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| Situations of I |
All I’ve
got are.…
Maybe it
has to.…
“No,”
he said.
Silence is the
backdrop. No actor stands to deliver memorized lines. A man is lying in a
reflective pool of his own blood. The blood has poured from his body like a vase
of blood tipped over onto the wooden floor. The empty cup lays on its side,
hands motionless, head resting on one arm, legs like two parallel logs.
The empty man laying
on the stage. No audience witnesses his repose.
Here.
“The show must go on.”
But this is the show.
The body, cold now,
used to be warm; he had lived his entire life warm.
This lighting is
familiar. All of it is focused on the figure—stage front, mid. Bright
spotlights converge on the body, causing the surface of the body to become
slightly warmer than the darkened theater.
The congealing blood
pool is confined by its hardening edges. Blood has sunk into and through gaps in
the gritted black-painted hardwood flooring. Four smaller puddles contrast
their rich, darkly-reflective, deepening color with the dim, dusty concrete subfloor.
Wet-looking thimbles dangle motionless in this four-inch gap. The drops have
ceased their falling.
On stage: a heavy
crimson curtain hangs on both sides of the performance area. The folds are the
dark color of dried blood. Another black curtain hangs behind the acting space
on the last of four parallel lines.
Empty stage except the
man lying in blood. Converged spotlights. Rows of empty seats in a darkened
theater. Perfect.
And then the man sits
up. Caked blood coats the left side of his head and face. It is utterly
soundless. His hair is matted, especially over the saucer-shaped indent where
his skull is crushed.
Lines of blood begin
running along his jaw and drip from his chin onto the white pleated shirt
beneath his dinner jacket. His arms remain locked at the elbows. His hands, on either
side and slightly behind him, are propping him upright. He wouldn’t blink, even
if he could. Perfect.
His legs, straight in
front of him, end with polished black patent leather shoes over black silk
socks covering his ankles and shins. The shoestrings are tied perfectly. He sits,
and listens. He then blinks, very slowly. His left eyelid sticks and reopens
with noticeable difficulty. His eyes are open again. He notices the empty
theater. So. I am alone now ….
The sensation, a
feeling of being still….
Ah….
The man’s eyes move in
their sockets while his head remains still—left, then right. They track the
silent rows of seats in the darkness. Then up, they look, at the
brilliantly-lit spotlights. Then the unlit colored lenses and track lights.
His eyes track
downward to focus on his nose. The left side of his face is clearly darker, dark
with blood, he knows. His eyes roll downward as far as possible, taking in motionless
legs, feet and a large region of pooled blood at his left hip. The two slowly-moving
orbs return to staring straight forward.
The man’s eyelids
slowly lower to cover his eyes. He takes his first breath. This is the first sound he has heard since sitting upright.
His left nostril remains
clear. All of the inhaled air enters, and then exits, no warmer than it had
been in the room.
This breathing
continues, regularly.
It is impossible, he thinks.
Of course.
Staring, he wonders. Will I stand up, or lie back down? His
heart is not beating.
This has always been
the question.
[-excerpt from upcoming book, "Situations of I," a collection of short stories & essays.]
[-excerpt from upcoming book, "Situations of I," a collection of short stories & essays.]
