Falling

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.