To Utter Nothingness

Dave spends days looking after me, and even when I throw into convulsions and frothing, he handles me expressionlessly. When I tiredly pass out and shut my eyes, I could hear him crying. I try to say Thank You, but it comes out as weak groans. My throat is ballooning again and trying to choke me from the inside out.

Words, from deep within my bowels, swirl around my collarbone and swell there, like sacs of larvae wriggling, waiting to hatch:

O if I am to have so much, let me have more!

A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all,

Jump!

No, that’s not it. That word’s not in there, I tell myself. I know that poem by heart, no matter how long it is—I know that word isn’t in there! But I keep hearing it anyway.

-

Days pass and I have a better hold on myself now. I no longer break into chills or shout at furniture, but I still feel afraid of myself. I haven’t looked into a mirror since.

Dave hopes I’m okay; he has to reapply for his job—but don’t worry, he says, his boss will take him back. He doesn’t want to ask his father for anymore money—he promises to take flexible hours, he says. He hands me his little cell phone and tells me to call him at work if I need him—the number’s one of the contact, he says, under “STARBUCKS.” Don’t worry, he holds my shoulder. He’ll take care of me until I’m okay to work again. He’ll bring me home some taquitos, he says as he steps out the door and the screen closes behind him. Through cross-hatches, he says there’s food in the fridge.

And he’s gone.

Zack, Jump! Jump, Zack! Fly far!

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

-

“I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men at anguish with themselves, remorseful after deeds done,” I lip sync as I follow along in my own copy of the collection.

“… dying, neglected, gaunt, desperate…”

Three-Piece is One-Piece, now.

“… All these—all the meanness and agony without end I sitting look out upon…”

He no longer has a coat or a vest—they were given away to the homeless black guy who used them to “get employed” again. The homeless black guy has enough money to get a new suit, but he insists on dry-cleaning the Prince’s and wearing it day in and day out. He now looks like a producer and talks like one. He places an arm around me and smells rich, with a cologne that tickles my nostrils.

The Prince of Tincan notices I’m back, but doesn’t say anything. He drinks water. Some of it trickles through his new beard. His shirt is partially unbuttoned to allow sunlight and air in. The crowd is big, even in daylight. Oprah had come, the black man tells me. She had tried to interview the Prince without success. He read on national television instead. Housewives and gay men now take a pilgrimage to Echo Park to listen to his reads and stare at his unwavering eyes. Some cry, some hug their sons and daughters as if they’ve acquired some new appreciation for Life. The homeless know better as they sit beside the Prince, each looking a little better. Clean, well-fed. One sells drinks, another collects the empty cans and bottles. Instead of cups, there are boxes filled with money.

I look and see the black man under the tree. He still sits darkly and alone with his bright and accusing stare.

I spend my days here recuperating and filling my head with ideas. Here at the park where the people come and go. I wait for the nighttime, where the sun hangs so low it might just drop off the face of the earth and never return. I say Hello to the Prince, and I know, like the first time I greeted him since I came back, he will not greet me in return. He refuses to speak to me, and instead, he goes back to his car and shuts the door.

I come home to Dave, and he greets me. I say nothing. He holds up a booklet and asks if I want to go back to school at the local college, night after night.

“I’m not saying you need it, but I’m willing to just go to work while you spend time there.”

“I’m fine.”

He looks at me, and instead of trying to read my thoughts, he places the booklet back on the coffee table. “I was just thinking… you said you really liked art, and right now I don’t have money to send you to Rome or Paris, but...”

“I lied,” I said.

“Put on a sweater, Zack.” He sighs patiently. “It’s getting cold.”

Dave makes a meal, and it always tastes good, and even when my throat feels lumpy, it opens up to let the food in, and closes before any words could come out. He doesn’t try to touch me. He tucks me in, and even smoothes my hair, and he flicks off the light and retires into the living room.

Some nights I climb out of bed. My throat always closes before I could thank him, and so I try to give him pieces of myself instead. He won’t take them anymore without crying a little or telling me I need sleep. I don’t understand, and sometimes I get frustrated, and so does he. I resist the urge to yell at him for throwing away my only friends because I know my thoughts are foolish. He hugs me until I sleep, and he disappears at morning and leaves me to pace around the house, feeling regretful and sorry for myself.

-

Days pass this way, but I don’t give up. On an evening with a full moon, I greet the Prince.

And, he turns to me as if he means to say something. He turns and instead he walks toward his car.

As I am ready to walk away, I hear:

“Will you—”

I stop.

“Will you take over for me when I’m gone?”

“What? Where are you going?” I feel betrayed.

“You’re my only student,” he insists.

Jump! Fly away!

“I can’t,” I say. I straighten to let him know I’m serious.

The Prince of Tincan regards me with a benevolent smile. “I guess you will always be your own person. Now I understand.”

The laughter of departing West Hollywood freaks floats toward us.

“I’m… finally glad to know after all these years that I really haven’t failed you or any of the others.” He runs his hands through his hair and drops his book. He picks it up.

I frown. Of all the things in this world…

“We’ve just wanted you to acknowledge the paths we’ve chosen—they might not be anywhere as altruistic as yours, but we’ve been in existence and living before you came and put ideas in our heads.”

“I understand,” he says. It’s the last thing he says to me before he flies away in his white Celica, up the moon-spilled road.

For the first time in a long time, I feel happy enough to let go, and so I do.

Jump! Fly, Zack!

The hands that had been wrapped around my ankles for years shrivel back into the grass. I’m cut loose. Stars explode into existence and fill a black sky and keep the moon company. Smog rifts apart.

I float high and I float far. I hug my collection close to my heart and allow the words to pull me higher. My hair gets tangled in the branches of treetops. I spin and free myself and float higher.

From here, I can see my house. Dave is pulling up in the driveway with a bag of ingredients; he was going to make lasagna today. I smile as I rise higher and see Downtown Dirty. I see my mom wandering along Hill Street by herself: she was never too far from home, I realize. I laugh joyfully. Higher, higher—so high I could see my father’s house in Palm Dale, his new son and daughter. I see them run into Gretchen’s arms. I feel the wind cool my clothing and dry my sweat as I blow straight through layers of clouds. My heart is no longer caught in my ribcage.

It flies out of my mouth and bobs and flutters like red butterflies all around me. I outstretch my arms and falter. The sky catches me.

I zoom past the white Celica even as it launches itself into the night.

Nice people don’t understand how the world works, I say to myself as I drop my purse; Dave’s cell phone, rosaries, an empty wallet with only one picture in it pour out and trickle back to earth and spiral endlessly as I ascend higher.

Hast never come to thee an hour,
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these
bubbles, fashions, wealth?
These eager business arms—books, politics, art, amours,
To utter nothingness?

Yes! Yes, of course! Who hasn’t, dear Prince?

And no, no of course not! I can’t have the world relying on me to fulfill some sort of purpose—or else I can’t jump and fly where I please!

---

End.

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Author’s Note: I would apologize, but that would be pretty insincere.