On Thursday, I woke up
dead.
There was no particular
event that signaled my death, at least not that I remember. The evening prior
was like any other evening. I arrived home from work (I use the term loosely –
standing behind a conveyor belt scanning the purchases of soccer moms with eyes
sighted only for their children does not appear in the dictionary as a
definition of any verb), warmed a Lean Cuisine, and settled in to converse with
Pat and Alek. I won’t speak to Vanna; ever since I realized she is my age, I
find her glamorous showgirl outfits distasteful and an actual insult to our
generation. She has agreed to my imposition of silence, turning her letters
without comment, and I am glad we understand each other at last. Pat, of
course, ignores this silent war of the women in his life, busy listening to the
shouts of these part-time visitors who frequent our space.
I’m sure it is
unnecessary to explain that Alek is simply impervious to all conflicts of any
nature. That’s why after our time together, I must indulge in a great book. Last
week, I immersed myself in Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl. Again. Despite this third
reading, I absolutely cannot understand the basic nature of the story. Girl
missing, presumed dead. She’s actually just the world’s greatest bitch on a
wild manipulative rampage against all the people in her life. What’s her
motivation, exactly? I guess no one understands her, and that is what makes the
author a genius, because, clearly the reader does not understand her either. It
is a great book – I heard a soccer mom on her cellphone say so. I think any
book is worth giving it the benefit of the doubt with three readings. That
done, I have filed the book on the bookshelf behind the television. I arrange
my books alphabetically by title, as I am not one of those people who can often
remember the name of the author – and this one rests between Dubliners by Joyce
and Great Expectations by Dickens. That’s good. These two needed space between
them. It strikes me that I have no books on this shelf that start with F and
that will be a challenge I will never fulfill, because now I’m dead.
I digress. But I
suppose even dead people get off track in the afterlife. So, back to the
non-event of my death. The last thing I did in life was sit in bed and read The
Awakening by Kate Chopin. Is that ironic? An English teacher explained irony to
me once a long time ago, and ever since then, I’m always unsure if I am using
the term correctly. (I’m pretty sure my insecurity with the word may be
another, much deeper form of irony.) The Awakening is a book I have read over
and over – it’s not that it deserves more than three readings, it’s just that I
keep thinking I must have misunderstood the final scene and perhaps if I read
it again, it will change. I’m not stupid. I know the print won’t physically
change, but maybe my interpretation of it will. It hasn’t. I have lost count of
the times I have read this story – it’s enough times that page 127/128 has
fallen out of the story, and always seems to be replaced as 128/127, so that I
read that Alcee has left her before he visits her. This does not negatively
affect the story experience at all, proving it is a masterpiece. I took an
entire course in college on determining the qualities of good literature. Had I
only known this simple proof of the flipped page back then, my professor may
have recognized me as a genius.
Back to my death
experience. It was simply falling asleep and not waking up. I have heard many
people say that’s how they want to die, and I have always found the claim
interesting. “When I die, that’s how I want to go – in my sleep!” It’s always
stated as a forceful assertion, not a wish. And where are they planning to “go”
exactly, in death? Isn’t that the bigger concern? It seems to me that in
planning a trip of this consequence, it’s more important to focus on the
destination than the method of travel. And now, speaking from experience (which
is a totally new attitude for me, please understand), I can safely assert
“going” in your sleep is not the best way. It seems your death should be more
of an event. How will I ever distinguish this sleep from any other? If I had
any control over it, I’d take a re-do and die in a fire, perhaps jumping from
the roof like Bertha in Jane Eyre. That’s a story she can tell and keep
people’s attention.
Anyway, on Thursday, I
woke and realized I had no physical body. Well, I did, but it refused to yield
to my thoughts. It stubbornly stayed beneath the sheets, legs akimbo (I could
not resist using this word – I’ve always wanted a context for it), head lolled
to one side, my eyes fixed on the wall opposite the alarm clock. Even this does
not change in death – no one wants that blasted clock to ring in the morning. I
lie with my body for several minutes, thinking this may just be a temporary
paralysis, but this is different - limbs
are not responding. The light is oddly dim, not the early morning sentinel of
the day, but rather a feeling like my eyes are clouded and no matter how much I
blink, the film will not dissipate. Try as I might, I cannot discover the point
of interest on the wall opposite the alarm clock. I have no photos, there or
elsewhere, and certainly no artwork. The door is closed – the window shade is
drawn. Now that it is morning, there is a strange line of light giving shape to
the window shade. This anachronism must be it.
Some people live by
that saying to “try, try again,” but not me. I’ve quite given up on my physical
body. This statement sounds almost heroic of me, but really, I discovered I
could move without it. Quite by accident, of course, as are most things of
particular amazement in our lives, I drew a deep breath and hoisted myself up
and out of that bed. I could not bear to look at my body laying there. Has
anyone ever explained lie/lay to you? It’s a fucking nightmare of a puzzle, worse
than Sudoku. I’m not sure my physical body repulsed me, but the debate in my
head of lie versus lay that my dead body incited was too much to bear. I had to
move away.
I wondered if it would
start to smell. If there is one thing I cannot tolerate, it’s the idea that I
emanate a bad odor. There have been many times in my life I have had to escape
to a ladies room and sniff myself like a wounded beast, certain some malodorous
vapor was seeping through my skin. I was mostly foiled in any definitive discovery,
which led to further confusion. Others around me seemed to keep a distance for
some reason, and I am sure I saw people of a certain age and economic
background wrinkle their noses. Perhaps that is the trick behind achieving
wealth and success: superior olfactory senses. The better to smell your money.
In any case, my physical body, who had never done any great favors for me, was
not going to suddenly start now that it was dead. Its death was most likely my
fault. I could see no sign of foul play, as they say in those TV crime dramas.
What would the smell matter? No one had ever been in my apartment, much less my
bedroom. Okay, that’s not true. The building superintendent came in once to fix
a leaking pipe. I told him I didn’t mind the small flow of water across the
tiled floor, it sort of added a new feature to the apartment. He turned his
bulk towards me, holding my gaze with his puffy, walrus-like face, and
suggested I wait in the hall. That was awkward.
I began my day – my new
life as a dead person. It was somehow freeing. Made coffee and toasted a bagel.
I was anxious to see what would happen when I ate. I was hoping for The
Invisible Man affect, which might teach me more about the process of digestion.
You do know, of course, that I mean THE Invisible Man, the science fiction guy
created by HG Wells, not Ellison’s Invisible Man. I knew the latter way too
well already. (Side note: you can only imagine how these two titles played with
my sense of alphabetization.) Turns out I wasn’t hungry. I sat looking at the
food and coffee, admiring the smells and shapes like they were items in a
museum. I never touched them once they were on the table. In my mind, there was
a very thin glass case around them, potentially alarmed, and we have already
discussed our mutual dislike of alarms.
What next? My memory is
unclear, either because that is what happens to memory in death, or because
that is what happens to memory of mundane life. I did find myself on the
subway, and I am glad to say it was the best ride of my life. People literally
walked into me, sat on me, grabbed the same bars as me – there was an
extraordinary amount of physical touching without any apparent repulsion. It
was truly fascinating. My physical senses were hyper-sensitive – I felt like I
was tingling. The image of those attractive and cool vampires in the Twilight
series comes to mind, how they sparkle in the sunlight, but the analogy does
not carry that far. I do not, did not, and never will, sparkle. However, I felt
like a holograph image of myself, there but not, blurred at the edges, leaving
a mark with my movements for an infinitesimal moment. There is no other
explanation for death. You’ll understand some day.
The best part of death
is moving. Again, there is no real memory or explanation, you just do. I know
there were crowds at my stop, there always are – I saw them, heard them,
smelled them, touched them – but did not feel them. Without any effort at all,
I was up the stairs and on the street, moving along with humanity, feeling more
in sync with the world than I ever had. If I wanted to focus on something, it
was as if my will pulled it towards me (or me towards it) with a vacuum force.
Once I discovered the possibility, I was in and out of these vacuum bubbles.
Walking alongside a darling child in school uniform. Stopping to admire a dog
chained to the doorway of a coffee shop. Hovering above the group waiting at
the crosswalk, so I could see the pattern of people, cars, people, sidewalk, people,
cars, people, sidewalk. Death is somehow very empowering.
And thus we arrive at
my place of employment. If there is one adjective I have heard throughout my
life, it is reliable. Like a tire that every vehicle obviously needs, but no
one thinks about. We are always shocked when a perceptive mechanic mentions our
tires are bald. Having only died the night before, I am still on the work
schedule, so I am compelled to show up. I am anxious, like before a happy
surprise- excited, to see how my co-workers will react to my death. I have
never spoken much with any of them, but this event certainly gives me an edge
in the break room discussion. I approach the schedule to see which register I
will be working, and feel someone come up behind me to do the same. Good
morning, I think. My thoughts receive no response. I have no voice, and eye
contact has always been out of the question. I forgot about this detail.
Neither voice nor eye
contact is required to work register 7, so I should be okay. My work day goes as
usual – occasional lines, annoyed people parenting more annoyed children,
seniors shuffling by with sugar-free candy, co-workers discussing sports. My
death has not changed me enough for anyone to notice under these fluorescent
lights. They are particularly bright today – that summer noon bright when even
sunglasses don’t help much. They cast a foggy cloud of yellow light everywhere,
making it hard for me to see the details on people’s faces.
Stepping back outside
to the real world, the fog changes to white. I can’t feel it, but I can’t see
details of buildings or even my feet moving along the sidewalk, so I know it’s
there. It’s alarming enough to erase the memory of my ride home. I am
definitely feeling less empowered.
Glad to be back in my
familiar space, I turn on only the lamp. The cast shadows help me feel less
alone while I wait for Pat and Alek. I consider going in to see if my body is
still there, but even I have no interest in seeing me. I notice that The
Awakening is on my coffee table now, and wonder if my body has been having a
nice day here at home without me. I am strangely nervous and can’t seem to find
a way to relax. I decide a bath is in order.
My entire life, I have
struggled with the water temperature of the bath. There is something about the
heat that is absolutely enticing, but I can never immerse myself in it.
Countless times I have fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, waiting for the
water to cool. It strikes me that this time will be different, without the
limitation of my physical body, and the thought does calm me down a bit. As the
steam begins to rise from the fall of hot water, I turn towards the mirror over
the sink and cannot see myself. It’s a fantastic effect: I know I’m there, but
the mirror is covered in a fine film of water vapor, first blurring and then
erasing my image. I let my clothes drop to the floor, in a technique I learned
long ago, which prevents me from having too much physical contact with myself.
The steam helps them slide right off, falling in a puddle on the tile floor.
The leak appears to be back, so I shove my puddled clothes to one side to allow
the water to move along the floor. It seems that if water can be persistent
enough to break through a metal pipe, twice, I should allow it to have its way.
I step through the
steam into the hot, hot water. As predicted, there is no scorching of skin, no
need to nervously dip in and pull back repeatedly to adjust to the temperature.
I immerse myself. I am fearless. Leaning my head back along the edge of the tub,
I stretch my self to its full length and fill the space –shoulders wide beneath
my neck, each vertebrae touching the side, then bottom of the tub, arms
underwater and out alongside me, grazing the sides, feet pushing the opposite
end. I imagine myself camouflaged, like a nameless reptile in an oversized tank
adorned with a wild jungle theme that he obviously abhors. We assume camouflage
is a natural skill, but I believe it’s a learned behavior in response to humans
only. I close my eyes to deepen the camouflage effect, and get that sensation
of sinking that is the moment before deep sleep. I feel my self slipping into
this total relaxation, body shrinking in the space so that my head is being
pulled down the edge. My hair acts as an anchor, slowly pulling my head
underwater. I feel the water lap my ears, like tiny waves on a remote beach. My
eyes open suddenly, panicked to see the larger world. My window shade is drawn,
and I note that the odd yellow light is still seeping in along the tiny space
between shade and window pane. That consistency reassures me and I let my
eyelids fall back in place, covering my own windows. I wonder if the building
superintendent will see a light emanating from the edges of my eyelids, and
what color it will be. I’d like to believe it might be the blazing orange I
associate with Bertha, but it’s much more likely it will be the soft yellow of
the Louisiana waterways. I no longer feel the line between water and face. I am
floating. Sinking.
Falling.
