—DON’T HOLD YOUR HEAD SO LOW THAT YOU CAN’T SEE THE SKY

 

                                          CHAPTER ONE

                                                   Prunes

 

Pearl’s door was cracked a third of the way open when they wheeled the body down the hall. A black sheet covered Esther’s frame head to toe, nothing of her actual-self visible other than a vague outline of her shrunken body.

For the blink of a moment, Pearl had caught one of the EMT’s eye, a man-boy so young he could well be Pearl’s great grandson if she’d had one. He glanced at Pearl sheepishly with a look that said, I’m sorry, that said, I’ll be back soon and, I’m sorry again, but you’re likely next.

He might well be correct on that score. Pearl had become the oldest of the lot many months ago, though now, inexplicably, it was the younger ones who kept dying before her.

She would miss Esther dearly. Oh sure, she missed the others as well, but Esther was extra special. Esther, 85 years old, eight years younger than her. Esther her Gin Rummy partner. Esther who was always stealing prunes from the kitchen. Esther and her phantom gerbil, Mamie Eisenhower. Esther, mother of twins who’d each hung themselves only days apart.

A bubble burst in Pearl’s throat letting her know how much she would miss her best friend and when Pearl swallowed she thought she tasted prunes.

Pearl felt drunk with despair and old age, and now a new flange of loneliness to handle. Yes, the drunkenness of age often slurred her concentration more and more, eroding her once-keen ability to be alert and observant to the finest of details. Pearl sat at her desk and shook her head thinking, I’ve become a dumb, old bag of dust. Maybe a bit of a bitch, too.

And then a shadow, a flash. Only it was a person, Stanley appearing before her like a hologram shooting up from the floor.

“You little shit,” Pearl said. “You know I hate it when you do that. You could quite literally give me a heart attack.”

“Well, I’m certainly sorry, but Pearl, you know as well as anyone that a person has to be clandestine in a place like this. Survival depends on it!”

Stanley’s face was flushed, the tips of his pointy ears the shade of pink lemonade, cotton candy. Stanley was an odd-ball few in the care center liked, but Pearl rather enjoyed the strange ones, and she wasn’t picky about companions since they were so few and far in between.

Stanley stuck half his head out the door, checking both ends of the narrow hall, then closed the door softly before sitting on the side of Pearl’s mattress, the springs moaning as he did.

Stanley looked a bit like a chihuahua, what with those ears, sharp teeth and tiny hands for paws. Today he appeared agitated as well, though it wasn’t like Stanley to make her wait for him to spit out his news or suspicions.

“If you’re going to meditate, there’s a room here for that, but it’s not this one.”

Stanley leaned forward and the space they shared was so small that she knew he’d eaten something with Tabasco sauce and dill pickles. “Pearl, Pearl,” Stanley said, whispering so that it sounded more like Purr, Purr, “They aim to kill us all. Pick us off one by one.”

She didn’t mean to be rude but couldn’t stop herself from snorting. Stanley could be a hoot without even knowing it.

“I’m serious,” he whispered. “We've gotta make a run for it before they use the garrotes. Garrotes! My God!”

Stanley’s little dog teeth chattered, which momentarily made Pearl think of tap dancing, which then made her think of Laurel, of course.

“Who is They, Stanley?”

That question caused Stanley’s eyes to cross, going topsy-turvy before re-fixing themselves. “They is them. Them. The ones that aren’t us.”

“Young people, you mean?”

Stanley’s eyes twirled again. He was his own three-ring circus. “Maybe. Perhaps they’re a part of the plan, too. One can never know for certain unless one is on the other side, their side.”

Pearl decided to go with it. There was nothing else to do but let the loss of Esther seep in and break her further.

“And what do They look like?”

Stanley leaned in even closer as the sharp tang of dill pickles started to make Pearl’s eyes water.

“Do They have all their teeth? All their hair? Do They wear normal underwear instead of adult diapers?”

Stanley’s nostrils twitched like guppies dying on a dock. He was irritated. “It's The Smocks,” he whispered.

Pearl feigned surprise, fanning her housecoat. “So, the staff is going to murder us?”

Stanley straightened his back like an obedient cartoon hound and nodded with gusto. "They already are! I told you. One by one, they're wiping us out."

“Hmm. But don’t their salaries depend on us being around, paying room and board in this old log cabin?”

Stanley's arms flapped, palms up, and clapped them seal-like now. “You don’t understand, Pearl, everyone is younger than us. There are so many more of us out in the real world—millions, billions—than there are of them. They can kill and kill and kill, but they’ll never run out of potential victims. They’ll always be more of us. Old people are a cash cow.”

“But what’s this about garrotes?”

“We’re so plentiful that simply shooting or gassing us will get boring after a while. These are devious and demented assassins we're talking about."

 "We?"

"They’ll devise many sinister methods to exterminate our kind. Eradicate us in heinous ways."

"I hate heinous. Sounds too similar to anus."

"The point is, Pearl," Purr, "that too much of anything gets tedious after a while.”

“Even slaughter?”

Stanley beamed. “Now you’re catching on!”

This time Pearl did stifle her snort. Oh Stanley, he was correct about one thing: everyone was younger than us. Indeed, they were. 

 

 

—MR. BLUE, I TOLD YOU THAT I LOVED YOU, PLEASE BELIEVE ME

 

 

…I recently came across the photograph above. That’s me and some great people I worked with in the Northeast a long time ago. Those four years were some of the most grueling of my career, but also incredibly gratifying. I learned a lot. I grew a lot. Plus, I got to be in NYC every other week.

 

…Yesterday it really wanted to snow and I really wanted to see it snow, but it didn’t happen. On Wednesday, however, a heady hailstorm arrived, so I went outside in my bare feet and danced in it, face tilted upward at all those pellets of white bombarding me. It was thrilling. There’s something about hail and snow that seems miraculous.

 

…The last week has seen me working on my publisher’s edits for a new book I’ll have coming out later—This Is Me, Being Brave, a collection of essays. I’m at the point now where I pretty much hate the thing, which is typically a good sign. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a book out. If things go well, I’ll have two. Fingers crossed.

 

…Wednesday I finished the mini-series The Night Of on HBO. It’s a few years old and I’d not even heard of it until my best friend mentioned it in an off-hand comment. It was spell-binding and a master class in acting.

 

…Yesterday I finished BoJack Horseman. What an amazing show. Definitely one of the most inventive and thought-provoking things I’ve ever seen. The first six episodes are a little so-so, but then very quickly it becomes yowzah.

 

…I hope you’re doing well. I hope you’re even doing great, if that’s at all possible. I’m certain remarkable things are coming your way. Silly Goose, just be hopeful.

 

…Some of my friends are struggling. One of my best friends called the other morning and from the second after I said, “Hello,” they started crying and shrieking for the entirety of our hour-long conversation. I know I was meant to just listen, but I think there were also times where I was meant to say something encouraging, and I think I mostly failed on that account.  I hate it when I’m supposed to say the right thing but I can’t find the words that make up the right thing. By the time I hung up, we were both gutted.

But I’ve been checking in on them every day, a few times a day. I know what’s it like to have people who are there for you when you most need someone to be there for you.

 

--“Sometimes life is sh*t and you're still living, but you'll have moments in life that will be beautiful.” —Diane Nguyen, BoJack Horseman

 

--“And I thought about how, actually, if you wanted to, you could say the same thing about life. That life is terrifying and overwhelming and it can happen at any moment. And when you're confronted with life you can either be cowardly or you can be brave, but either way you're going to live. So, you might as well be brave.”

 

“A statue isn't built from the ground up — it's chiseled out of a block of marble — and I often wonder if we aren't likewise shaped by the qualities we lack, outlined by the empty space where the marble used to be. I'll be sitting on a train. I'll be lying awake in bed. I'll be watching a movie; I'll be laughing. And then, all of a sudden, I'll be struck with the paralyzing truth: It's not what we do that makes us who are. It's what we don't do that defines us.”

 

“You had every intention of being depressed forever, but as it turns out, there's work to be done, meals to eat, movies to see, errands to run. You meant to be in ruins permanently, your misery a monument, a gash across the cold hard earth, but honestly, who has the time for that? Instead, you survived - apparently, you both did - and things are shockingly okay.” —Raphael Bob-Waksberg, creator of BoJack Horseman

 

 

—NO USE PRETENDING THINGS CAN STILL BE RIGHT. THERE’S REALLY NOTHING MORE TO SAY.

 

 

 

                                                   Such

 

The cats circle. The wind reverses. Today wants yesterday back, last year back, though it was bleak and broken and not the best of us.

A plane soars eastward. The sky convulses. You tell me, “Goodbye” for the thousandth time as I swim to the deep end with a barrel, while the waves say, “Such is love.” 

 

 

—I DON’T EVEN THINK YOU THINK SO

 

I repurpose myself as a lost book on a bus, the one you find when you’re younger, before you’ve found me, your hands thumbing the parchment, fingering my spine with the buttery softness of a moth, scanning all the words I have assembled, the ones I will whisper to you inside the margins and indentations, a revered music in the deft language that only we can hear, like a lone shell when it’s pressed just so against the ear, you stopping at the dogeared pages, giving those special attention, looking at what’s written there as if it’s a portent of what we’ll become, and when, and why.

 

 

  —SWEET MELISSA, ANGEL OF MY LIFETIME, ANSWER TO ALL ANSWERS I CAN'T FIND

 

 

…I woke at 3:30 this morning to the thrum of rain and a set of slate-black windows staring back at me like mimes. 

I had “Could It Be Magic” stuck in my head for some reason, so I found the song on YouTube and played it on repeat. 

Screw the Manilow haters. That guy can craft a song.

 

…How are you doing? Just wondering.

 

…It feels good to be reading again. I’m maybe reading too much (22 books already this year).

I’m writing in spurts. Still not sure what my purpose is, in that regard, though creating always feels like a revelation.

This a.m. I polished up “The Thing About Grief,” but I need my son’s approval before it can see publication.

 

…When I started this blog/site so many years ago, it was just meant to be a receptacle for my writing, but it has essentially turned into a version of my diary, or journal. Sometimes I’m too honest, or too bewildering here, for my own good. I guess we all have our different outlets, or so I hope.

 

…Since I haven’t been submitting, I haven’t had much of anything published of late, unless someone’s queried me. That happened with the story below, “Something Like Normal.” For whatever reason, it has garnered some of the best responses I’ve ever received from a written piece, which, being the insecure Cancer/writer that I am, means a lot…

 

https://fictivedream.com/2021/02/03/something-like-normal/?fbclid=IwAR1x53qRyR9HJDVVOAeT2XQMLE3ZJ5q1nSSKq9LLbOUqBrejCF4vnmjiOqY

 

-If you only read one thing today, make it this exquisite, powerful piece by the always amazing Len Kuntz

 

-Please read- Len Kuntz is so talented and I love sharing the talent. This moved me.

 

-Read this. Give yourself a moment to settle in, and take a breath after, you'll need it.

 

-There is something so clear and clean about the writing of Len Kuntz even when he's digging around in the saddest, darkest corners. He is one of my favorite writers which include Charlotte Bronte, Hillary Mantel, Thomas Hardy, Alexander Dumas, Wallace Stegner, Jack London, Andre Dubus III, Edith Wharton, Laura Hillenbrand, Flannery O'Conner, Jennifer Egan, and many more. Len you are fabulous

 

-Wow.

 

-You are an amazing writer

 

-The garrison of soup cans .... the pajamas looped over the end of a broom...weights pressing against my chest and skull... the manic throbbing ... oh wow, just wow, Len!

 

-Wow, just wow - you never fail to amaze me

 

-This is so powerful and poignant

 

-Sooo chilling and sad, Len.

 

-I really love this. Thanks for sharing it.

 

-Beautiful and sad. Bravo, Len

 

-Masterful. Such beauty in the pain. Well done, Len.

 

-I love how essentially kind this is. Soup for the soul in a tough time. Well done.

 

-Fantastic!!!

 

-Unsettling, finely observed, claustrophobic.

 

-A tender story of loss, vulnerability, and love. Beautifully controlled writing.

 

-Layers of unfolding and understated sadness beautifully controlled and evoked.

 

 

—I DON’T EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND

 

 

 

The movie won’t end won’t end won’t end so we pretend to have sex again, pretend to love each other or ourselves, trying to recall the last time we did, when watercolors and dawn mattered more than memories, such bright beginnings seductive, erratic and erotic, a testament of will power and patience, a different, intangible reel unspooling then, the frames like sea glass chinking off our toes as the last water lapped and the sun dove while we cupped the sand, letting it slip through our fingers like a thousand bits of hope.

 

 

 

 

—THAT’S A STORY FOR ANOTHER TIME

 

 

 

                                                            Once

 

At the end of the bar, a man sits crying with a stuffed giraffe on his lap. No one seems to notice.

The man three stools over is hunched like a sack of cement, his face seven shades of gray.

To my right, at the other end, a hipster who can’t be old enough to be here, is making out with a woman who could his mom. As they mash faces, the woman stares at me unblinking.

In the wash of gray air there hangs a web of something that feels like cruelty entwined with inescapable despair, like being caught in a fishing net well below the surface.

When I look over at the crying man, he’s gone. On his stool are three clumps of fluff and a plastic cartoon eye.

The psycho woman making out with the kid is still looking at me. Gawking really. Imploring.

I have my second trio of whiskies lined up on the hoof-colored bar top. I down the first, the second, wait thirty seconds then swallow the third.

I got out one Wednesday ago. Thought it would feel different, freedom, the razor wire-topped fence behind me for once. But there are all kinds of cells everywhere you go.

I hold up the empty shot glass, say, “Three more, please.” Then before he can squelch me, I tell the bartender, “Last ones, and I’m not driving.”

I haven’t been in a car since it happened. I can hardly stand to look at a car, especially if it’s parked, especially if it’s summer.

I’ve gotten good at noticing someone approaching from behind, but the buzz must be working because a blonde swings in beside me. “You mind?”

I nod, grunt. I don’t want to talk. There’s only one person I’d talk to, but she’s not here.

The waiter brings the triplets in one hand.

“You must be really thirsty,” the blonde says. She’s pretty in a plain, healthy way. I start to wonder what her story is, but catch myself. I don’t need another story.

When her drink comes, she tilts the glass my way for a toast and I don’t fucking want this, but I chink her glass and she says, “Cheers”.

“Wow,” she whispers, tipping her glass toward the kid and zombie mom, “they’re really going at it.”

“Look,” I say, “I’m not here to talk. I’m here to drink these drinks and then—"

But I don’t know what’s next. I truly don’t.

The blonde gets up and takes a small circular table in the back.

I’ve fucked up again.

I slug the triplets down and leave bills on the bar and start to walk toward the blonde, but what? What can I say? I was a father once? I had this amazing child, a toddler? It wasn’t my normal turn to take her? It was a sweltering day? Scorching hot? What kind of man forgets his child is in a car seat on a day like that? What kind of man doesn’t even realize it until—

And now I’m standing at the blonde’s table and things are blurry because of the booze and the tears and she’s standing and taking me in her arms, hugging my awful bones, whispering into the side of my neck, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay,” and I want to believe her, this kind stranger, so I sob and bawl and she lets me, holding me like that, like maybe she’s seen this film before, like maybe she even trusts me.