Way Off
I stand, raise my hands high, and take a long hard look in the mirror. Not a pretty sight, this greying hipster in glasses, too ordinary to rouse suspicion, let alone fear. That Florida night, what signs in myself did I miss in the chaos of street numbers and holiday lights? Settled in the sandy berth between safe and sorry, I write with blood on my hands (well, almost).
My advice: prepare for death. Know the address. Rehearse routes ahead of time and learn to giftwrap a loaded gun. As Missus Santa Claus, toting a small Christmas tree and sack, I offer hindsight on a long friendship that ended at the edge of town.
Tell me please at which stoplight love halts and violence begins? A dead shot, he patiently taught nearsighted me to target shoot. I now had the steadier hand, if not the better eye.
That night, I lost myself in a zoning warp of mirror addresses on the evacuation route over the bridge between a furniture outlet and the mega bowling alley with scanning laser lights. Rows of church buses were parked for a big tournament.
Around here, team bowling has become a money sport with fancy bags and custom shoes paid for by parishioner bake sales. What happened to low-budget date night, holding hands under skies blurry with stars? Teen me, the lousy bowler, too vain to wear my glasses after school, never bowled a turkey, three strikes in a row.
On the SW side of town (past said bridge), a sprawl of low-end suburbs blazed holiday cheer: glowing crèches, hatted penguins on parade with giant candy canes, and rooftop Rudolf defying gravity in a timeless tale of hope — room at the inn (inclusion), concern (vanishing arctic wildlife), canes (handicap access), and fuel-efficient conveyance (dream on).
Way off, I reversed, although sounds of the Season beckoned with bells, metal tongues in metal shells. The harmless jingle of Santa’s sleigh blurred boundaries between what’s real, good cheer, and the Grinch conspiracy.
In the drizzle, the bowling alley neon, now reflected on wet asphalt, was welcome rainbow dazzle. Would that management had amped up the crash of falling pins to draw me in, divert me with the rumble of a ball rolling down the smooth waxed hardwood lane. That happy noise stays with you for life, like the weight of the ball and unbroken gaze on the pins. Not pain.
Figure out the way forward, I told myself. Take a deep breath, review the numbers, and find the rehab center. Yes, there in plain sight.
Tree in arm, I waited outside the entrance for a guard to eye me over. Afterhours, maybe electronic surveillance tagged me as trouble. BZZZ, door opened, and I wandered hollow halls. Sad bedridden people looked up, wishing I was here for them. I smiled and waved. What a lie. I almost wept outside the dining room.
Think pandemonium. Mess hall staff served big bowls of boiled spaghetti — sauce-free, no lumpy meatballs (choking hazards) — as aged open-mouthed diners twirled angel hair and dangled strands on the verge of a food fight should I divest my Christmas trappings with them.
I don’t. Wrong side of town. The bowling alley had distracted me with memories of the straight and narrow, rules.
I fled, but not before someone in a Santa hat handed me a little gift, a flag, Old Glory on a stick. Buzzed-out through the foyer door into dark night, I fumbled with my car keys. The tinsel star fell off the tree and, carried by the breeze, somersaulted on five points across the lot. I was too tired for the chase.
My bad, wrong place. Must be SE of the bridge near the endless bowling alley parking lot, clearly marked by evidence of organized religion.
I proceeded on and, epiphany, suddenly saw a huge façade with a stupendous wreath of green lights and red bow in metaphysical blaze portending No loose ends. I felt sloppy as wet spaghetti.
Trying for composure, I smoothed my hair and artisan layers and regrouped with the star-free tree and snack bag. Security here was a cop who asked questions, verified the room, and signed me in with a no-name guest badge lest me with my tree be strapped to a metal bed and force-fed as runaway from that other place (SW over the bridge).
I entered grey walls with low-wat overheads and endless hallways past the nurses’ station, loud with sounds of patients coughing up, moaning for attention, alone at life’s dead end.
At open door, room 134, I saw his shoes on the floor. The nurse said No to the packaged snacks, but Okay to the fake tree which I set up in the corner and topped with the little flag to keep him safe, O, say can you see, as they watch him sleep, help him pee, zinc his ass with salve gluey white as artificial snow.
They fear Him, he said, meaning the forty-fifth Prez, not Jesus. They being night staff whose accents I don’t parse. He was wrought with pain. I’d overstayed but left him things we two had always liked to read — nature magazines and a guide to Southeastern Forests.
Index the key, I said, to assure myself of easy identification. As if we again would take long weekend walks, birdwatch, and enjoy woodland spiders with huge orb webs sticky with yellow pollen, wonderful ruse of predators in wait for prey.
Female spiders carry eggs on their spinnerets, in sacks like Missus Santa Claus, he joked, but with eight hairy arms and eight eyes in three rows. Hell’s bells, hon, what took you so damn long to get here?
Traffic, I lied, and fussed with his bedclothes.
Tomorrow, he said softly, come late like today and bring the gun and silencer, upstairs under the mattress. Giftwrapped, he added with a wink, knowing I love colorful foil paper and clever bows.
We laughed, let go, parted — I to a different zip code, he to a netherworld of fluids coursing miles of plastic tubes to the tiresome pulse of the Chipmunks Christmas muzak.
Outside, stars pierced the dark as Orion set on the winter horizon. I made my way to his house and reached under the mattress.
But first, I swung by Walgreen’s to buy a nested Holiday gift box I did not have the heart to wrap in red and green appointments; plus a sack of healthy snacks for the end of town, a warp of mirror addresses midway between the pious bowlers and blinking nose of rooftop Rudolph.
The next day, as he requested, I arrived late, on task with my recycled guest badge, and, smiling, passed Security with the gift box — his escape to the Other Side.
Night staff roamed the halls with cell phones. No one seemed aware of me. Beside his bed, I patted the gift box. He smiled and, mustering spent strength, shook his head to let me know he was leaving by a different route.
I kissed his forehead, closed his eyes, and bowed my head, then checked the time. Avoiding notice, I exited with the unopened gift box and the snack bag.
Craving life in straight lines, I drove past the bowling alley to see if a different league tournament was in progress, maybe the Elks Club or the Lady Bowlegs. The place was dark under a waning moon. On the other side of town, Rudolph’s red nose held its own against the dull suburban glow of the night sky.
In no particular hurry, I left the bag of snacks curbside — my gift to the unhoused, who flock to Florida, not knowing our December temps can be cold. At home, I undid the gift box. Grateful, deeply grateful, I didn’t have to pull the trigger, I placed the guest badge and empty box under my tree.
As I said, prepare for death. Memorize the address and rehearse routes ahead of time. Even if you don’t know how to shoot, learn to giftwrap a loaded gun. And take a bag of treats to share, a sweet trace to leave wayside on the road of good intentions.
After/Thought Literary 