Doomed

  DECEMBER 21, 10:09 A.M. PST

  A Birthday Offering

  Posted by [email protected]

  Gentle Tweeter,

  The work of a supernaturalist never ends. As my flight begins its initial decent into Calgary or Cairo or Constantinople, you find me worming my ghost self into the port provided at my seat for stereo earphones. I’m shimmying deep into the electronic innards of the airplane. Tracing wires. Bridging relays. By satellite, I’m hacking into the various servers which control the security cameras ogling my parents’ far-flung abodes. Not so much to spy on them; no, I’m accessing the archived history files. By referencing the time codes I locate video footage of myself celebrating my tenth birthday, that long-ago, clothing-optional kids party where my parents hoisted a heavy piñata poured full of prescription pain medications and recreational hallucinogenics. There I am, that prepubescent me, mortified, clutching pastel-colored napkins to cover my exposed fleshy shame even as the naked adults disembowel my festive papier-mâché burro with their bare hands. These former-punk, former–New Wave, former-grunge scenesters, they squirm together on the littered floor like a mass of sweaty, drug-hungry eels.

  It’s for the comfort of perspective that I seek out video of the most demeaning, most humiliating events of my former life. To all you predead people, please take note. Whenever you’re feeling depressed about being dead, duly remember that being alive wasn’t always a picnic. The only thing that makes the present palatable is the fact that the past was, at times, torture. For further solace I retrieve the cringe-inducing video files of my six-year-old, living-alive self Morris dancing, naked, around the base of an old-growth pine tree. I review footage of my four-year-old backside splayed to the camera as I gingerly utilize the shared bamboo toilet stick at ecology camp.

  Ye gods, my childhood was atrocious.

  Scanning through random video time codes, I glimpse my mother. In Tashkent or Taipei, she’s telling someone over the phone, “No, Leonard, we have yet to identify the right assassin.…”

  On a different time code, I watch my dad on the phone in Oslo or Orlando, saying, “Our last would-be executioner ran off with Camille’s credit cards.…” Both tiny flashbacks occurred in the final few months of my life.

  To savor the unhappiness of someone other than myself, I retrieve the video of my brother, Goran, on his last birthday. If you must know, Goran was my brother for about fifteen minutes. My parents adopted him from some tragic refugee-camp situation, largely as a publicity stunt. Said adoption was not, shall we say, a success. In the video they’ve rented Disney’s EPCOT Center and populated it with the outlandish players of a dozen Cirque du Soleil productions. Members of the media outnumber the guests, making sweet, sweet public relations hay for my mom and dad. Cameras and microphones broadcast every smidgen of the magic as my folks proudly trot out their birthday gift: a pretty Shetland pony. What was Goran to make of this situation, he who’d only recently arrived from some veiled post–Iron Curtain regime? Surrounding him were crowds of capering French Canadian clowns and nymphlike Chinese ribbon dancers. Here, he was clearly the guest of honor, and his hosts were presenting him with this young, tender animal. The pony’s mane and tail were braided with blue satin ribbons, its fur dusted with silver glitter. My father led the pony with the reins of a silver bridle, and a silver bow the size of a cabbage was tied around its diminutive neck.

  Not that I, movie-star scion that I am, have ever seen an actual cabbage.

  On the video, every eye is glazed with happiness. Or serotonin-reuptake inhibitors. Goran has been handed an ornate antique knife for the purpose of slicing and serving a mammoth birthday cake. His sinewy gulag body is decked out in Ralph Lauren togs, to fulfill the legal obligations of a commercial tie-in contract. Like an anarchist’s mask, his dense hair hangs down to hide his stone-colored, disdainful eyes. The casts of a dozen Andrew Lloyd Webber productions swing into a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and the horror ensues.

  It was not entirely Goran’s fault. In many cultures an animal so merrily presented would read as a blood sacrifice. It’s the equivalent of, say, blowing out birthday candles before ritualistically butchering the cake and handing portions of it ’round to guests. In such lusty, throwback cultures fresh meat amounted to the greatest tribute. Recognizing that, we shouldn’t have been so stunned to see the huge knife blade lash forward. Using the same effort that an American child would to extinguish every flaming candle with a single breath, Goran gripped the knife’s handle and swung it as would a hale gladiator: to execute a hearty feast. Here, I slow the video to a frame-by-frame analysis. The prancing clowns are fixed in their manic attitudes. The silver reins are wrapped twice around my father’s hand. In moaning slow motion my mother says, “Make … a … wish.…”

  There’s no blood, not at first. What follows comes in slowed strobes of tragedy. Goran wields his weapon in a wide, gleaming arc, and the tip of the blade passes cleanly through the furred throat of the startled pony. Even before it drops, before a hot fan of blood bursts from its nicked artery and bisected windpipe, exploding in every direction, the animal’s eyes roll backward until only the whites show.

  Like a matador’s crimson cape, the curtain of equine blood sweeps over the massive birthday cake, melting the sculpted sugar flowers and dousing the tiny flames of its thirteen candles. The pony’s flailing heart casts thick gobbets of blood that splash the rainbow sequins and spandex of the Cirque clowns. Even as network cameras continue to roll, hot pony gore assails the elegant Xanaxed facades of my parents’ placid smiles. Even now, watching this on video, I see myself in the background as the poor little horse collapses on the lawn. The assembled multitudes shield their faces with their upraised forearms and duck their heads for protection; fainting or dodging, this vast field of onlookers appears to be bowing in humble awe. As the pony slumps to the ground, everyone falls, everyone but Goran and myself. Only my brother and I remain upright. The pair of us stand alone in the center of what looks like a battlefield, a massacre of blood-smeared victims.

  This, despite the counsel of my mother and Judy Blume, this forceful red spouting is how I’d always imagined my first menstruation would present itself. Therefore, I remain steadfast.

  Judging from our calm expressions, it’s clear that Goran and I have both borne witness to far worse atrocities. Me, in an upstate restroom. He, in whatever war-torn hamlet he’d originated. Neither of us is a stranger to the cold reality of death. Neither of us will be stopped by it. Despite our youth, we’ve been tempered by secrets and suffering that these goofy clowns—the real clowns, I mean, not our parents—could never surmise. The Shetland pony sputters the last drops of its wet life into the grass at our feet, and the ancient kingdoms of the world surround us: Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, albeit crafted in quaint Disney microcosm.

  Such a grisly panorama this presents. A tableau of Armageddon. Countless populations bowing, subjugated, baptized in hot blood, and at the center a freshly slaughtered beast is flanked by a young Adam and Eve, unfazed, examining one another’s blood-streaked bodies with newfound curiosity and admiration. Through the blood-spattered lenses of my horn-rimmed eyewear, I recognize a kindred spirit.

  I’d never really fit in the world, not easily, not like coffee fits into a cup. However, seeing Goran’s cold assessment of his own mistake, I realized that I was not entirely alone. Even on low-resolution security video, my living-alive self was clearly and unmistakably in love.

  DECEMBER 21, 10:15 A.M. PST

  Meet the Devil

  Posted by [email protected]

  Gentle Tweeter,

  Please take note, you predead persons: as former-cynical, former-snarky former nihilists, you’ve eschewed all forms of religious faith for years. Woe unto you, for it leaves you primed for a false prophet. This spiritual anorexia has left you starved, poised to gorge yourself on whatever newish theology is set before you. Witness my escort, the “psychic bounty hunter�
� sent to corral my ghost and wrangle me home to my parents. Walking through the arrivals level of LAX, Mr. Crescent City believes he’s hugging me close, but he embraces an armful of air.

  “Little dead angel,” he says, loping along, “first we need to find our chauffeur. Then we need to catch the helicopter to get us to your mom’s boat.”

  We stride past a young mother who leans over her toddler, cooing and coaxing it, “Say ‘fuck,’ sweetheart. Say ‘fuck’ so you and Mommy will never be separated, in this world or the next.…”

  It goes without saying that I am following at a distance well outside his distasteful grasp. Even the slightest contact with Mr. Crescent City means a comingling of his earthly form and my spiritual one, a union more intimate than even the most passionate goings-on of an earthly marriage. His touch is, well … imagine huffing a vast toke of vaporized depression. Or guzzling a tall glass of bitter regret.

  “When I get to fucking Heaven,” says Crescent, “I’m teaching kids that drugs are a detour for the rest of your fucking life.”

  As Crescent leads me through the crowds, LAX looks more tragic than I’d ever noticed. Among these milling hordes I see human beings so racked with hunger that they’re reduced to eating triple-bacon cheeseburgers dripping with a sauce identical to the loathsome fluid which once spurted from between the pages of the Beagle book. I see whole families forced by global inequalities of wealth to wear prêt-à-porter Tommy Hilfiger. A glance in any direction reveals such scenes of hardship and deprivation. It’s one thing to hear that such grinding poverty exists in the modern world, but it’s heartrending to actually see people compelled to carry their own luggage.

  An ancient crone, almost my mother’s age, not an hour younger than thirty-two, walks past wearing last season’s Liz Claiborne, and the pathetic sight brings a flood of ghost tears to my eyes. One has only to see the damage wrought by home hair coloring and carbohydrates to feel the same passionate empathy that spurred the progressive likes of Jane Addams.

  These sullied throngs of travelers—who, unlike my parents, are not being paid to wear their clothes—they must be crazed. Either crazed or intoxicated with drugs. Because? Because everyone is grinning the same exaggerated clown’s leer. They’re poor and pimpled and clutching coach tickets to Sioux Falls, and still—they’re smiling. They stroll along as if ambling through the Jardin du Luxembourg listening to the splash of the Medici Fountain. This is no 6th arrondissement. There’s nothing but thin plastic carpet laid atop airport concrete. Inexplicably, these apparent strangers coalesce into groups. They join hands while they wait for flights, forming impromptu prayer circles in sterile gate areas. Once assembled, they close their eyes. In somber unison they chant, “Fuck.…” Their eyes closed, they make church faces. With their heads tilted back, they sing hymns of “Fuck … fag … nigger … cunt … kike …,” their words slow and deliberate as a NASA countdown.

  Gentle Tweeter, how peaceful is a world where everyone gives offense but no one takes it. Within my circle of vision everyone is littering and spitting, and no one seems put off by those uncivil acts.

  What’s more, I shudder to say, fat people are holding hands with thin people. Mexican tongues share ice-cream cones with white tongues. Homosexuals are being nice to other homosexuals. Blacks are happily rubbing elbows with Jews. My hero, Charles Darwin, would be so ashamed of me. My meddling has so destroyed the entire natural order of living things.

  “The whole fucking world loves you, little dead girl, for showing us the righteous fucking path.” As Mr. Crescent City says this, we’re gliding down an escalator. We’ve no luggage to collect. Below us, our chauffeur waits among a bevy of other uniformed chauffeurs. One snaps his fingers, drawing our focus. He holds a clipboard hand-lettered with the name Mr. City. Even indoors, this chauffeur wears mirrored sunglasses and a brimmed cap. No name tag. He wears old-school black riding boots with gray-wool jodhpurs. Despite the Los Angeles heat he wears a double-breasted coat, like a driver right out of Agatha Christie sent by way of the Western Costume Company circa 1935.

  “This is us,” says Crescent to the chauffeur, gesturing to nothing and then to himself. “We’re going to the chopper.”

  The chauffeur turns to look his sunglasses directly at me. “Why, if it isn’t the angel,” he says, his breath scented like a hard-boiled egg. He drops to one knee. “Our most glorious redeemer.” With one gloved hand he sweeps the cap from his head and brings it to cover his heart. A mocking tone in his voice. That familiar methane stink to his words.

  For my part, I don’t need to see a name tag. As he kneels before me I can see the twin tiny points of his horns buried deep in his thick blond hair. The crowd of chauffeurs surges forward to meet their respective passengers, and a jolly Falstaff wearing a blue serge uniform stumbles over the man kneeling. Both drivers sprawl. The mirrored sunglasses tumble, and I get a glimpse of yellow goat eyes. The bumbling Falstaff climbs back to his feet while our malodorous, supplicating driver scuttles on his belly to retrieve his fallen hat as it rolls away. Standing now, the Falstaff offers the fallen driver a hand up, saying, “Sorry, buddy.” He laughs and says, “Can you fucking forgive me?”

  Another driver stoops to rescue the sunglasses, but their lenses are shattered, already broken by the tread of a scurrying air traveler. Yet another driver catches the rolling hat and returns it to the crawling man, who yanks it firmly over his head and pulls the brim low to hide his strange eyes. He reaches up to accept the Falstaff’s helping hand. Their two hands touch, like something depicted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or the floor of an upstate public toilet, and the fallen man says, “I forgive no one.” His voice a hiss. His uniformed body moving against the LAX carpet like a serpent.

  With his free hand the oafish assailant is already slapping dust from his accidental victim. His mitt swats the shoulders of the wool coat, brushing the sleeves. “No harm done,” he says, but as the fallen man stands, the larger man sinks to his knees. Their hands unclasp. “Fuck,” says the Falstaff. Drops of sweat appear along his hairline and run down as if his forehead were a corn-based biodegradable plastic cup containing an iced soy latte. His goofy smile turns to gritted teeth, and so much blood rushes to his cheeks that he looks sunburned with agony. Clawing at his chest, he topples to make the shape of a fetus on the floor, and his legs run sideways against nothing, going nowhere fast. His Falstaff mouth stretches to turn his red face inside out while his hands dig at his jacket like a dog digs, like he can’t wait to rip out his own heart and show us. The brass buttons of his uniform pop and fly. His fingernails are through the skin, digging up blood, before he shudders and stiffens.

  And yes, Gentle Tweeter, I may occasionally confuse dog excrement and male genitalia, but I can recognize when a man is suffering a massive heart attack on the floor at my feet. By now this is a familiar sight.

  Under fluttering eyelids, the dying Falstaff looks back at the gawkers who surround his final suffering, staring down upon him with their eyes of awe and jealousy. He’s hemmed in by the toothy chrome zippers of all their roller bags. This bon voyage crowd, their envy is undisguised. No one dials 911. No one steps forward to administer heroic measures. The dying man whispers, “Crap.”

  Some voice among the assembled passersby shouts, “Hallelujah!”

  The dying man whispers, “Shit.”

  Everyone present, including Mr. Crescent City, whispers, “Amen.”

  Like a chime, a small voice calls, “Bye.” It’s a little boy with a saddle of pink freckles across the bridge of his nose. With his whole arm extended straight out from the shoulder, he wiggles his wrist to flop his small hand. At the same time, he says, “We’ll see you in Heaven!”

  Following his lead, other hands wave. Slow waves. Beauty pageant waves. The crone wearing outdated Liz Claiborne blows a kiss. A choir of sphincters tootle sadly, a chorus of lamenting “Hail, Maddys.” Onlookers belch in solemn respect.

  The gasping man goes still. The blood stops flowing from the
hole he’s torn in his chest. Here’s my chance to set things right, to return the Earth to its natural unhappy order. It’s only when the paramedics finally arrive that I make my move.

  DECEMBER 21, 10:22 A.M. PST

  Returned to Life!

  Posted by [email protected]

  Gentle Tweeter,

  By now I’m well accustomed to men falling dead in front of me. I’m not thrilled, not about seeing grown men wither and die at my feet, but neither am I paralyzed by the event.

  To comprehend what happens next at LAX, you future-dead people need some fresh insight into the nature of your physical being. Until now you’ve largely conceived of your earthly body as a human-shaped utensil you use for having sex. Or for gobbling up Halloween candy. Yes, your fleshy self is the application which allows you to interface with automobile steering wheels, teams of oxen, embroidery hoops, trained dolphins, hair spray, cricket bats, rectal thermometers, hot-stone massage therapists, saltine crackers, Chanel No. 5, poison ivy, contact lenses, prostitutes, wristwatches, riptides, tapeworms, electric chairs, chili peppers, oncologists, roller coasters, tanning beds, meth, and cute hats. Without a corporeal self, all the preceding would be rendered moot. In addition your body is the canvas needed to express yourself in the world. At the very least, it’s the only avenue that allows for acquiring a truly rad tattoo.

  Besides being a tool and a means of expression, the third truth is that a fleshy corpus acts as a cuddly, warm security blanket. Imagine a comforting suit of armor, i.e., you as your own teddy bear. A body is the Marc Jacobs shoulder bag that contains all the junk that constitutes you. And at this moment, an unoccupied body lies dead on the airport floor right in front of me. No, as bodies go this would not be my first choice—a largish lumpenprole chauffeur, a middle-aged male whose last meal was a take-out lunch of beef curry—but beggars can’t be choosers. Dead on the LAX carpet, he wears a driver’s uniform of worsted serge, and it appears that he’s been killed by clasping the hand of Satan. He’s rolled onto his back and frozen into a still photograph of a massive heart attack victim. His entire face, moments before, it was the color of a tongue. Now his face, his hands, all of his skin is the pale color of chrome. His desperate fingers have clawed open his coat and shirt, and his panicked fingernails have torn his chest into a vivid pizza margarita of shredded skin, red glop, and tangled black body hair. Dashed with hemoglobin red, his chrome name tag sags near his armpit. It says, HARVEY.