matter?
”

“
Not really.
”

“
Whatever. I
’
ll get back onto the bed, lie down and everything. You
’
ll have to tie me down again.
”

“
I will.
”

“
And give me more of that morphine, if you don
’
t mind.
”

“
Sure. Sure. Listen, I really appreciate this.
”

“
I know. Get me that tube.
”

“
Here.
”

“
Thanks. Now fix the blanket.
”

“
Here.
”

“
Okay.
”

“
This is going to be great. You
’
ll see.
”

John has to spend three days in a psychiatric ward. He calls me, and I call back. The phone rings twelve or thirteen times. An older man answers.

“
Hello?
”

He whispers it.

“
Hi. Is John there?
”

“
Who?
”

“
A guy named John. Tallish guy, blondish hair.
”

“
Oh, no, no. No one
’
s available at the moment.
”

“
Why not?
”

“
Well, everyone
’
s in group. They
’
ll be in group for an hour at least. I had to leave group to answer the phone. They asked me to leave and answer the phone.
”