Spy of the First Person

by Sam Shepard

  She pushes the wheelchair straight ahead. She says to him above his head, the mounting wind, both facing the same direction.

  —Dad? Dad? Why do you need these things now? Why all these supplies? You’re not going hunting.

  —No, I’m not going hunting. At least I’m not hunting for food. Just keep going.

  —Besides, I don’t know where this room might be, this garage. I have no idea, especially if it’s all in your head.

  —All in my head? he says to her, as they go bumping along as the rain starts pelting the narrow road. Everything’s in my head.

  28

  You notice the progressive nature of things. Things run down. You notice how different. You don’t want to believe it. You notice for instance his breathing, the lack of breath. You notice for instance the reach of his arms, the lack of coordination between his brain and his hands. Who is it this time? For instance, if the head…For instance, if the neck is allowed to rest back and be aligned with the spine on a fairly even level and the head is allowed to rest back against the Adirondack chair then the air that is going in and out the passage of the neck is allowed to move. When that happens the brain and the mind tend to think a little more freely.

  What happens if the head rocks forward and causes the neck to double over creating a kind of stoppage, where not only is the breathing interrupted but the thought as well? The thought and the brain don’t operate at the same level as they do when the throat is open.

  For instance, when the eyes are closed and the sounds are allowed to come in, where the sounds are more pronounced. For instance, the distant highway. The sound of the jays, which always reminds me of the Rocky Mountains and high altitude. Sounds of red-winged blackbirds, chickadees. Sounds of wrens, crickets, butterfly wings. But what happens if you cut that off completely? No sound at all. No thinking. No thought. What happens if it ends right there?

  29

  Jay was going up and down the highway, with Aubra in his white Chevy Nova. He was going from clinic to clinic. All the way to Arizona and back. He was trying to find a doctor to make her better. He was trying to get her healthy. Everything was going wrong with her. Her luxurious red hair was falling out. Her green eyes were going blind. She had an aluminum wheelchair. She was getting weaker and weaker. Jay was working all day in the deli and she was getting weaker and weaker. There were transfusions. There was a brain hemorrhage. There were swollen veins. There were oxygen tanks. There were bandages. There were tubes. There was breathing. Heavy breathing.

  Jay was having a hard time of it. Going up and down the road looking for a cure to what really ailed Aubra. He was desperate. He tried everything, dialysis, he tried it all. And she wasn’t getting any better. She was losing a lot of blood. A lot of weight.

  He was in a doctor’s office and she was almost going unconscious. And coming back. Going away. Coming back. Going away. Coming back. And he said to the doctor, he said to the doctor, “What’s wrong with her?” And the doctor simply turned to him and he said, “She’s dying.”

  —

  Jay was in the Mexican deli sorting bottles of ketchup and hot sauce, lining them up behind the mayonnaise. The Muzak was on. Somebody asked him who he liked better, the Green Bay Packers or the Pittsburgh Steelers. The phone rang, somebody told him his wife was in trouble. He took off his apron and ran out into the parking lot. When he got to his house the police were already there. The neighbors were standing around in the yard. He ran into the house. The police wanted to know his name. They wanted to know Aubra’s name. She was dead but they wanted to know her name. They wanted to know what kind of pills she was taking. They wanted to know the names of the pills. How long she’d been taking them. He could see her lying dead in the bed from the corner of his eye. They asked him if he wanted to be alone with her. He said no. It was already too late. He left the room, passing neighbors who were offering condolences. A white truck pulled up and two huge men got out and went into the house. They carried Aubra’s body in a black bag back to the truck. They drove off. The police went away. The neighbors went back to their houses. A cat ran across the yard.

  30

  Chicano gangs in lime-green jumpsuits. Lowriders in purple Mercurys. Pregnant girls barely fifteen. Priests in black robes. Choirs singing Catholic prayers. Church bells are ringing twelve noon as Jay walks back to work at the deli. They ask him who he likes better, Green Bay or the Pittsburgh Steelers. They ask him how old he is. Where he’s from. Back east, he says. Back east.

  Jay returns home. He’s walking slightly slumped forward. He carries a big sack of cat food on his back from the deli. There are wild feral cats all over the neighborhood, some of them are babies. He shakes the cat food out on the curb in front of his house. He goes back into his house, crumbling up the empty bag. He closes the door and drags a chair in front of the window. He looks out and sees the cats coming from all directions. They start eating the cat food but they always keep one eye on guard. From across the street Jay sees two gray dogs, they come directly toward the cats. The cats keep eating. The dogs keep coming. Jay stands up inside the house. The cats jump. The dogs pounce. Everything is scattered.

  Iron Street. The sky a brilliant golden sunset. Real golden. Beyond what the Spanish conceived. Really golden skies.

  31

  Now in the zocalo in the little lost town, of northern California, where the migrant workers wait on corners, hiding from soldiers in dark costumes. Soldiers sneaking around through the bushes. Making sure the president’s name is not spoken in vain. Making sure there are no whispered plans to overthrow the real estate. To overthrow the banks. Listening intently to the Spanish verbs that are being spoken by the immigrant men on the corner. Forgetting how to conjugate. Wished they had finished elementary school.

  What is a green card exactly? It allows the holder to work? It allows the holder citizenship? It allows the holder to travel freely? Does the possession of a green card mean you don’t have to climb a wall? You don’t have to dig a tunnel? You don’t have to worry about where your mother was born? Where your father was born? Do we understand the men talking in a foreign language on the corner? Do we try to understand where they might have come from? Maybe the wind blew them in.

  There are trucks loaded with masked men looking for immigrants of all kinds. Looking for enemies of the people behind coffee shops. Behind shoe stores. Behind wineries. They call their bosses. They tell their bosses that here in the little zocalo of this little town everything is quiet and peaceful.

  32

  I don’t know how he stands the monotony, to tell you the truth. Hiding in the bushes day after day after day after day after day after day after day the same thing over and over again. Although internally something must change, externally it remains fairly constant. Maybe we could become friends. Maybe if I sat here long enough he would come up behind me. I don’t have to see his face. I’m hollow back there anyway. Kind of like a shell. Like a milk chocolate egg that’s hollow inside. Maybe we can strike up a conversation. He must be waiting too. We’re both waiting. Maybe he has something to say that would clear things up for both of us. For instance, was he hired by some big company? Was he hired by the government? Or is he just plain nosy. Why does he care about my monotony? It’s not my monotony anyway. It’s his, too. It’s both of ours. It’s everybody else’s. I mean it’s about ninety degrees. There’s white butterflies on purple flowers. There’s bugs buzzing over the green cut lawn. There’s flowers coming out on the magnolias. There’s marigolds, there’s tomatoes. Lots of tomatoes. But what is it? Why doesn’t he say something? Even if it’s about the weather. Why doesn’t he talk to me? I’m a likable person. The same the same the same over and over again.

  What is it about it that drags you down, that makes you feel as though you’re never going to overcome, you’re never going to overcome something. I don’t know what it is. Monotony. Sameness. It must be the same for him. I don’t know why he haunts me day after day. He stares at the bugs going across the top
of the cut grass, the mowed grass, and every once in a while alighting on a lawn chair. What is it? What could possibly fascinate him about that? About me? Maybe he’s not fascinated. Maybe he is the opposite of fascinated. What would the opposite of fascinated be? To be tangled up in thought, in thinking. Tangled up. There he is looking at the same thing day after day, month after month. Butterflies landing on purple plants.

  33

  Sometimes he does this thing where he shakes his head violently from side to side as though a bug of some kind is bugging him as though the bug is trying to get in his nostrils but it’s not a bug at all it’s the hair on his face or the imagined hair on his face or him trying to prevent the imagined hair getting on his face. He shakes his head and one of his sisters stands and combs his hair with a brush, a brush with tiny plastic teeth. She also uses hairspray, women’s hairspray, to keep the hair back. The imagined hair. He always closes his nose or tries to close his nose because evidently the spray is perfumed and he’s trying not to smell it. He also has this one gesture that is very curious where he rocks back and forth. He rocks and he’ll clasp both hands together like he’s praying and he’ll brace his arms from the elbow to the wrist. He’ll brace both elbows against his stomach and then he’ll raise both hands to his face using the left knee in this jerky sort of fashion where the leg is actually propelling the arms toward his face and then he simply itches his upper lip or his left nostril or something like that because evidently the nostrils are trying to tell him something. They’re trying to tell him that things have changed.

  —

  Both eyebrows! Both eyebrows. Both. No, no just the left. The left. Yes! That’s it. Oh good, that’s it. Thank God that’s it. Thanks. Thanks for that. Things have changed again. Things have changed. Now he has to ask other people. Now he can’t do without other people. Things have really changed.

  Can you imagine, for instance, something crawling up your ear? It’s easy to imagine something like that. Crawling up your ear. And pretty soon you have an itch. It’s easy to imagine something like that. Crawling through your hair. Is something crawling through my hair? Is there an ant, for instance. Is there a worm? Is there a fly? An insect of some kind, winged? Mosquito? A leggy insect. An insect with many tentacles that is searching around through my hair for something imagined? You imagine and then you go on to imagine the itch and pretty soon you have one. You have an itch. And pretty soon you ask for help.

  34

  The driver opens the limousine door. Sandaled feet emerge from the bottom of the flowing blue tunic. He approaches the clinic with his aluminum walker. He’s been looking forward to this moment ever since he was diagnosed. He crosses the sands of the sculpted gardens. A green Mojave rattlesnake appears from nowhere and pierces his ankle. He goes down. He is wallowing in the sand like a wounded burro. The driver doesn’t know what to do. Nurses come running from the clinic. Everyone is bewildered. Help! he says, and as he loses consciousness he glimpses the image of two brothers in snowshoes who started the most famous clinic in the world.

  35

  I’ve all kinds of sensations now. Sensations I’ve never had before. For instance, I want to see if there’s a real estate agent who will cooperate with me. Who will cooperate with me getting the house next door to his. Whether that house is for sale or not. I must get that house and move in. I must contact my tax woman. I must contact my bookie. I need to procure all my earnings. I must have that house. I must be able to see in the windows. I must see whether or not he puts himself to bed at night. Whether or not he gets himself up in the morning. Whether or not he says his prayers. Whether or not he uses the Lord’s name. Whether or not he believes in an afterlife. Whether or not he says prayers over meals. Whether or not he helps with the dishes. I must have 24-hour-a-day surveillance. Is there some interlude, or does he go right for the newspaper? Does he read the headlines? Does someone read the headlines to him? I must find out where he comes from. Where he is going to. And what he hopes to accomplish. I must find out the reason behind the blue sign. The blue handicapped sign in his white car. Did he have it manufactured somehow? Did he have it counterfeited? Is there anything really wrong with him? Is he faking? If he’s faking should I call him on it? Should I walk right up on his front porch and rap on the front door? Should I present him with my credentials? Should I go for the throat? Or should I just let everything go the way it’s going.

  36

  One year ago he could hear the walnuts drop. He could hear the walnuts crunch. He could scratch the belly of his Catahoula who had too many puppies. Who his youngest son, his skinny boy, insisted on keeping.

  One year ago exactly he could drive across the great divide. He could drive down the coastline. The rugged coast. He could yawn at the desert.

  One year ago exactly more or less, he could walk with his head up. He could see through the air. He could wipe his own ass.

  37

  Full moon. East Water Street, the same little town from long ago late at night, well it wasn’t late at night when we left, it was relatively early and the moon hadn’t risen yet. I’d say it was 6:30 or 7. I was in a wheelchair with a shaggy sheepskin covering the seat and a Navajo blanket over my knees, and my two sons, two of my sons, Jesse and Walker, were on either side pushing me down the middle of East Water Street. I’ll never forget the strength I felt from my two boys behind me. Following us were my daughter Hannah, her two friends, both of my sisters and my daughter-in-law, nine of us altogether and we turned right by a three-story church that was all clapboard and there was a huge pine tree in the front and it was already getting dark.

  Dusk, dark dusk. The moon was slowly beginning to rise. And we got to a Mexican place called El Farolito and they pushed me boldly in the wheelchair from the quiet street through two swinging doors into the reverberations of an enormous room. A rising cacophony of voices, conversations on top of conversations raucous laughter glasses shattering clinking silverware people shouting to be heard.

  We maneuvered through the crowd to the bar at the back of the restaurant. Polished steel, highly polished steel. A mural of rows and rows of blue agave cactus. Cultivated to make tequila and mescal. Brushstrokes and there was all this tequila lined up on long narrow silver shelves bolted to the wall. Hornitos, Cabo Wabo, Sauza, Patrón, Cuervo, Herradura. All different kinds of tequila. They ordered margaritas. My daughter Hannah, her friends Molly and Chad and Jesse’s wife, Maura, my sisters Roxanne and Sandy, a whole lot of people at the table and my wheelchair took up two spaces almost. That’s how wide it was and I ordered a beef enchilada and a Cabo Wabo. The menu had a logo of a lighthouse. Lonely illuminated. I can’t remember exactly what we talked about. Probably Trump, the country in a Mexican standoff, the dogs, the Catahoula, maybe fishing, the usual. The point is a lot of conversation, a lot of people talking at once, the whole table bustling with conversation. Now we were part of them. The bar sounded like a marimba band without the music. A lot of noise and a lot more tequila.

  Our whole troupe, our little band, hit the street. The thing I remember most is being more or less helpless and the strength of my sons. A man pushed by his sons in a wheelchair from a crowded restaurant to a street with nobody on it. A man sitting on shaggy wool with a Navajo blanket across his knees.

  The moon is getting bigger and brighter. The Strawberry Moon. Spotlighting our little troupe. The full moon. Two sons and their father, everyone trailing behind. Going up the middle of East Water Street and it’s really bright now. The full moon. We made it and we hobbled up the stairs. Or I hobbled. My sons didn’t hobble, I hobbled.

  Sam Shepard began working on Spy of the First Person in 2016. His first drafts were written by hand, as he was no longer able to use a typewriter due to complications of ALS. When handwriting became impossible, he recorded segments of the book, which were then transcribed by his family. He dictated the remaining pages when recording became too difficult. Sam’s longtime friend Patti Smith assisted him in editing the manuscript. He reviewed the b
ook with his family and dictated his final edits a few days before he passed away on July 27, 2017.

  Acknowledgments

  Hannah, Walker, and Jesse would like to thank Sam’s sisters, Roxanne and Sandy, for their love and care of our father and their invaluable help in bringing this book about.

  A Note About the Author

  Sam Shepard was the Pulitzer Prize–winning author of more than fifty-five plays and three story collections. As an actor, he appeared in more than sixty films, and received an Oscar nomination in 1984 for The Right Stuff. He was a finalist for the W. H. Smith Literary Award for his story collection Great Dream of Heaven. In 2012 he was awarded an honorary doctorate from Trinity College, Dublin. He was a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, received the Gold Medal for Drama from the Academy, and was inducted into the Theater Hall of Fame. He died in 2017.

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