The Last Time I Died (14 page)

The muffled dog fight slows to a stop. The men stop yelling and listen. When they are satisfied the fight is over, they open the trunk of the Cutlass.

Half of them cheer and collect money from the dejected other half. One of the winners lifts a limp Rottweiler out of the trunk by its neck. It’s bleeding profusely, one of its eyes hangs out of its socket, one of its ears torn almost completely off. The fur, skin, and muscles of its hind left leg have been chewed off to reveal bone.

The losers drag what looks like a dead Doberman (hard to tell with all the blood) out of the trunk and drop it to the ground. They yell to the good doctor and she finally blinks.

—Excuse me. I have to go to work.

She picks up her bag, hands me a card with a phone number, and walks away.

—If you’re serious, call me.

When your father dies in prison, the letter they send you is one of four form letters. Your options are the letter they send when a death sentence execution has been carried out, the letter they send when someone dies of natural causes, the letter they send when someone is killed in prison, and the letter they send when someone kills themselves in prison.

I got the fourth. I was young enough and angry enough to accept that what they had written was true. My father had committed suicide by hanging himself from a washing machine in the laundry room. A washing machine! Technically it’s possible. But, come on. As I got older, I began to realize that there was every chance in the world that the letter was bullshit. I can’t imagine there was a full analysis of the circumstance under which this wife/mother murderer was found dead. No careful autopsy. No blue light sweep of the surrounding area. For all I know he was slumped up against the machine after a recreational gang rape/thrill kill and this was the easiest call to make.

For some reason the prison made it a point to include a return address positioned prominently in the top left corner of their letter. As if we might be engaging in some future correspondence. Potential pen pals.

The writing was as cold as a surgeon’s scalpel.

To: Christian Franco

It is with deepest regret and heartfelt condolences that we must inform you of the death of your immediate kin, inmate #67L1019, Anthony Giacomo Franco. Inmate #67L1019 was found dead in the Butler Correctional Facility inmate laundry facility at 19:34 on the night of October 20, 1991. As determined by a thorough investigation into the circumstances surrounding his death, Inmate #67L1019 created a makeshift noose using his pant legs and supported by the edge of his assigned washing machine. The cause of death has been officially ruled a suicide.

Inmate #67L1019 has been scheduled for cremation on October 27, 1991, unless specific instructions regarding alternative burial plans are received prior to that date.

The belongings of inmate #67L1019 have been catalogued and stored for pickup at your convenience. Belongings will be held four weeks before donation to a local charity. The balance of inmate #67L1019’s canteen account minus administrative fees will be refunded to his next of kin via check to be mailed within 3–5 weeks.

Please direct any questions or concerns to Deputy Warden Cornelius Planto.

Cordially,

John G. Neal

Warden, Butler Correctional Facility

Cordially.

Like that softens the blow. Since then I want to vomit every time I see that word on a wedding invitation or a bris announcement.

Who knows what really happened. A cop in prison doesn’t exactly have a long shelf life. I hadn’t seen him in years. The letters he had initially sent stopped coming a long time before that and I had made myself stop caring. Thought I’d severed those nerve endings. I must not have done a very good job of it though, because when that letter showed up with the prison address on the front, my heart leaped. A fresh chance to start hating my father all over again. There’s something so comforting about righteous indignation. I never showed Foster Mother the letter. Never mentioned it.

But I kept it.

I get there a little after nine the next night.

The apartment buzzer on the outside is labeled
Cordoba
. I feel like I should remember to Google that name along with the word malpractice when I get home. But I won’t.

I left Flaco at the fights last night, bought a bottle of gin, and took a train home. I called the number on the card this afternoon when I woke up. She didn’t answer and there was no machine. An hour later, I got a call from a blocked number. It was her giving me an address. I tried to ask how much cash I needed to bring but she hung up. So I brought everything I have and my watch. I’m sure it won’t be enough.

Her office is amazing. You’d never guess from the Lower East Side shithole building that houses it. A three-floor walk up to get to her immaculate loft apartment, half of which has been converted to a mini hospital. The front room off the entryway is a large, high ceilinged room with a single couch facing one club chair. Nothing else. I’m on the couch. She won’t sit. From my perspective, I can see what looks like an operating theater in the next room. Its walls are lined with equipment I can only guess about. No idea what it all does. A microscope. I recognize that. Refrigerators. A centrifuge. Surgical lights. Monitors. An operating table. The entrance hallway of the building smelled like dogs. I saw a stairwell to a basement. There were no names on any of the other apartment buzzers outside. I’d be surprised if Cordoba was her real name.

We make small talk about the fights for a few minutes. Me trying to get a feel for her. Her trying to determine how off-balance I am. It’s the most bizarre first date ever.

The dog fighting world is fascinating to Cordoba from a sociological standpoint. Look at these men and how they live vicariously through their animals. As a society, we have evolved to the point that it’s socially unacceptable for men to prove themselves by physically dominating rival tribes and clan members. But do it with a dog? In some circles, it’s not only acceptable but encouraged, lauded and recognized as a practical substitute for hand-to-hand combat. It’s manly.

Trunk fighting was Cordoba’s idea. Her innovation to the sport. It was immediately embraced by a fringe group who self-selects to interact apart from the main stage. Generally there are only one to three trunk fights a night since there is no action to witness together as a belligerent crowd and that’s the fun for most of the guys. Watching the bloodletting and ear rending and limb ripping. Taunting your fellow gamblers as the match momentum shifts back and forth. Screaming. But the hardest of hardcore gravitate to the trunks where it’s win or lose and nobody knows anything until the trunk is popped open. For a certain type of gambler, that’s the only rush big enough.

All of this she volunteers. I know she’s waiting for me to show some sort of indication of judgment. I have none.

Instead, I sit watching her in awed silence. She’s beautiful and in any other environment I would be attracted to her. There’s too much other stuff going on here, though. First of all, she’s got to be off her god damn rocker. She’s composed, intelligent, and thoughtful but she hangs out at the dog fights, for the love of god. Doesn’t have a dog in any of the fights but she’s there every fight night. Organizing, supporting, reviving, bankrolling. And it can’t only be about the money. She’s bright enough to make a buck somewhere else if that was her concern. I suppose you could attribute it to a pure academic curiosity, but even that would be a lot to swallow. Curious or not, she must have a screw loose.

But that doesn’t mean she can’t do what I need her to do.

Yes, she has an insane fixation with dead and dying dogs. She loves her disgusting work. I saw those deep blue eyes light up when that Doberman hit the ground. Doesn’t mean she’s a bad doctor, though. I mean you can tell by talking to her that she’s a different level of smart, and nuttiness always comes with that territory.

And then there’s the lab. Wow. There’s enough medical equipment in the next room that a spontaneous heart transplant could break out at any second. What happened in the weeks and months before I got here? Who was lying on that table an hour ago? Do I even want to know? What other stupid son of a bitch asked her for a favor before me? And more importantly, where is he now? Oy.

She looks less like Lisa in the light of this room, but I can’t get the first impression out of my mind. Same body type. Similar mannerisms. Maybe I want to trust her so badly I’m projecting familiar characteristics onto her. She is going to kill me, after all.

Cordoba tells me she’s a researcher by training and trade. The fights are her testing ground. She tries out the drugs she develops on the dogs of unsuspecting clients. She’d rather it was people, but when something goes horribly wrong with a person, there’s a lot of explaining to do. If your subject survives, they’re living, breathing proof of your activities and a witness who might testify against you. If they die, you’ve got to do something with the body, which, believe it or not, is no simple matter in New York City. With a dog, live or die, you put them down and move on. Nobody asks questions about a dead dog.

Good to know.

At some point she’s sussed me enough to get to the meat of the matter.

—To be clear, you want me to medically induce death in a reasonably healthy patient and then immediately reverse the process?

—Yes. Kill me and bring me back.

—Why?

—I’m looking for something. It’s the only way I can find it.

—What are you looking for?

—Memories.

Hard to tell if she understands what I’m doing or sees me as a freebie—a willing subject that no one would miss if it doesn’t work out. It’s clear I don’t have a lot going on and who with any family or friends would be in this situation? She said it was hard to get rid of a body in New York City. But she didn’t say it was impossible.

She looks me over in silence for a minute. I don’t think it mattered how I answered the last questions. I could have said I was looking for the fountain of youth or the perfect nap and she would have nodded just the same. The temptation of having a specimen like me walk in unsolicited and beg her to do what I’m asking must be tremendous. I’m not some homeless carbuncle who’s three steps from dying anyway and will fuck up any anesthesia she uses with dope-saturated blood. I’m alone, fit, and eager. Jackpot.

—When was the last time you died?

—I’m not crazy.

I’m quite sure the tone of what I’m saying is more convincing than the actual words. I could be speaking in tongues, but as long as I remain calm she’ll take me seriously.

—When?

—Two days ago.

Her eyes narrow the slightest bit as she processes this. She finds me intriguing. It’s been a long time since anyone thought I was intriguing.

—I’m ready to go again. I need to.

Cordoba nods and allows herself the most modest of smiles. Like she’s heard this before. Like she’s heard a guy tell her he died forty-eight hours ago and is jonesing to hop back in that saddle. No way that can be true, but there she is. Could be worse. Who wants to go to a doctor that lacks confidence?

—You need to recover.

She digs around in a refrigerator full of hand-labeled bottles. Hands me a syringe and a vial of clear liquid.

—You okay with needles?

At this point, what am I not okay with? I nod.

—Find a vein. Take it all. Come back when it wears off.

—How long will that be?

—Two days. You’ll sleep most of the time.

—What is it?

—It’s homemade. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But it helps.

I pocket the drugs. What the fuck? I’ve lost so much weight in the last few months, finding a vein will be easy. And, honestly, I wouldn’t mind sleeping for two days.

—I can’t pay you.

—Yes you can.

She walks to the front door and opens it, inviting me to leave immediately.

—Go. Heal.

*It’s a year and a half ago.

I’m having lunch with a man I think of as a friend.

He’s one of those guys who I feel a bond with but I can never tell how strong. We’ve spent a lot of time together socially, but I don’t know where he grew up or if he has a brother.

Close or not, I have trouble knowing what’s appropriate to share or hide or joke about with people with whom I share this vague intimacy. That includes the majority of people I would classify as friends. I never know what to say so I stick to sports or drink a lot or shut the fuck up and listen. Today I’ve tried talking baseball and pop culture bullshit, but this guy came here with an agenda. Apparently, he felt it was perfectly appropriate to ruin my day by dumping his personal problems on me in the middle of what is undeniably a loud restaurant.

He’s telling me about his wife. I know her as well. She’s smart and funny and when we go out as two couples we all get along. I’d fuck her if I were single, but I’m not so I settle for witty banter and clever one-upmanship. At dinner, sometimes we sit with the men across from each other so they can chat. Sometimes it’s the guys across from the women. It always seems to work out, though. As I recall, she’s a former teacher and current housewife. I always think she would have made a good lawyer.

He tells me they’re having trouble. His wife doesn’t respect him. Treats him like an assistant. A rented mule on which she can pile her troubles regardless of the strain to his back. An asshole. He claims to have had enough and if it weren’t for their kids (He has kids! Who knew?), he would have been divorced months ago. In other words, he would stand up for himself but he doesn’t have the sack. Their sex life is dead. They haven’t slept together since last Christmas. We’ve had dinner with them four times since then.

Not only can I not identify with any of this, but I find it irritating. Why are they wasting our time as a couple pretending everything is okay when divorce is the inevitable end result of all this fretting and hand wringing? I listen and I nod and I ask a question or two to maintain a facade of interest but I still don’t have the foggiest with regard to how much to commiserate or share or even to lie. What do other men do? How would guys I look up to react in this situation? How about the confident ones who intimidate me so easily with their natural charm and innate social skills? What would they do in my seat? Is this where I open up and talk about some common ground of misery? Is this where I tell him that inside I’m rotted and empty? I’m a human sinkhole waiting to collapse. I have it worse than you, Bub. Does that make you feel better? What do I share? I stand at the edge of the train platform sometimes and think
Who would care?