5th request for AH

[KB.]

AF, who I have known for 15 years, or damn close to it; requested a story around Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb. It was just what I needed to get the last view point (maybe) for the story. Forgive how rough it is. It was late and I was hungry.

I am going to write this in first person, from another‘s view. I tried third, but too much confusion and I know what is going on. I am not going to post the lyrics, listening to the song itself would serve much better. I don’t even like Floyd, but I will be listening as I write, and of course some Coltrane once in awhile.

This was fun in a macabre sort of way. It is one thing to write about the future, another to write about a character dying, especially when it is a character based on a real person who you love dearly. Then to finish it off with yourself dead, and a murder committed. That isn’t my usual style, I am much more of a sappy, love story, play some Isley Brother’s kind of guy. Oh well, what ya gonna do? I’ll combine them all into one story for easier reading and maybe edit some things tomorrow. I tried to tell this just like this person was telling a story verbally, and not knowing exactly where to start or end. That and keeping proper nouns out of it. I'l lwork on making it all flow better later.





I stood in the rain and watched him carry that box, he was one of six. I looked at him, just a couple years younger than I am, graying just like the rest of us, and still skinny. I remembered when he had first showed up in our little bar, and how when Thanksgiving had rolled around and he had no where to go because of having to be at work so early the day after. So I had invited him to my place to eat with the family and some of the folks from Joanies. I knew after seeing him there he wasn’t skinny because he didn’t eat, the boy had devoured everything in sight. He hung out for awhile, managed to be talkative, and made friends with most of the family. My cousin had asked who he was after he left, and was upset when she found out he was gone. He was too old for her anyway.

I remembered all the days he would come in asking about the one we were saying our last good byes too. He was a damn patient man, more patient than I would have been. I thought back to the day he came in and said he was leaving soon, he hadn’t found what he was looking for, but then a few weeks later that silly blonde headed girl had finally made her move; he looked so happy for awhile there after. I knew it wouldn’t last, he was too much of a worrier to handle that girl, she would manage to wear him out somehow or another. He looked numb as he carried that empty box, and looked far too damned comfortable being that way.

There was the night I sang “Maybe it was Memphis” to him during karaoke, He told me thanks for reminding him of home for a bit. He wasn’t the type of man to have a home, no matter how much he lied to himself about it. He might find some peace and quiet every once in awhile, but he had that look in his eyes; a look like he had to save the world, for what ever messed up reason, and he would go where he needed to be able to do it. Quench that thirst; unless someone decided to come along and rescue him from that need. Someone who didn’t need any saving.

He found it, eventually. He never told me bye, and I found out later than when he first moved back to Tennessee things hadn’t gone as planned. Some where along the line things worked out, and he became a husband and a Father. He had been still for a long time, close to seven years. He had moved a time or two after going back home, but not for long, kept going back. He had written a book about it all, and had made a name for himself, still looked like he was working for peanuts, but the money wasn’t the reason he wrote the book. Therapy he called it, or in this case group therapy. The book was good for them all; Joanie couldn’t keep people out of the place, finally had to build a few more, and keep the one in the old neighborhood as an almost private place. If you wanted in you had to make reservations, unless you lived in the neighborhood, or were an old regular. He had bought a house on the corner were they could all hang out afterwards if they wanted to, drink a bit and carry on. Listen to some good music, and bar-b-q when the weather was right. He invested in my real estate business, and it is doing well. I don’t have to work at all anymore, much less bartend; I still do though on Thursday nights. I got worried when I saw that numb look in his truth telling eyes. I was worried about a woman I had never met until now and kids who needed to hear stories.

As I stood there watching them lay that box on the ground I thought back to the night a week earlier when it had all happened, it was a Saturday, and I had stopped by for a drink. I knew that she would be off work by then, but would still be there having a drink herself, and figured we could talk for a bit. There was already someone talking to her though, some man a few years older, but not much. He had a deceitful look about his face. Fake smile, eyes not paying attention, body language was all wrong. He was trying to get her to leave and go across the river to a three o’clock bar, and she was just about to the point of saying no. Then someone mentioned that it was their old friend’s birthday coming up in two days. That he might come up the day after to hang out a bit. That was all it took, she looked at me and I saw the lonely take over. She was out the door, wearing that old coat she got from him one night ten years ago pulled close about her. I caught her before she got to her car, told her not to drive; just go across the street. She told me he was driving, she could barely stand up. There was nothing else to do, she promised me she was done for the night he was just going to take her home, or to his place so she could sleep. I just let her go. They never made it anywhere, apparently he had decided to go to his place, but he managed to run the car straight down a cement divider, damned drunks. She was dead, and he was paralyzed. The blame, the fault, was placed on that poor woman, even though she hadn’t been driving. I told the cops she had been in the passenger seat when she left, but they said the only evidence they had was his word. Now that lousy liar was the one getting the pity.

As the funeral ended I walked up to the two of them, the old friend and the boy; he looked fine with his Marine uniform on, but I worried about that as well. That numb looking man had told her he would try and talk him out of it, had a letter, some words, and a song for him. I hugged them both, told them to come by the house when they were done talking, folks were going to get together for awhile.

I left them there, talking; both looking as lost as they could be. I drove away and put some Pink Floyd on. I wandered around listening to Comfortably Numb for a long time. I wondered if that as$hole was comfortable, I knew he was numb. I finally managed to head home, and meet up with all the old friends; everyone was there but the one they needed there the most. Needed him to be there so they would know he was alright. I asked the boy what time they had left, and he told me he had left hours ago, maybe thirty minutes after I had. He said their friend was still there, he wanted some time alone, and he hadn’t heard from him since. I looked at the medallion hanging from his neck, St. Jude; lost causes. I knew by the time I got back up to that cemetery it was going to be too late. I found him there, leaned against the stone that marked an empty grave. A letter in his hand, I first thought he had done something that would be incomprehensible for him. He wasn’t breathing, he was still, and didn’t look so numb anymore. Looked almost rested, relaxed, like he had finished a long job. I called the ambulance, but they said he had been gone for an hour or more by the time they got there. Heart attack they said, but it looked like he went peaceful. He was still gone, peaceful or not. At least it was in someone else’s hands and not his own.

That letter was to you, he said he figured you would know he wasn’t coming back, and he was sorry. He told you he was done, and was glad you hadn’t been there to see it all. He said every time you played some Coltrane, or some Dylan he would be around. Mentioned something about a twinkle, and you singing “Heart of Mine” to him because you thought he was asleep. Tricky was what he said. Mentioned something about a bell you should have got him. Told you to remember to tell stories, and make Jude a decent man. Do for Jude what you had done for him, he had those eyes, and he said you both knew it would be a tough time. Told you to make sure no one ever tried to stifle that ever story telling little girl.

I thought about that fool in his hospital bed, he had managed to make a widower, leave three children with out a parent, take two good people; fine friends away, and he was allowed to lay in his bed, numb. Maybe he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even talk, but he was breathing and that was more than these two were doing.

I decided two days later, after I saw the news clip of the writer from down south, who had written a book about a little corner bar, and all the friends, family, Muses, and chicken sandwiches he had found there. I decided to go visit that lousy son-of-a-bitch in the hospital, and see what I could do about the breathing.

I walked in and saw her boy enter the hospital room, it was late and quiet. Have to love an understaffed city hospital. I grabbed him and he jumped, I told him to get his ass out of there, and to not turn around. I knew what he was going to do, but I told him in no uncertain terms, that I was handling it. He tried to protest, but I sent him out with a shove and a nasty look. He looked like he wanted to beg, but turned around and walked away instead. Slow walked down that hall; but he never turned around. I heard the bell of the elevator, and I turned to look at this pitiful excuse of a closed chapter.

I pulled a chair up close and put my finger right in his eye, he blinked, that was all he could do. Blink and think. When I was sure he was awake, and could see me, I told him a few things. I told him about a muse, like he even knew what that was. I told him about a decent man whose heart had finally given out on him. I told him about a little boy who had to grow up far too fast, and I told him about babies down south who would never hear stories told by that decent man. I told him about you, a good woman, kind hearted, strong enough to shoulder two burdens. I asked him if he was nice and comfortable, if the numb was good enough for him to exist in. I saw his lips move a little, but I told him I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I thought I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to look it was gone. I can’t put my finger on it now, but it looked like blonde hair blowing in the wind; there wasn’t a breeze to be felt though. I heard some old jazz come from somewhere, and he got a look like he saw a ghost. I almost pitied him for a moment, but I looked at him in his dead eyes, and told him no matter how much someone had felt he should be alive to suffer; I was going to finish him off. I told him if God wasn’t gonna cut him down I would do it myself. I turned the respirator off and watched him struggle to breathe. I watched it working, and told him it was time to go. Maybe I should have been more creative about it, but he wasn’t worth the effort.

That’s the story of it all, I hate to put the burden of the truth of it on you, but someone has to know. I got too many things in my head to keep it secret. Here is the letter, I read it, and you should too. Here is his ashes, he said no service, there would be too many folks who didn’t know him well enough to speak for him there. He said you knew where he would want them spread, it’s all in the letter. No matter what they say, his heart didn’t give out on him; he was just done.

I got back in my car and headed north. I thought about the things that had happened and how things become so intertwined. What if he had moved the first time he said he was going to, what if he had waited till November like he had said the second time, what if he had never walked into that corner bar, the center of the universe he called it. I didn’t matter now, lots of stories had been told, and a few more might get whispered.