The Lost Art of Disappearing

Every night I die a thousand deaths, only to be reborn by the kiss of the sun.  Every moment an eternity, every breath my last… until the innumerable rays of the sun, like the tentacles of a squid, wrap around me and pluck me from my black, endless sleep.  Now, I begin again that which I have never ceased to do.  To burn a pure, white heat as I cross the sky, delicately arcing, then, falling, slowly, until I disappear behind the cardboard horizon in a great burst of light.  This is my personal “hats off” to myself as I expire.  While it has been said that it is better to burn out than fade away, it is even better to burn out and then fade away.

Finally, I arise and sit at my desk, preparing to “take on the day,” as Dr. Laura Schlesinger advises.  I’m drinking coffee out of the skull of a virgin. Don’t get me wrong. I love virgins! In the spirit of Elizabeth of Bathory, who bathed in the blood of virgins in an effort to achieve eternal youth.  Of course, she eventually died, but not before draining the blood out of literally thousands of virgins and irreparably staining her tub.

Now, I’m not trying to live forever. I’m just drinking coffee out of my favorite mug, which just happens to be the skull of a virgin. No harm, no foul, right?

I turn my attention to my desktop, to sort through notes, bills, anything that will help me focus on today. I live for today. I find it exciting to be in the moment, greedily eating whatever life puts on my plate.  I’ll eat anything when it comes to living my life to the fullest.   In order to maximize my potential, I need fuel for the body, fuel to get me through whatever manifestation of life today becomes.

I can’t believe the mess I’m in. My desk is littered with large denomination bills and psychotropic drugs such as Navane, Lithium and Klonopin.  What else can be found in this monument of disorder?  How about several hundred dollar's worth of unpaid parking tickets, fake tattoos and a stainless-steel butterfly knife?  That's the way I live my life, baby!  I’m up to my neck in a psychotic gumbo of prescription drugs, loose change and weapons.  Just like the Good Lord Above intended, if you believe in that sort of thing.

I sort the contents of my desk into four categories:

1. Psychotropic drugs
2. Unpaid parking tickets
3. Fake tattoos
4. Knives

I always find a list helps me organize and focus on the task at hand.  In short, I take a few fistfuls of lithium and klonopin but I save the navane for any serious psychotic episode that might seep through the cracks of the amateur spackling job that is my sanity.  I stack the parking tickets as high as they will go, which is only an inch and a half. Still, I feel like a fugitive! I imagine a special tactical unit is assembled specifically to capture me and garnish my wages until the traffic fees are paid in full.

What actually happens is I let the fees mount until my car is booted. The boot is a huge yellow metal clamp that is attached to the driver’s side front wheel, rendering the car immobile. Only total payment of the tickets will cause the city to send one of their best men out to take the boot off my car. I spend less than $1500.00 getting the boot off my car and over an hour waiting for some man who has the key to the boot.  Later that year, a giant sloth wearing a city workers uniform appears in a tow truck.  He oozes over to my car and looks at the boot, then at me.

 “That’s my car,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Do you have your receipt?”

I show him the receipt for payment in full, which also serves as a work order to have my car freed.  He stares at the piece of paper and I think I see him smell the ink. Insane. That didn’t happen.

He pulls out the tool that unlocks the boot and in five minuets I have my car back. 

“Thanks,” I say, grateful that this ordeal that I brought upon myself is over.

“Uh-uh.  Might want to try paying your tickets, buddy,” he says, with a crooked grin.  Did one of his teeth just fall out? No! Impossible! Just look away and get in your car and drive away.  I follow my own advice, driving free and not looking back.

 Back at my desk, I still have the fake tattoos and the butterfly knife to consider.  I leave the fake tattoos on the desk, certain that I will need them later. 

The butterfly knife is a no-brainer.  I’m taking it with me!   Any paranoid psychotic worth their salt will arm themselves before going out into the wicked world.  But first, a quick shower, which leaves me newborn clean and revitalized, raring to go!  I dress quickly, throwing on jeans, a pair of black boots and a black cowboy shirt with gold piping. It’s classy!  The finishing touch is my hair, which I twist and tease into a 3 inch high black pompadour. The final look is akin to Vic’s Big Boy at the prison rodeo.  Now, I am ready to go meet my Mom and with my knife tucked into my boot, I’m ready to meet any slack-jawed deviant who wants to bring me or those close to me any harm. 

I’m always late and today is no exception.  I try to use the power of my mind to make the train go faster but it doesn’t work and I feel like I exploded the vein behind my left eye, due to my intense concentration. I arrive fifteen minutes late, sweaty with a slight twitch in my left eye. Nice, I think to myself, you’ve given yourself a stroke.  Enjoy your last meal.

Of course, I’m not dying and neither is my Mom, but she did ask me to lunch to talk about her wishes if she ends up in a “persistent vegetative state,” like Terry Schiavo.   At some point, you go from thinking about death to thinking about making plans for your death.  We are at some Middle-eastern restaurant where the owner knows my Mom. They jabber back and forth in Arabic and then I am introduced to the owner.  We order water and falafel and are eating pita and hummus and talking.

“I want you to be responsible for enforcing the DNR if I should ever get to that point,” she says between bites.  There is a slight pause then, smiling she says, “Of course, I’m going to live forever, so I don’t know why we are even talking about this.”

I nod in agreement and say “Why waste your time with these plans when you have immortality watching your back?”

She laughs, and then switches back to her original topic.

“Being kept alive by machines, that’s not living,” she says.

“I agree,” I say, forcing an entire piece of pita into my mouth.  “I mean, if you’re on a machine, do I have to come by everyday and drop a quarter in it to keep you alive? I don’t have that kind of time.  When the time comes, I’ll kick that plug right out of the wall.”  I give her a big smile, drooling hummus down my face.

Then she gives me the smile.  Sometimes a smile is just a smile.  Sometimes a smile is less than a smile.  This time the smile says, “I love you.  You’re crazy.  You’re my beautiful boy.  Do you even know how much I love you?”

Big smirk from my Mom, then, “Don’t get so excited about pulling my plug just yet, okay?”

I’m not excited, I tell her, I just don’t want her to linger.

“Well, I’m healthy and I plan on living a long time.”

“Good,” I say, “ but if it comes down to it, I can always put two in the back of your head, stuff you in the trunk of your car and abandon your car at the long term parking at the airport.”

“That’s nice,” she says, smiling sweetly “but why don’t you just pull the plug if and when the time comes?”

I shrug, reaching for my water glass, “Sure, whatever you want, Mom.  It’s just like Norman said “A boy’s best friend is his Mother.”

“Okay, enough of that talk,” she said, waving her hands to clear the air of anything bad, like only a mother could do.  “Let’s have some lunch.”

Now it is time to eat.