In the Mean Time
Page 12
They light candles. They pray. She tells them many more things about her mother and her childhood, all that she can remember. But Diane does not tell the young men the obvious. That Blue and Drew and true rhyme with Jew.
Dedication and special thanks to dgk “kelly” goldberg; her life, beliefs, and experiences with social service served as a model and inspiration to this story.
The Marlboro Man Meets The End
One of them yells, “I know, but the Marlboro Man is gonna go down first.” Then Stephen Lee’s brothers make it. They actually make it. Somehow. They shimmy up the gutters, three stories, to the roof of Eza’s Brazilian Market. They still have their gasoline containers with them, and matches, though the city is already burning, the sky already ash and dead.
Eza’s Market is across the street from his three-family brownstone, just one of a row of decaying three-family brownstones. Stephen Lee used to knock on Eza’s plate-glass window at three o’clock and exactly at three o’clock on school days to earn a free piece of Dubble Bubble from Eza, the Brazilian widower with a smile as big as the hump on his back. Stephen Lee had to run home from school ahead of his brothers to make that free-gum deadline.
Before their climb atop the market, his brothers ripped and smashed and burned every advertisement inside Eza’s, even that little cardboard Dubble Bubble display on the dusty counter.
Stephen Lee is the youngest. Too young to go on the roof with them, and now too weak; his lungs are pinched balloons. He sits in the middle of Dorchester Ave., stalled and abandoned cars around him like a playpen. The car’s drivers hidden behind ash-stained glass.
He thinks about Momma, unconscious inside their house. The smoke and chemical fumes were too much for her, too much for just about everyone. He thinks about their house, the only house on Dorchester Ave. not on fire, not dead. Thinking, focusing on any one thing is getting as difficult as breathing.
His brothers splash gasoline on the Marlboro Man billboard above the market. The thing is bigger than a school bus. Last month it was a Crown Royal ad. Before that KFC and before that Chevrolet and before that Joe Camel and before that Coca-Cola was it, and on and on. They never took down the old ads. They just pasted a new one over the old. When Stephen Lee was really young, the old and disappearing ads made him feel sad. There was the night Monday Night Football rolled over McDonald’s. His friend Ronald was trapped and smothered. Gone, without ceremony or goodbyes.
Above the market now, one brother walks to the roof’s edge and gives Stephen Lee a thumbs-up. His other brother chucks the gasoline canisters off the roof and they land somewhere. The smoke and ash haze is thicker now, like viewing the world through a black L’eggs stocking, but he sees each brother light a match and throw it at the billboard, at that rugged and white and smirking cowboy holding a rope in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Stephen Lee had marked the passage of time by the billboard across from his house: he started school with Tom Cruise; some leggy perfume blonde witnessed the corner shooting last year; Taco Bell and the Chihuahua was the summer when his cousin Cayla stayed at the house.
For his last day it’s the Marlboro Man, who is now burning. The Marlboro Man peels and blisters in the giant blaze aided by the surrounding fires and oxygen-feeding winds.
Stephen Lee still feels bad for all the others; Cruise, Ronald, the Colonel, and the blonde lady. He’ll miss them. Beneath the fire, he sees glimpses of all his old friends, the commercial for his life. Behind him, their house is still untouched by fire.
He cheers the death of the Marlboro Man and he cheers his brothers, who he can no longer see. Stephen Lee is proud of his brothers. They’ve done it. He imagines that his cheering and watching helped them take down the Marlboro Man before their house went down. He knows it did. This little victory belongs to Stephen Lee and his brothers until the very end.
The Blog at the end of the world
About Becca Gilman
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I am twenty-something, living somewhere in Brooklyn, and am angry and scared like everyone else I know. Sometimes this Blog helps me, sometimes it doesn’t. I have degrees in bio and chem, but don’t use them. That’s all you really need to know. All right?
Still Here
Becca Gilman • June 17th, 2009
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Barely. I thought I was ready for one more real/detailed post to the blog with a Link Roundup, but I’m not. I tried calling Mom two days ago but there was no answer and she hasn’t called me back. I’m still not over Grant’s passing; my personal tipping point and I hate myself for referring to Grant that way, but it’s true. I haven’t left my apartment in over a week. The local market I use for grocery delivery stopped answering their phone yesterday. I’ve only seen three cabs today. They’re old and dinged up, from some independent cab company I don’t recognize, and they just drive around City Line, circling, like they’re stuck in some loop. They’re only there because they’re supposed to be. The drivers don’t know what else to do. At night I count how many windows I can see with the lights on. The city was darker last night than it was last week, or the week before. I don’t know if I’m doing a good job explaining all this. I’m watching the city fall apart. It’s slow and subtle, but you can see it if you look hard enough. Watch. Everything is slowing down. A windup toy running down and with no one to wind it up. Everything is dying but not quite dead yet, so people just go about their days as if nothing is wrong and nothing bad can happen tomorrow.
I’ve had a headache for a week now, my neck hurts, and I’ve been really sensitive to light, to the computer screen especially. I’m scared, but not terrified anymore. There is a difference. Mostly, I’m just incredibly sad.
6 Responses to “still here”
squirrelmonkey says:
June 15, 2009 at 9:32 am
I just tried calling and left a message. I am going to stop by your place today. Please answer your buzzer.
Jenn Parker says:
June 15, 2009 at 1:12 pm
While I still offer condolences for the loss of your friend, I’m not surprised that you’re experiencing headaches and the like. You’re so obsessed with the textbook symptoms, you’re now psychosomatically experiencing them. I am surprised it has taken this long. I had February 2009 in the pool. Get help. Psychiatric help.
beast says:
June 28, 2009 at 4:33 am
i live in new york city to last weak i saw this guy drop dead in the street he pressed a button at the traffic light on the corner and then died there was no one else around just me he wasnt old probably younger than me he died and then i saw whats really happning to everyone cause two demons fell out of the sky and landed next to him maybe they were the gargoiles from the buildings i dont know but they were big strong gray with muscles and wings and large teeth the sidewalk broke under their heavyness they growled like tigers and licked up the blood that came out of the guys ears and mouth but that wasn’t good enough they broke his chest open and there was red everywere on the sidewalk and street corner i didnt know there was so much blood in us but they know they took off his arms and legs then gather him up in their big strong arms and flew away he was gone i went back and checked the next day he was gone after i walked around the city i saw the demons every were but noone saw them but me they fly and climb the buildings waiting for us to die and take us just like you i am afraid and stay in my apartment but don’t look out my window any more
revelations says:
July 5, 2009 at 12:12 am
I’ve noticed that you haven’t posted in a while. Maybe you’re “fuck heaven” comments from you’re earlier post caught up to you, or maybe you’re fear mongering and lies have finally caught up with you. GOD punishes the wicked. He is truly just.
Jenn Parker says:
July 5, 2009 at 2:45 pm
I like beast. I want to party with you,
dude!
Hey, revelations, stick to book burning and refuting evolution.
revelations says:
July 12, 2009 at 10:09 am
I can sum it all up in three words: Evolution is a lie.
Link Roundup
Becca Gilman • May 19th, 2009
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I don’t feel up to it, but here’s a link roundup, in honor of Grant.
—San Jose Mercury News: The Silicon Valley’s home sales continue to tank with the number of deals at a 40-year low. The mayor of San Jose attributes the market crisis to the glut of homes belonging to the recently deceased.
—The Burlington Free Press reports that a May 3rd session of Congress ended with the sudden death of a Missouri Representative William Hightower and senator Jim Billingsly from Vermont. While neither Hightower nor Billingsly has been seen publicly since the 3rd, the offices of both congressmen have yet to make any such announcement and their only official comment is to claim the story is patently false.
—The miami herald reports that according to UNICEF, the populations of children in Kenya and Ethiopia have declined by a stunning 24 percent within the past year. The UN and United States government dispute the findings, claiming widespread inaccuracies in the “hurried and irresponsible” census.
8 Responses to “Link Roundup”
Jenn Parker says:
May 24th, 2009 at 7:48 pm
Another link-roundup. Reputable sources at a quick glance, but let’s address each link:
The San Jose Mercury News has already issued a partial retraction here. The mayor of San Jose never attributed the market crisis to the supposed glut of homes belonging to the deceased. Honestly, other than within the backdrop of our collective state of paranoia/hysteria, such a claim/statement doesn’t make any economic sense. People aren’t buying homes for a myriad of economic reasons, but too many deaths due to an imaginary epidemic isn’t one of them.
The links to your burlington and miami papers are dead. I suppose you could spin the dead links to bolster the conspiracy theory, but here in reality, the dead links serve only as a representation of your desperation to perpetuate conspiracy.
squirrelmonkey says:
May 25th, 2009 at 7:03 am
Ever heard of Google, Jenn? Those articles can still be found in the cache. It’s not a hard to find. Do you want me to show you how?
Jenn Parker says:
May 25th, 2009 at 1:23 pm
Answer me this: Why were the articles almost instantaneously removed? You’ll tell me it’s due to some all-encompassing conspiracy, when the real answer is those papers got their stories wrong. They got their stories wrong so they had to pull the articles. That’s it. Happens all the time. I guarantee retractions will be published within days. Oh-master-of-Google, prove me wrong by finding another news-outlet corroboration (and not a blog like this one) to either story. Read carefully, please. I want a news-outlet that does not site the Burlington Free Press or Miami Herald as their primary sources. If you try such a search, you’ll be at it for a long time, because I can’t find any other independent reports.
slugwentbad says:
May 25th, 2009 at 10:13 pm
I’ve called Billingsly’s office on three occasions, and I’ve been told he’s unavailable every time.
Jenn Parker says:
May 25th, 2009 at 10:23 pm
Oh, that proves everything, then.
discostewie says:
May 26th, 2009 at 8:27 am
Bees and bats and amphibians are disappearing, mysteriously dying off (are you going to refute that too, Jenn?). Is it so hard to believe that the same isn’t happening to us?
batfan says:
June 25th, 2009 at 3:37 am
Hi, remember me? Come check out my new gambling site for the all the best poker and sports action. It’s awesome. http://www.gamblor234.net
speworange says:
August 222n, 2009 at 10:46 am
Humans are harder to kill than cockroaches.
More Grant Lee
Becca Gilman • May 12th, 2009
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I went to Grant’s wake today. The visiting hours were only one hour. 2pm-3pm. I got there at 2. There was a line. We had some common friends but I didn’t see anyone that I knew there. I didn’t see his sister or recognize any family members there either. I waited in a line that started on the street. No one talked or shared eye contact. This is so hard to write. I’m trying to be clinical. The mourners were herded inside the funeral parlor, but it split into three different rooms. Grant’s room was small with mahogany molding on the walls and a thick, soft tan carpet on the floor. There were flowers everywhere. The smell was overpowering and made the air thick. It was too much. The family had asked for a donation to a charity in lieu of flowers. I don’t remember the charity. There was no casket. Grant wasn’t there; he wasn’t in the room. There wasn’t a greeting line and I don’t know where his family was. There was only a big flat-screen TV on the wall. The TV scrolled with images of Grant and his friends and family. I was in one of those pictures. We were at the Pizza Joint, standing next to each other, bent over, our faces perched in our hands, elbows on the counter. I had flour on the tip of my nose and he had his PJ baseball hat on backwards, his long black hair tucked behind his ears. Our smiles matched. It was one of those rare posed-pictures that still managed to capture the spirit of a candid. That picture didn’t stay on the screen long enough. Other people’s memories of Grant crowded it out. Also, the pictures of Grant mixed with stock photos and video clips of blue sky and rolling clouds like some ridiculous subliminal commercial for heaven. There was a soundtrack to the loop; nothing Grant liked or listened to (certainly no Slayer). The music was formless and light, with no edges or minor chords. Aural Valium. It was awful. All of it. The mourners walked around the room’s perimeter in an orderly fashion. I got the sense they’d all done this before. Point A to B to C to D and out the door. I didn’t follow them. I held my ground and stayed rooted to a spot as people brushed past me. No one asked if I was okay, not that I wanted them to. I watched the TV long enough to see the images loop back to its beginning, or at least the beginning that I had seen. I don’t know if there was a true beginning and a true end to the loop. After seeing the loop once, I stared at the other mourner’s faces. Their eyes turned red and watered when the obviously poignant images meshed with a hopeful crescendo of Muzak. The picture of a toddler-aged Grant holding hands with his parents seemed to be the cue. Then the manufactured moment passed, and everyone’s faces turned blue when the TV filled with blue sky, that slickly produced loop of heaven. I wanted to shout fuck heaven, I want Grant back and I don’t want to die. But I didn’t. After an hour had passed, I was asked to leave as someone else’s visiting hour was starting. They had a full schedule: every room booked throughout the afternoon and evening. I peeked in the other rooms before I left. No caskets anywhere, just TVs on the walls. Pictures. Clouds. Blue Sky. More pictures. When I went outside, there was another long line waiting for their turn to mourn properly.
I didn’t cry until after I left Grant’s wake. Now I’m sitting in my apartment, still crying, and thinking about my father. He died when I was four. I remember his wake. I remember crossing my arms over my chest and not letting anyone hug me. Everyone tried. I remember being bored and mad. And I remember trying to hide under the casket presentation. An Uncle that I’d never met before pulled me out of the mini-curtains below the casket. He pulled too hard on my arm and I cried. I think my tears were the equivalent of the four-year-old me saying fuck heaven, I want my daddy back, and I don’t want to die.
I’m just rambling now. I apologize. I’ve turned off comments for this post. I’ve posted, and deleted, and then re-posted this a few times. I’m going to leave it up and as is. But no one else gets to say anything about Grant or me or
anything today.
Grant Lee, RIP
Becca Gilman • May 10th, 2009
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It finally happened. A very close friend of mine, Grant Lee, died two days ago. He was twenty-four. I have been unable to get much information from his family. I talked to his older sister, Claire. Grant died at work, at the Pizza Joint, two blocks from my apartment. She said his death was sudden and “catastrophic.” I asked if he died from an aneurysm. Claire said the doctors told the family it was likely heart failure, but they wouldn’t tell them anything specific. I then asked for information about the hospital he went to, but she rushed me off the phone, saying she had too many calls to make. I called the Pizza Joint, wanting to talk to the co-worker that had found Grant dead, but no one answered the phone. I’m going to take a walk down there after I post this. It’s awful and terrifying enough that Grant died, but it looks like his cause of death will be covered up as well.
Grant. I met Grant in a video store a week after I’d moved to Brooklyn. We rented Nintendo Wii games and black and white noir flicks together. Grant ate ice cream with a fork. He always wore a white tee shirt under another shirt, even if the other shirt was another white tee shirt. Grant was tall, and slight of build, but very fast, and elegant when he moved. I’d never seen him stumble or fall down. He worked long hours at the Pizza Joint, trying to pay off the final four-grand of tuition he owed NYU so he could get his diploma. That debt wasn’t Grant’s fault. His father was a gambler and couldn’t pay that final tab. Grant had a crooked smile and he only trusted a few of his friends. I think he trusted me. Grant liked to swear a lot. He liked fucking with the Pizza Joint customers whenever he could. Sometimes he’d greet an obnoxious-looking customer with silence and head nods only. Invariably, the obnoxious-looking customer would talk slow and loud because they assumed Grant (who was Korean) didn’t speak English. They’d mumble exasperated stuff under their breath when Grant didn’t respond. Finally, he’d give the customer their pizza and make some comment like, “You gonna eat all that? You leavin’ town or somethin’?” and his voice was loud and had that thick Long Island accent of his. Grant drank orange soda all day long. Grant would be too quick to tease sometimes, but he always gave me an unqualified apology if I needed one.Grant was more than a collection of eccentricities or character traits, but that is what he’s been reduced to. I love you and miss you, Grant.