somewhere, a man woke up it was a sunday and the street was quiet he stared at the ceiling the fan wobbled, and went click click click click he closed his eyes again and listened drumming one finger on his chest with the beat his mind otherwise blank
after some time mechanically he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up just like every day the thought came and flitted away leaving nothing in the kitchen, he poured cheerios into a styrofoam bowl and skim milk heart healthy irony the thought came and flitted away
he stooped on the couch, tall, spine too lazy for good posture and ate his breakfast with a plastic spoon eyes lingering mostly on the silent dark television the fan going click click click click from the bedroom and his big toe tapping out the beat
he poured the last of the milk down the drain picked up a stray cheerio from the floor filled his trash can with the waste of morning
teeth were brushed to the rhythm of the fan old magazines on the nightstand straightened into a neat pile and with an empty backpack and the garbage he locked his deadbolt and slid the key back under the door
outside, it was september there was no one out on his street despite the invitation of sunshine to enjoy the last lingering strains of summer
he started to walk
the ATM at the gas station three blocks later told him his balance $957.80. it was dissatisfying to find that after a stack of withdrawn twenties there was still a balance a loose end
the clerk was talking on the phone to her boyfriend or something, probably and ignoring him so he started putting twenty dollar bills in the change machine until it ran out of ones and quarters
his backpack was heavy now and he walked and walked feeling the weight of it on his stooping shoulders lazy spine and stepping to the rhythm of the fan it bothered him that he forgot to turn it off and he thought of the $17.80 in the bank account but there was nothing to be done about it
i am not sure if the man ate lunch but i've been wondering it bothers me but there is nothing to be done about it
it was late afternoon by now his feet were tired, the curve of his spine was deep with the weight of the quarters the street was still quiet or maybe it wasn't. maybe he was just deaf to it. but finally he arrived to the place he had decided on weeks ago
he did not stand still looking over the cement barrier through the chain link he did not ponder his mind was blank the plan was non-negotiable now, in the late september sunday afternoon he did not stand still
he climbed and as an afterthought dropped his heavy backpack to the ground
the top of the chain link fence was not sturdy he had to catch his balance three times but got over safely ironically, the thought came and his feet reached the cement wall
and he didn't dive he didn't close his eyes and hop or step his inner ear just disconnected he turned off the ability to balance without waiting, his long body tipped away from the bridge
i think time slowed down then and everything was suddenly vibrant he could hear the sounds of the busy roads above and below him colors were brighter than he'd ever seen them he felt exhilarated and then nothing
people ran to look at his brain in bloody bits his lazy spine mangled by the car that hit him when he landed tires squealing jaws dropped
and there were children looking men and women looking before the police came and shooed everyone away
someone had to clean up the mess the waste of the afternoon after pictures were taken hose it all down he thought of that part it was the only thing that made him feel a little guilty
and the thing that bothers me most even more than the looking more than the conversations that so desperately shifted to other topics to put smiles in front of brains horrified but suddenly grateful to be in one piece
the thing that bothers me is not knowing if he ate lunch did the growl of hunger follow him? did he think "why bother?" or did he go through the motions of his last day figuring that self denial was beside the point
i don't even wonder about his reasons he wanted to make an impact to be seen seen in pieces he wanted us to understand that we, too, are made of pieces and that, in the ways we are pieces of each other there is a terrible black nothingness that provokes not anger, not desperation, not intensity but more of itself, growing to swallow up parts of us and all of him
and all the looking had something to do with acknowledging our, collective, culpability it was an apology a recognition
sir, i am sorry. i am so sorry.
posted by renee 9:44 AM
