Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  “It depends. Where would I be going?”

  17.3

  Darkness.

  17.4

  I flick on the LIGHT, illuminating my mess. I’ve tried to be strong, to live in this reality, but I can’t imbue meaning onto nothingness anymore. I’m too exhausted.

  “I give up. I need you. Take me back. I want to go back.”

  The catalogs are trash in the dumpster, but the collage of naked perfection still covers my walls.

  “Say something. I'm not strong. Please. I just want to let go. I keep holding on, and I…”

  I stare past the wall, lost. Even focusing my eyes is too much effort anymore. What if it’s too late? What if I’ve already had my last chance at paradise, and now I’m stuck here in this hell?

  I hear something coming from the hall, but it might be wishful thinking. Please be the sound of the ocean, even if it’s only so I can drown.

  I stick my head out to look. The hallway is empty. I hear the same sobbing as before. How many times have I heard that crying? Could it be my neighbor? Maybe it’s my landlord. His apartment is at the end of the hall.

  Whoever you are, suck it up! Pull yourself together!

  I tilt my head to pinpoint the sound. Damn it! Where is it coming from?

  “You make me sick,” I mumble to myself. The crying sounds so pathetic. “Man up before I kick your ass!”

  Light grows at the end of the hall. There’s no sand. No paradise waits beyond the light. A figure emerges. I expect Dan (maybe it’s Dan who is crying), but it’s a woman. It’s Loo walking toward me. Her Mary Sue dress clings to her thighs. Her pale face contrasts with her wet hair.

  She’s concerned for me, but she’s not crying.

  I sit down on my love seat. Or have I been sitting this whole time and just imagined the hall? I’m not sure. Loo continues into my room.

  I need her help. I admit it. Okay?

  I need help. I need help. I need help.

  The sobs I hear are my own sobs. The distant crying has been my grief too close to my heart to bear. I cry into my hands to hide my face. The pain in my chest and throat swells like cancer. My eyes burn with tears.

  Oh god! This is what I’ve been working so hard to hold back: a torrent of anguish. I can’t go through this again. I can’t go through this grief!

  I push myself up from the seat, still balling. This should be over. I should be better by now.

  “Fuck!”

  We look at each other as I keep crying like a basket case. Snot runs from my nose. I long for her to hold me. She waits for my permission, but I’m afraid to let her in. If she holds me, what new level of pain will I release? What am I still holding back?

  I nod, giving her permission despite my fear. We come together and embrace. I weep as she takes my weight. Water pours down the walls. The water rises from the floor to the ceiling in less than five seconds, with a loud ROAR and then SILENCE.

  We’re weightless. We clasp hands and lift off the floor. She’s beautiful, like an angel, her hair flowing out around her face. She’s love and safety.

  Bubbles rise from her nose and mouth. Her life escapes and her expression goes blank. Her limp body floats toward the ceiling.

  She’s dead.

  She died in a car accident. I let go of her hand.

  She bumps into the ceiling, joining my foster parents, blue and lifeless but whole, floating up there like morbid party balloons. They stare down at me. I don’t want them to see me this weak and broken, but they can’t close their eyes. The RUMBLE grows as the subway train approaches.

  These past two years I’ve held Mom and Dad at arm’s length. This whole time I yearned to hold them close, but the jaws of their death snapped at my fragile heart. I was afraid to fall into grief again.

  In the subway at Christmas time, I stand on the yellow lines with the crowd behind me, the purple fabric from Foster Mom’s sleeve in my hand. I’ve come back to this moment over and over, but something is different this time.

  On the tracks below me, among bags and packages, my foster parents try to get to their feet. That’s the same.

  My foster mother falls over a bag. Still the same. This flashback is redundant. I’ve already relived this too many times to count. Yet, some new element I can’t quite place scares me to my core. Dread churns like a bucket of oil in my stomach.

  She crawls forward, reaching toward me. This is where I close my eyes and feel her blood speckle my face as the train screams by.

  But I don’t close my eyes.

  I see the train KNOCK MY FOSTER FATHER APART, pulverizing his face, sending pieces of him flying in different directions. At the same time, it CUTS MY MOTHER IN HALF at the waist. I thought I didn’t see it, but I had. I’d just blocked it out because it was so sudden, so horrible and traumatic. Is this the revelation that’s supposed to be my breakthrough? Seeing the impact point is cruel. It doesn’t change anything. Whether I saw them die or not, life is unfair and random.

  I stare at the subway car blur. My fingertips glance off the side of the hurtling metal as it slows, and I pull back my hand.

  People behind me in the subway station scream. The people on the car look confused.

  And then I hear my mother. “Eric. Help. I can’t feel my legs. Get help.” Down between the subway car and the platform, I see her scared, pleading eyes. “Eric.”

  The doors open. A concerned expression turns to horror. What is she looking at?

  I touch my face and feel something wet. I expect tears, but my hand comes away with blood.

  I look back down. Mom is still there, pleading, but the commotion around me is too loud, and I can’t hear her anymore.

  The desperate panic in her eyes is unbearable, but I continue to watch, not saying or doing anything. Someone sees what I’m looking at, and he or she jumps into action. I back away. Strangers get the train moved. Paramedics lift half of Mom onto a stretcher. I keep my distance. She has lost too much blood. She slips into a coma and dies in the hospital. Or maybe in the ambulance. I’m not sure.

  If I had jumped into action, the difference would’ve been minutes at most, she would’ve died anyway, but I didn’t even try to save her. I stood there and let the random, horrible world have her without a fight.

  I should’ve fought.

  I should have at least told her that I loved her.

  In my underwater apartment, I huddle on my love seat, hugging my foster parents’ picture, and cry for what I’ve lost and how I failed the people I love.

  Shirin and Mindy didn’t help me when I thought they should have. They reminded me of myself, not helping my foster mom, and so I hated them. I rejected them long before they rejected me.

  I wished so badly to make films. When things didn’t go as planned, I gave up on myself. Every day I felt guilty for not being better. This whole time I thought I rejected everyone because I couldn’t depend on them, when in reality, I was afraid they couldn’t depend on me.

  The water, too heavy to hold anymore, drains from the room, flooding away in all directions.

  My foster parents and Loo are gone. It’s just me here. Just me to forgive.

  I sob for a few more moments, but the sobbing subsides, and I take the opportunity to catch my breath. Everything is dry except my cheeks. I’m exhausted, but light, as if I’ve been fasting.

  Foster Mom and Dad’s death was a random accident. I froze up because I was in shock. My brain couldn’t process my world ending. It was too horrible. They’d understand. I’m just human. They’d want me to forgive myself and keep going. And all that is good to internalize and accept, but at some point, what they would want doesn’t fucking matter. They’re dead. I’m the one that’s alive. It’s what I want that matters. And I want to live.

  I wipe my face and my nose with the back of my hand. I’m so exhausted I tremble. I take a deep stuttering breath and set my foster parents’ picture on a box beside the loveseat. I grew up with their love, and I challenged them and fought them tooth and
nail. All they wanted me to know, the whole fucking time, was that I was inherently worth loving. Yet, when they died, I thought I wasn’t worth loving anymore. What a waste of their generosity! They gave me love, and I threw it away!

  “Well, I’m taking it back.”

  I need to believe I’m worth loving, not because someone in my past told me so, but because it’s simply the truth.

  I tear down the collage.

  God, Loo! I wish I would’ve accepted your help when you were still alive. I accept it now. It’s not too late for me. Thank you, Loo. You saved my life.

  “Goodbye, Loo. I’ll do better. Or die trying.”

  I think this is the resolution to my story because I ignore the loose ends.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Break into Three

  18.1

  For the first time since my foster parents' death, I ride the subway.

  I focus on my hands, on the bitten nails and the calluses from lifting weights, just to seem like this is all no big deal. My mother’s pleading eyes haunt me. It’s horrible to remember her like that, but riding the subway doesn’t cause a panic attack like expect.

  I hear snaps of electricity from outside and then, during a turn, the loud squeaks of rubbing metal.

  I’ve tried to restart my life before, to be a new person, and failed too many times to count. I don’t need a better future anymore. I don’t need some radically improved me. At this moment, I’m already good enough. My life is already good enough. I just need to keep fighting and take things as they come.

  BP DANCE MUSIC rises and covers the sounds of the train.

  “How was the funeral?”

  “A black pit, but I came out the other side.”

  In Brief Pose, Tara stands at the cash register, while I fold clothes. When Yuki did this, was it me folding clothes, or was I standing here staring at nothing?

  The protesters weren’t out front today. My coworkers, the real people in my life, seem back to normal. Also, the catalog is nowhere to be seen. Everything will be okay, but cautious optimism is the name of the game.

  Tara has been struggling or thriving, going through life right there in front of me, and I’ve been too wrapped up in my own problems to notice. I haven’t exactly been kind to her.

  “And you?” I say. “How have you been doing?”

  Her makeup fails to conceal dark circles around her bloodshot eyes. “I met JuanCarlos's parents. His mom thinks I'm possessed because I believe in Buddha. Damn Catholics.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “JuanCarlos's mom means everything to him.” She slouches, dejected, and leans against the counter.

  “No, I mean, I want to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “I've been an ass.”

  Hunter comes over, curious as to what we’re talking about. “What’s up?”

  “Eric is apologizing for being rude, thoughtless, distant, and ungrateful.”

  “I take it you're paraphrasing.”

  “Exact words,” I say and can’t help smiling.

  Tara yawns, covering her mouth with her hand, and then with forced enthusiasm greets the next customer.

  Hunter and I go off to the side. He looks more like himself, exemplifying our dress-code. Last time I saw him, he was ranting about his father. I should’ve made sure he was okay. He seemed unraveled.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk yesterday. I had a lot on my mind.”

  “The catalog,” he says. “Damn boycott got them all recalled. I loved those things. It's the end of an era, man. Can you believe that shit?”

  “You were saying something about your father yesterday, and I totally blew you off.”

  “Oh that, it was nothing. I was just having a moment.”

  “Well, if you need to talk…”

  “Thanks. What’s up, Eric? You seem different.”

  “We should do something,” I say. “The two of us.”

  18.2

  The next day, Adam helps me buy rugby equipment. He hasn’t given up on me joining his team (he’s so damn enthusiastic about it), and so all I had to do was say yes and walk the mile to the store. I’m determined to stop fighting life. He goes on and on about rugby this and rugby that and how good I’m gonna be. I buy what he tells me to buy. Most important is a mouth guard, apparently, but I also get expensive headgear, two shirts, shorts that are awfully short, and cleats.

  The sales associate takes my card.

  “Don’t tell me the total. I’m trying just to roll with it.” It’s not as if I buy rugby equipment every day. Now that I won’t be buying so much BP clothing and so many BP catalogs--man that shit adds up--I should make rent. I hope.

  18.3

  In a men's locker room, Hunter and Adam sit on either side of me on a bench, outfitted for practice. The other guys are already out on the field. Now that I’m here, it’s a little surreal, mostly because it’s not that crazy. I’m hanging out with male friends, joining a team, because when people need to make new friends that’s a normal thing to do. This isn’t like me, and it’s damn awkward at times (I’m not great at small talk), but no one is expecting me to talk their ear off.

  They just want me to be athletic. Oh god, I’m going to embarrass myself. Rugby isn’t exactly a gentle sport. I’m going to break something.

  “They'll go easy,” Adam says. He must see the apprehension on my face.

  “If I suck balls, do I get to quit?”

  “You mean suck balls in a bad way?” Hunter jokes. “No, you don’t get to quit.”

  “You practice. You get better.” Adam is very seriousness

  They grab me by the arms. I playfully fight against them as they escort me out onto the field.

  Our team gets the field at night. Bright lights are shining down. How am I supposed to see the ball with so many lights in my eyes? I only have a vague idea of what I’m doing, even though Adam has tried to explain everything in the simplest terms possible. I follow what all the other guys do. Some of them are good looking and athletic, flattered by these tight shirts and short shorts, but most are average guys on the beefy side. Despite my lack of experience, I throw myself in head first.

  This blind enthusiasm is my downfall. Riley, the over-zealous ex-Marine, takes me down hard, knocking the air from my lungs. I’m stunned and can’t get up. And then the pain comes in like another blinding light.

  18.4

  They make it strong here at the Outpost Café, and I haven’t had coffee for a while, so my mocha hits my bloodstream hard. I sip it at a table near the front window, my arm in a sling. My whole side aches, but not nearly as much as before. Under my shirt, there’s still a kaleidoscope of bruises. Going to the hospital probably would’ve been a wise idea, but my last visit’s bill still haunts me. Rugby is like a fight club. On the table is a pristine slice of German chocolate cake I ordered for Victor. If I move, let’s say, for example, to take a bite, my shoulder zaps me with a sharp jab. Good thing I don’t like cake.

  Victor arrives, looking a little rough around the edges. He has the beginnings of a beard. His wrinkled, oddly avant-garde graphic tee would be hard for anyone to pull off, but he manages. I texted him a time to meet. It’s just coffee. Not everything has to be this big event.

  “What happened to you?” he says.

  “Rugby.”

  He sits.

  “You should’ve seen the guys,” I say. “They were so concerned.” I push the cake toward him and try not to grimace from the pain.

  “Thanks!” Victor takes a bite.

  Maybe one day I’ll enjoy something as much as Victor enjoys German chocolate cake. He closes his eyes and savors the taste and texture. He licks his lips. After he comes back to earth, he says, “You've made friends.”

  “I already had them; I just had my head too far up my ass to notice. Adam was comparing life to rugby--he compares everything to rugby. Anyway, he said you risk getting hurt, but what's the point of life if you never play? It's corny, I know, but he'
s not wrong.”

  Victor smirks. “So you gonna play rugby again?”

  “Hell no!”

  He laughs. It feels good to make him laugh.

  “They get wasted after every game and after most practices. I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Me neither.”

  He eats more cake. I down the rest of my coffee and take the opportunity to look at him. He’s an attractive guy. I’m already liking the new beard. It’s rugged. I’m flattered Loo thought we would be a good match. I’ve never kissed a guy with a beard before. Maybe Victor will be my first.

  “I’ve been thinking about getting back into film, but I don’t know. I feel like I’ve already missed the boat.”

  “Just don’t compare yourself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I had to be better than every other painter out there, I’d never paint anything. But I get how you feel. My little film collective never really got off the ground.”

  “I’m sure you have enough going on. You’re a painter. You can’t do everything. Basing your self-worth on productivity is a trap.”

  “Where did you hear that? Another one of Adam’s gems?”

  “How the hell have you been besides work?” I’m in a better mood than I’ve been in in a long time, though I might be overdoing it. My positivity doesn’t feel completely genuine. Give me time, though. I’m just getting used to it.

  Plus, this coffee is giving me a nice buzz.

  He finishes his cake in a few large bites. He takes out a cigarette pack. “Today, cake is not enough.”

  I’m disappointed he smokes, but it’s his life, and I follow him outside. It’s not as if we’re dating.

  He stands beside a large community board overloaded with fliers and takes a drag. I try not to stare at him and notice a BP protest flier with Clara Power’s contact information. It must be old. Now that the catalogs have been pulled, there’s no need for any more protests.

  Victor offers me a cigarette. I decline. In silence, we watch the busy plaza across the street. Warmer air has inspired the city’s population to shed a layer and get out into the world. It’s still February, so this heatwave is temporary, but it’s nice seeing people take advantage.

  Not long ago, I imagined Yuki smoking. What if Victor is imaginary too? Maybe everything from the time I dealt with my foster parents’ death has been a fantasy where I get better and make friends. The idea is disconcerting, but whatever the case, I have to live my life. Though people usually relegate these kinds of fears to philosophy, no one knows for sure what’s real and what is fiction, yet we still carry on.