Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  A little girl, further down the line, almost falls off the platform but ducks down and crawls between people’s legs back into the crowd. Don't get trampled, kid! Be careful!

  Dad's boxes get in the way. He loses his balance.

  Mom catches his arm.

  I grab Mom’s coat sleeve, and the outer purple fabric rips as Dad pulls her off the platform with him. Oh, God!

  A few feet below me, among bags and packages, my parents scramble to get up before the train comes.

  Dad’s face scrunches up in pain. He must have injured his leg when he landed on the metal rail.

  I crouch down and reach out my hand.

  Mom tries to get to me and falls forward over her shopping bags.

  “Mom!” They just need to take my hand so I can pull them up. “Hurry!”

  The cops safely wrestle away the gun. I learn about this later. They don't have to tase Santa or anything. After that single shot into the ceiling, he goes quietly.

  But the damage has already been done.

  Mom reaches up from the tracks, our hands inches apart.

  The train screams by and speckles my face with something wet. I stare at the passing blur as I try to process what just happened. She was right there. . .

  The tip of my finger glances off the side of the train as it slows, and I pull back my hand. People on the platform are still screaming, or maybe that’s the sound of the train.

  I clutch the scrap of my mom’s purple coat sleeve.

  The doors slide open. The passengers are confused and unsure about exiting the car. A stylish, black woman wearing pink headphones stares at me, and her expression turns to one of horror.

  I touch my cheek. My hand comes away with blood on my fingertips.

  I fail to process.

  My fingers are cold. Not just my fingers. Every part of me is frozen. This is what shock feels like. This is me alone in winter. My college sweatshirt transitions into a black suit which used to fit. My tie suffocates me. My sick, hollow stomach protrudes. I'm in a graveyard now, only two hours outside the city but forever away from where I want to be. This is my foster parents’ hometown. This is the end of me.

  Snow has blanketed the world.

  Underneath naked trees, MOURNERS in black--mostly Foster Mom and Foster Dad's extended family--stand before two coffins and a priest. I confuse these people’s dark forms with the tombstones and the trees and the shadows.

  It all proceeds, one event leading into another, without my input. There’s too much momentum for it to stop.

  Like the subway train, I guess.

  My two friends, SHIRIN ROSTAMI and MINDY KING, are here too. They tried to console me a few minutes ago, but I don’t remember what they said.

  Mindy is an obese college freshman, more Shirin's friend than mine. She has always been polite. She said something about being sorry for my loss. She's more involved in the funeral than I am and sings “Amazing Grace” with real talent. It's nice of her.

  The fact that everyone wants to be nice and helpful and caring and fix me so that I'm not broken only makes me feel worse, not because I'm sad, but because I don't feel any of this morbid tableau. The production designer needs to tone it down. The mourners. The coffins. The naked trees. The whole thing feels staged and ridiculous.

  Shirin wears a black hijab headscarf. Her grief next to mine makes me feel inadequate. She heaves and overflows with pure sorrow. They were my foster parents, not hers. She came over for dinner countless times, but she hardly knew them. She didn’t fight with them for months on end. They loved me, and it's as if I don't care. They loved me enough not to try and fix me. When I pushed them away, they knew that I was doing it because I was afraid. They saw me. What did I ever do for them?

  In my hand, the fabric of Mom's purple sleeve frays and comes apart in weightless fibers. A purple thread clings to my pant leg. Other threads are here and there in the snow. Soon there will be nothing left for me to hold.

  1.3

  “New classes, new year. #FYRE”

  My first real film will be dedicated to Foster Mom and Dad’s memory. I missed the filming of the short because I was attending their funeral, but there will be other projects.

  “Thanks for all the support you guys. I’m doing okay. #FYRE”

  Before long I’m sitting with a financial aid COUNSELOR. She has a neck waddle, transparent-framed glasses with a chain, and hair in a mess of folds and twists and hair clips. There are motivational posters behind her. One with a kitten reads, “Hang in there!”

  The counselor glances over my paperwork and shakes her head. Bad news all around. I can’t afford any of this. The last two checks bounced.

  The Kitten poster reminds me of Blake Snyder’s SAVE THE CAT! The Last Book on Screenwriting That You’ll Ever Need, which has a cover with a similar image. I hope the kitten falls to its death. This hope is not born out of maliciousness, but sympathy. What's the point of hanging in there if no one's going to save you? The little fucker can only hang on for so long.

  Suicide invades my brain because of that damn kitten poster. Just drop already. I’m resilient, I’ve been through hell growing up, but hearing that the future I’ve pictured for myself isn’t a real possibility is like getting my kneecaps blown off. I want control back, even if I have to go to extremes of offing myself.

  I try to return my books. I’m a day too late. They're practically worthless now.

  “Fuck you. #FYRE”

  I throw my books on film terminology and screenwriting into the trash.

  Shirin tells me, “Not all filmmakers go to film school.”

  The residence hall and the people inside are just a memory. I’m out of the city, out of my life, out of my mind.

  “Total shock. Foster Mom and Dad’s house has been in foreclosure. Massive debt. Will stay as long as I can. Nowhere else to go. #FYRE”

  “I hide whenever anyone knocks on the door. #FYRE”

  “There’s a landline that I never answer. It stopped ringing when the phone company disconnected the service. #FYRE”

  “Walked to the store to buy essentials, paranoid someone from high school might recognize me. #FYRE”

  “I stack the mail by the door. It’s junk, or overdue bills, or Foster Dad’s charities begging for more handouts. #FYRE”

  For a month, nothing happens in the house. I don't do anything. I don't even feel bad about not doing anything. I just feel gone away.

  “I’m a ghost. I haunt these rooms. #FYRE”

  “These rooms are wide and empty like gaping mouths. #FYRE”

  My college friends block my depressing #FYRE tweets.

  Eventually, I sell stuff on Craigslist to avoid getting a job. The TVs go first. The cable was shut off a long time ago anyway.

  Shirin got over Foster Mom and Foster Dad in about a week. Part of me thinks her getting better is a betrayal. Sadness is something you go through. Grief is a concrete slab that pins you down. It doesn’t just disappear. Grief takes a black marker to any idea of hope. It crosses off anything that once made you happy. The ink is permanent. It stains every part of your day. Grief guts you like a fish over and over again, and you sink away from the light to the bottom of a cold, indifferent ocean. It cannot be comforted or understood, and it doesn't like company.

  Shirin visits. I tolerate her because she loves me and is just trying to help. Sometimes I can fake being numb, and sometimes I sob until she leaves and I can pull myself back together.

  People come to the house to buy Mom and Dad’s shit. They try to haggle, or worse, make small talk. I tell them, “Take it or leave it.”

  The repo van arrives and then the only thing I can say is, “Fine. Take it.”

  The house is emptied out, yet still full of worthless junk.

  1.4

  Spring arrives, and Shirin stands with me in the graveyard. Once again, I look at the place with the eye of a location scout. The trees have sprouted a billion buds in this one cemetery alone. Things will get better. I'
ve grieved, and time heals all wounds, as they say. Shirin sets a bouquet of daffodils on my foster parents' gravestone. Noticing the yellow of the flowers feels like an accomplishment.

  My weight loss has been dramatic. Foster Mom and Foster Dad would be proud if I didn't do it by starving myself. And if they weren’t dead.

  “I moved out of the dorms,” Shirin says.

  “Could we not talk?” I don't mean to be harsh. I just want silence so I can take in the moment. Now is when things get better. The trees are coming back to life. I can't take this grief anymore. It hurts too much. I’m getting better.

  “I should be studying for my midterms,” she says.

  “Then go.”

  “This is the last time we're doing this.”

  “See you around.”

  “Eric.”

  I stare at the graves. I long for Shirin to hold me, tight, like a bear-hug. She doesn't. And I hate her for it.

  “Our new apartment has a spare room. Mindy said it would be okay if you moved in. It doesn't have a closet, but you could make it work. You can’t keep squatting in that house. You’re going to get arrested.”

  I don't want her pity. I don't need her to hold me; I'll get better on my own. Spring is about rebirth and new beginnings. This is when I get better. I'll get better by fighting through this pain.

  I’ll eat salads. I don’t have a refrigerator anymore, so I’m not sure how that will work. The repo men left the bread machine. Maybe I'll make bread like Foster Mom used to do when she was feeling domestic.

  “We'll be gone most of the time, but I'm sure you'll find a job right away. Maybe you'll even make some new friends. It's not good for you to be alone all the time.”

  1.5

  I move into Shirin and Mindy's apartment. Not only does my “bedroom” not have a closet, it is a closet. No windows. A naked light bulb. The bottom drawer of my dresser can't open because it's up against my mattress. To film in here, I’d have to take out a wall. I try to look on the bright side. There isn’t one.

  Why did I come back to the city? Haven’t I learned my lesson? It was only six months ago I moved into the residence hall, and I long for that feeling of endless possibility I felt back then. Foster Mom and Dad were so proud. I was going to be a filmmaker. A resurgence of grief wells up and I hold back tears. What did I expect? My dreams died in this city. I should run, as far as I can. Instead, I’ve come back to the scene of the crime.

  Cheer the fuck up! If I'm going to get better, I at least have to pretend to be better. Fake it, until you make it.

  Mindy stands at my door. “Need any help?”

  I shake my head “no” and set down a box on my bed. There’s literally no other place to put it.

  “I have something for you.” Mindy pulls a hideously adorable TEDDY BEAR out from behind her back. It has blue fur. It’s the perfect prop to illustrate my inner state to the audience. We will be sad bears together. “I know the room isn’t much, but you’ll hardly ever be in here. You have the whole city. Tonight is usually pizza night, but Shirin has her internship this term. You can keep me company. We’ll watch some trashy TV. You like cheese and pineapple?”

  I muster a smile. I can hardly taste anything anymore, so it doesn’t matter.

  1.6

  From under the covers, I listen to Shirin and Mindy get on with their lives. Their footsteps are distinct from one another. The floorboards creak more under Mindy’s weight. The two of them always seem to be getting ready for school or coming home from school. They have a reason to get up in the morning.

  My savings, from selling Foster Mom and Dad’s stuff, finally dries up. I'm forced to go out and get a barista job to pay rent. I’m hired on the spot at a Mermaid Coffee Co. in the heart of the city. While at work, I often stare off into space. A Goth girl tries to befriend me, and my manager assumes I'm some kind of aloof artist. The caffeine loses its effectiveness the second week, and I'm once again tired all the time. Everyone else in the city enjoys the warmer weather as summer approaches. It just makes me more irritable, like my skin is shrinking and needs to be turned in for a refitting. At least my new job passes the time. One thing mindless routine has going for it is that it makes life endurable.

  1.7

  Ah, summer love. Shirin and I awkwardly French kiss in front of my foster parents' grave. Her religious beliefs have relaxed, and she has decided to kiss a boy for the first time. My lips, or hers, always seem too tense or too relaxed. Connecting with another person should help me shake off this depression. Should I put more passion into the kiss or act more playful? I wish she’d give me some direction. I’m floundering here. What’s my motivation?

  “I've been grieving an idea,” I say. “We were never a family. They wanted to adopt me, but only after I became an adult.”

  She leans in to kiss me some more, but I keep talking.

  “And I was never a filmmaker. I took a few classes, that's all. I probably saved myself the embarrassment of failing. It takes real talent and connections to be a filmmaker, and I don't have either.”

  As we kiss some more, my mind drifts. We’ll get married. She said that while she pursues business finance, she’d be happy to support me while I find a new passion.

  I take her hand and move it to the bulge in my slacks.

  She jerks away.

  “Eric!”

  “What?”

  “We’re in public.”

  I make a show of looking around. “There’s no one here.”

  “We’re in front of your parents’ grave.”

  “Foster parents.”

  We don’t talk all the way back to the apartment.

  I go to my room, and she goes to hers.

  I try to share her interests, I really do, but she can tell I don’t care one way or the other about anything anymore. It’s not personal.

  The tropical poster hangs on the wall in my room. Sometimes I imagine myself there in paradise: the warmth of the sun, the sand under my feet. I can smell the salty air. Maybe death is an endless tropical vacation.

  Probably not.

  Not surprisingly, Shirin and I don't last, and living with her becomes a hell of silent treatments and hateful glances. Mindy sides with Shirin on everything.

  In our apartment, Shirin goes without her headscarf for the first time, even though an inebriated Mindy has brought over a group of fraternity brothers. Shirin doesn’t drink but socializes as if she’s having the time of her life. She gets more attention because she’s thinner than Mindy. I thought Shirin hated parties, and fraternity brothers, and being around drunk people. One of her foster dads was an alcoholic.

  She makes out with a drunk douchebag in front of everyone. I don't know her at all.

  The party rages on in the other room, while I chug whiskey alone with my teddy bear in my closet-bedroom. I hate Shirin so fucking much! Doesn't she know I still love her?!

  In the bathroom, I push a fraternity brother snorting coke out of the way and vomit straight whiskey into the toilet. It comes out with a surprising amount of force, like out of a firehose. No one would believe this in a movie. They’d think it was a visual gag. Dry heaves rack my abdomen. Raw stomach acid burns my throat and nasal passage. The dry heaves continue as if my body wants to heave up my guts. I just want it to stop. Please, please be over.

  I ball up beside the toilet and guys step past me to relieve themselves. I groan on the floor, listening to them piss.

  Hello, rock bottom.

  1.8

  In the fall (maybe I should have title cards for each of these seasons), I’m stone sober and ALONE at my foster parents' graves. (No, the visual cues give the seasons away. There was the snow. Then the budding trees. Then the full green canopy. Now the leaves are dying.) These habitual visits don’t comfort me; they just use up my days off. Feeling healthy is a distant memory. I'm always tired, can't eat, and the only time I leave the apartment is to come here or to go to work. The rest of the time, I’m in my room, stewing, crushing my teddy b
ear in my arms, and wishing Mindy and Shirin still loved me.

  I don't have money to go to a doctor. Would antidepressants fix this? It seems unlikely. My two best friends won't even look at me anymore. I've been waiting for any sign that they still care. Anything. A smile. A kind word. Some acknowledgment that they understand I'm in pain. But I think they wish I were dead.

  Everyone needs connections. If we don't have connections, we die.

  I research ways to kill myself, just to be practical.

  I find a bottle of Seconal in our medicine cabinet. Seconal should do the job just fine. Famous people have died from Seconal. If it’s good enough for famous people, it’s good enough for me.

  Maybe Mindy and Shirin put the bottle in the cabinet so that I would off myself and no longer be a burden.

  Rock bottom three months ago was just me hitting a rock on the way down.

  1.9

  An angel prays

  With closed eyes and knitted fingers

  Snow dusts the graveyard ground

  A frozen moth

  Silently, I move

  Among the stones

  Cracked wings flitting

  Bare feet leave black prints

  Black prints well with grief

  Grief clings

  Frost on naked trees

  On marble

  Here I lay

  My chest shrinking around a center

  And pressing

  Pressing until my heart bleeds

  All its soured juices

  Around me the graveyard FADES. No longer do I lie on my foster parent’s gravestone. I'm on my bed. No poetry here, only unrelenting reality in my bedroom as I study the pill bottle, the picture of my foster parents on the bedspread beside me.

  It would’ve been rash to off myself right after their death, or when I found out film school wasn’t an option, or when I broke up with Shirin, or when my two best friends ostracized me. I have tried to live. I’m no good at it. Not one person would miss me.

  I pour the contents of the bottle into my hand and whisper to the pills, “You're alone. No one gives a shit. End it.”

  We’ve caught up to my suicide intro. Now what? What is there to do? I’m stalling, but there’s only one action before me, turning the intro into an ending.