After Things Fell Apart
It’s just morning; another bloody sunrise seeps into the sky with the usual sanguine promise of yet another goddamned day.
I’m all huddled up shivering and sneezing inside the cavernous entrance of Seattle’s railroad terminal, waiting for the doors to open. I’m cold and tired and damp and still more than a little bit drunk. Joe, my imaginary brother, sleeps behind a long row of rusting luggage carts with a half-empty bota bag for a pillow. He snores like an idling diesel.
For some reason whenever life gets this miserable I start thinking about my ex-wife. I look up and sure enough there she stands all decked out in purple and carnelian velvet, shaking her head slowly and her finger with passionate intensity.
“For Christ’s sake,” I say with practiced exasperation, “go haunt somebody who gives a shit.”
An archaeological dig through the ruins of my life produces a crumpled package of Player’s Navy Cut, three wooden matches and several hits of bright blue aspirin wrapped in a faded Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet. I light a cigarette and it tastes like something you might find growing in a syphilitic camel’s asshole. Compared to my mouth it tastes pretty good.
I nudge Joe’s fictitious back with the toe of my boot. “Hey Joe! Wake up, you boob. I need that wineskin.”
Joe slides the skin my way with a backstroke motion and mumbles, “Fuck off; I’m asleep.”
Sometimes I can clearly remember the days before the War. Clean sheets and coffee. Digital watches and mass transit. No dragons. I remember when reality was something more than words on a page, invented dangers, holograms and hallucinations.
I uncork the bota and wash down a few aspirins. They’ll take a while to come on and of course with all the strange shit going on these days I might not even notice so I light another smoke from the butt of the first and sit back to wait.
Joe rolls over kicking. His illusory foot strikes a luggage cart and the whole line crashes forward. Just like life, I’m thinking, one sharp, noisy little incident and all the future’s minutes slam together.
A year ago I drove to work every morning in a bright blue Datsun, got drunk every night, took powerful drugs on weekends, chased skirts through every decadent disco in L.A., watched sci-fi thrillers on Sunday TV. I remember Godzilla.
A year ago I slept in gutters filled with the decaying sewage of society, believed in reality, wished for sudden and marvelous distractions. One morning after a night of restless dreams I awoke to find that the world had turned into a large insect. There never was a war.
A year ago I graduated from high school, crashed drunkenly into a tree, woke up in traction, saw the worried face of a massive blond nurse. Morphine mixed with the pain in my head to produce an astounding effect: I married her. The pain eventually went away and so did I. Now here I sit cold and strange and all because of one fucking tree.
Joe sits up abruptly, rubs his fantasy eyes with dirty humbug knuckles. “Hey.” He yawns. “You leave me any wine?”
“Sure. Lots of aspirin left.”
“No thanks,” he says. “But we sure could use some food.”
I haven’t eaten in over four days; I suspect that food would only make me vomit. “I wish the fucking train station would open up.” I stand and stamp around to get warm.
Joe pretends to drink some wine. Purple stains drool across his make-believe polo shirt. “What are you talking about? Ain’t no more trains.”
The miracle drug creeps up my spine like sap in an April maple. “Had a weird dream,” I tell him but it’s a lie; I haven’t slept in weeks. “Dreamed I was on this roller coaster. Long bastard. I was in the very last car manning an anti-aircraft gun.”
“You’re batshit, man.”
I could deny that of course. But now my ex-wife’s back and she was never afraid to batter me with the truth. She has picked up the Jehovah’s Witness pamphlet. She reads aloud for a moment in a tone that suggests prophesy but I can’t make any sense of the sermon.
