Thin Yellow Line

                                                  Thin Yellow Line
     


A pounding fist, followed by the sound of metal thrusting, jabbing, inserting and twisting the diminutive tear that unbolts the door incites me; demanding my full attention.  In a frantic, shameful stance I challenge her; thrusting myself against the barricade that shrouds the self-destructed wreckage seething here, just outside her reach.  “Don’t come in,” I shout, “There’s nothing for you here.  You cannot help me anymore!” 

She stands alone; a desperate, blindly determined mother.  Her mind does not record my screams, and yet impulsively senses the urgency; as she aims her pitch at the horrific devastation that lies behind this door.  Leave now, turn, walk, run back; everybody go back, back to a place where life was livable, breathable, back to a time when I was tolerant of my inner ache.  A lifetime of living and all is changed in one swift, thoughtless act.  Surely this can be revised.  It was too explosive, too compulsive to count. 

I do not know much at this stage but I know I cannot stop her.  It’s not just my lack of physical power, her sheer determination overpowers me.  If I could somehow will the key to break she’d find another, and then another.  And if there were none, she’d wildly whack away at any and all resistance, forcefully creating a sizeable gap for her to enter.  But she has no idea what is on the other side.  It is unimaginable to her.  I am the last remaining obstacle keeping her from the pain of this tumultuous, distorted world.

Who could have guessed it would have turned out this way, certainly not me; death by my own hand at the age of twenty-three.  Somehow I went from alive to lifeless in one, fucked up flash. 

I never understood what was going on inside of my head.  I knew I was insecure.  I hated the fact that I was short. What I lacked in size, I made up for in determination.  But determination only gets you so far.  Things would have been so different if only I’d grown six more inches.  At five feet six, no one took me seriously.  I hated my hair, my stringy flat hair.  I hated my face.  It always made me look fat, even when my extended ribs told me something different.  I never liked being anywhere new or going to parties where there were people I didn’t know.  And I hated being alone, especially at night.  Sometimes I couldn’t eat. The smell of food repulsed me.  There were times when all I wanted to do was sleep, then wake exhausted with no ambition or energy to take care of even the simplest task. 

But there were good days too, days when I knew I could achieve anything.  It was those days that I would rewrite my goals, promising to push myself harder than I ever had before.  I’d be so charged that I’d spend my nights writing feverishly, and reading everything from Nietzsche to Tolstoy.  It was hard to get to sleep on those nights.  That’s when smoking helped.  Pot, cigarettes, mushrooms; I loved to smoke.  It must have been some sort of oral fixation.  I was never much of a drinker; my fathers’ excessive, self destructive alcohol abuse was enough to turn me away.  Oh sure, I knew he loved me but he loved his booze too.  He never considered how scared I was driving home together from some seedy bar that he would call a restaurant.  I’d stair at the double yellow line hoping he wouldn’t cross it, praying we’d make it home in one piece. 

I didn’t mind visiting my father in rehab, never felt ashamed or embarrassed, but I knew nothing would ever make him stop.  He never believed he had a problem.  His father died when he was two. His best friend accidentally shot him in the arm.  It was superficial, but both were too drunk to deal with it and so he bled to death, leaving his wife to raise five boys on her own.  No one blamed her when her nervous breakdown hit.  Who could put up with that much bullshit.  But my father never saw the parallels between him and his father, never took an honest look in the mirror.

I was eight years old when Dad and I set out on a two day drive to Orlando, Florida.  The plan was to pick up Grammy from the nursing home outside of Washington D.C. and drive to a hotel in the heart of Disney World.  We would spend our days at the theme park and evenings visiting my father’s brothers who were uniting at Uncle Gary’s house for the first time in over twenty years.  Two of my uncles, whom I had never met, were traveling from Hawaii.  Grammy was suffering from the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s, and although she could recognize her sons, we all knew her memory would not last long.  By the time we check into the hotel, Dad’s thirst got the best of him.  Leaving Grammy and I to fend for ourselves, he hastily took off in search of a six-pack of cold beer.  He returned three days later.  Somewhere between the package store and the hotel he found a bar.  I discovered the police report Dad had hidden from us under the driver’s front seat of the rental car.  It said that his blood alcohol count was three times higher than the legal limit. Dad spent his vacation behind bars and I spend mine holding my senile grandmother hostage, double bolted inside our room, too terrified to leave. 

I remember thinking, what if he crossed that yellow line?  We never made it to the reunion; Dad was too embarrassed to tell them what had happened.  Instead he told them our car had broken down just outside of West Virginia, and we had no choice but to turn around and head home. 

Secretly, I feared I would let them all down.  My parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches and teammates; everyone was counting on me.  They counted on me to excel both academically and athletically.  I was multi-gifted, or so they said.  I never felt it.  Somewhere along the ride the roller coaster stopped.  I dropped out of school, twisted my lily white-boy hair into dreadlocks and hitched cross country.  I began medicating heavily, hoping it would ease the ache their disappointing thoughts caused me.  Years later, when life got too dark to deal with, I put my tail between my legs and headed home.  It was hard coming home knowing I’d accomplished nothing.  I was a far cry from the screenwriter/entrepreneur I’d set out to be.  At twenty-one I was washed out, but I was not mad.  Not psychotic or delusional, and I would never think of harming anyone, not even myself.  I had moments of hopelessness just like anyone else, but I never took myself seriously. 

Okay, I had some oddities, some eccentricities that set me apart from the norm.  For one, I collected anything that related to the number 27.  New York Times articles from the 27th of any given month were especially important to me.  Vigilantly, I cataloged them in a green duffel bag that once belonged to Mary, which I kept on the backseat of my car.  There were more articles under my bed, inside unlabeled boxes in my basement, and scattered throughout my attic.  I also collected music from artists whose life ended tragically at the age of 27; Cobain, Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix. For pure pleasure, I would write poetry that consisted of 27 words.   


                                      -  Page 1 of the Rosin Erection  -


Way down from the gullies goes the ladder

  1      2      3    4      5        6    7      8



From the fallen to the rising rosin erection

  9    10    11  12  13  14    15        16



A cool moon laid on cornflakes,

17 18    19    20  21      22



Caulked blue bottles of gin

23        24    25    26  27                                             



And strong goes the way of their vagabond bellies

1      2        3    4    5    6    7      8            9



Hungered, driving weightless and mad

    10          11        12        13  14



Over cotton streets in dreams like children hunting morphine,

  15      16      17  18    19    20    21        22          23



The blur that binds

24    25  26    27



-        Page 2    -

You remember the blur, the way it hung from the grass in little beads

1        2          3    4    5    6  7    8      9    10    11 12  13    14



And the sound it made when you rubbed its juice on your lips

15  16    17  18  19      20    21    22  23  24  25  26    27



In the morning it seemed to shine on the sun drops

1  2      3      4    5        6    7    8  9    10    11



Coming out through her pink breasts, strung out on

  12    13      14      15  16      17        18  19  20


A gypsy web of dawn’s soft slaughtering

21  22    23  24  25      26          27

   

I met Mary on the 27th, my high school baseball uniform number was 27, it was May 27th when I ended my life.

Shortly after returning home, I decided to take an active roll in the family businesses.  I would breathe new, untarnished air into it.  God knows my mother couldn’t handle it on her own.  Grandpa’s health had deteriorated considerably since I left. He was now more of a hindrance then a help.  I’d turn this business around, that’s for sure.  That was my plan. 

For the first time in my life, I was productive.  By the end of my first year the company went from red to green, showing an $81,000 profit.  Now that’s what I call kicking ass!  I was expecting one third of that as my bonus ($27,000) and I knew just what I was going to do with it.  First, Mary and I would take a well deserved two week vacation to Bora Bora, then deposits on the following:                   

Mercedes CLK AMG (Kerry)                        $65k 

Land Rover Discovery (Mary)                      $45k

Cartier custom diamond ring (Mary)            $48k

Town House – 1 year                                  $50k

Furnishings for Townhouse                        $40k                           


This would be the beginning of better days; a rich, successful life.  Mary and I would marry and everything would be as I had planned.  Once we’re official, and the moneys rolling in, we would expand on our family; give Jackson brothers and sisters to play with. Will, Saylor, Isabelle, Hunter; I’ve had names picked out for as long as I can remember.  They will all be beautiful, like Mary, and smart too and if anyone looks as though they might be short, we’ll inject them with hormones so they grow to be a normal size.  This is no laughing matter, its true and it really works.  I knew this stumpy kid in school; he was two inches shorter than me until they started giving him regular injections of some sort of hormone.  By the time they were done, he was six feet two.  No shit, this is the truth (write that down before you forget Kerry - find out the name of that drug that makes you grow).  I made post it notes all the time.  Three-by-three and five-by-three yellow squares, visual reminders that I never toss away.

Had I known I was capable of taking my life, I would have had myself committed.  I knew I had an explosive temper.  A rage would build inside of me; sometimes lasting for hours or even days, and then it would implode. I’d run, drive away, verbally ripping myself apart.  Then I’d get stoned.  It was then that things made sense. 

I’d write everything out in my journals.  Not about the incident itself, which was way too fucking depressing, but skewed fables of folk’s twisted debaucheries.  I have hundreds of these dysfunctional, grossly disturbing, half-finished stories stored in the trunk that was meant to accompany me to college, had I managed to fill out my paperwork and followed through as I had intended.  Now this trunk doubles as my living room coffee table.  I used this very same table the

night I ingested the pills that ended my life. I laid them all out, took my pocket knife and crushed them, mixed them in my half gallon plastic ice tea container, and chugged away.  No one questioned me when I bought the sleeping pills, no one wondered why a twenty-three year old, seemingly normal guy, would want to purchase three packs of Nyquil.  I even called out to the overweight, acne ridden cashier, “keep the change” as I turned and slowly walked out the door.  Driving away I focused on my rearview mirror, thinking for sure someone would follow me.  Acne girl would call the cops and they’d come roaring up behind me, pull me over and question me on the purpose of possessing ninety sleeping pills.  They would know I was up to no good. 

If only someone could have stopped me. 

I know my mother will blame herself.  She will remember the last words she said to me, “Get your act together,” convinced it was the diminutive straw that broke my spirit.  Her clouded, perfect image of me distorts the truth of my pain; but I too played a major part in this ruse.  I’ve always known what to say to make her, and everyone else, to convince them I was genuinely happy.  I use to think it was one of my many so called ‘gifts’ but the truth is, it was a curse. 

She does not remember our deal.  It was always understood that, should she get to a point in her life where she became a royal pain in the ass, if she somehow lost her mind or her lust for life; then we would once again go skydiving, only this time I’d make sure her shoot did not engage.  Just as the Eskimos set their elders on a one way sail, I would put her out of her misery; help her cross the thin yellow line that sets her free.  It’s just like we talked about Ma, only the roles have changed. Your disappointing eyes launched me from that plane, gave me the strength to end my life.  But you did not cause my pain. 

My Death will hit her harder than anything she could possibly imagine and I know now, now that I am separated from earthy living, that she had spent many lifeless days imagining the most horrible outcome of any given circumstance.  From her teens to her forty’s, she lives in a constant state of “what ifs?” Bracing herself for the worst possible crisis.  It was the only way she knew to survive.  Nothing can prepare her for what lies ahead  The death of her child. 

I understand that she needs to be the one who finds me.  She will pass and bare the burden of telling the world I am gone, that I am dead, cold gray dead.  My skin’s lack of luminosity is the first thing she sees.  The first thing that hits her, haunts her, forever. 

Despite all my efforts, my hopelessly inadequate efforts, she has crossed the threshold.  Death darkens her, forcing her to breathe it in.  I am a gravedigger.  Shallowly I dug my grave. 

You came too late.  Stretched out for the entire world to witness is a force much greater than me.  A long yellow strip of caution frames the now overcrowded crime scene, preventing the unauthorized world from getting near; robbing them of their final glance, their last chance at a kiss, a hug, a stroke of my hair.

Her raw, devastating screams pound me, puncturing my heart.  I too am screaming, but my cry has no sound.  Gasping for air, I am unable to fill my lungs. A pulsating, balmy glow fills the air, blinding me and I buckle in the breadth of emptiness. 

I remain in a slumbered state for the next few days, recoiled from the slinging sorrow that unfolds.  I can not bear to watch Mary as she discovers that her life no longer includes me.  I have selfishly transformed her into a mother of a fatherless child.  Mary my love, my faith, I promised to love and protect you all the days of your life.  And my son, my beautiful son, you will not remember me and yet, you will know there is something missing; a scruffy late afternoon beard, two masculine arms tossing you in the air, twirling you like a child’s hand propelled top, spinning out of control.  He will look for male guidance in the years to come and although I know I will always be near, I can not help him, teach him the difference between good and evil, right or wrong.

I awake to find that Death has not distanced me.  There are no long, slippery tunnels to travel, no fluffy white clouds to ride; and to my relief, I am not forever damned to some hellacious cavern or fiery pit.  I am here with all of you but I am no longer focused in my physical self.  There is a sense of familiarity and naturalness in this state; as though I had known Death all along, in my dreams, but my wakened senses hid it from me.

Death has not transformed me.  I have not sprouted wings or changed species; I see no glowing aura, no halo; and I am NOT by any stretch of the imagination, spiritually pure or wise.  My fears, my distastes, my naïveté remains.  I must continue to stumble and grow just as I did on earth. 

Death has not detained me.  No longer am I bound by my physical body, I come and go as I please.  Death is that ‘happy place’ you visited in life when things become too extreme; a practiced, deliberate, internal trip you take.  Eyes closed you turn your focus inward, taking deep long breaths and imagine the sight, sound and touch of a calm soothing moment.  It is that mindful, minds eye, meditative state that I reach only now, it is, for me, real.  All my thoughts and ideas are real; tangible, transformed images that I experience by way of my will and desire. 

The light is so clean here, its pure iridescence surrounds me, penetrates me.  Everything I see and touch is bathed and seeded in this light.  It’s delicate, radiant rhythm excites me; forcing me to feel more alive than I ever had before.

This new world is full of color, some I have never seen and cannot describe or reference.  This starry world overflows with radiant hues that pop and dance with the wildest expression.  Colors so dazzling that when touched, tasted or simply adored, compel me to experience profound emotions.  Their shades communicate truthful qualities and these qualities are expressed perfectly in color.  Mother, you would be thrilled to create from such a superior pallet; your astonished eyes witness to brush strokes bursting with high spirited freedom.  The opportunities here are endless.  I can see all things from all sides, simultaneously.  Distance no longer reduces objects or makes them appear as though they are moving at a slower speed.  This is a phenomenon known in Death as parallax.  It is a lot to absorb and I am overwhelmed and mystified by its freshness, but there is much to learn in death and I have just begun my journey.

I lay in fresh shade from tall, golden stocks of smooth flowing wheat; their sway quickened by the afternoon breeze. The sky is a crisp, searing blue and from a distance I can smell my childhood favorite, butter sweet cookies.  The aroma comforts me and I allow myself to breath in the simplicity of the moment.  Deep, open mouth inhalations bring the flavor of lightly sprinkled, virgin white sugar to the tip of my salivating tongue.  Clutching my teeth, I am delighted by the familiar crunch of a thinly rolled Santa shaped cookie; the edges burnt a velvety, subtle brown. 

I awake to my mothers’ desperate call, channeling me from death as she did from birth.  There she sits, my open urn resting on her lap.  Her prayer and pain is intense, her tears are heavy, spewing from her cheeks into my ash.  Without warning, she picks a small gray bone from my remains, and impulsively puts it inside her mouth.  Not only do I see this, but Mark, her husband, is also witness.  With a look that longs for approval, she swallows hard. “I need a piece of him inside me,” she cries.  He understands, we both understand. 

I am grateful to learn that the bond shared between mother and child is truly eternal.  She will tell the world that I have lived, remind them all of the good I had inside.  She will read my stories, my poems, and my scatterings of notes; out loud.  She will find a way to make them listen.  She will defend me, and continue to remember me, tenderly, all the days of her life.  And for this I have hope.