The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  My stomach is upset.

  I’m a vegan.

  No, thanks. I’m allergic.

  There are a million excuses for her not to eat, but these are the greatest hits. I hear them every day. Mostly she uses them to fend off the lunch and dinner offers of other people who are polite enough to pretend to believe her. She doesn’t say them to me anymore. I’ve called her on it too much.

  —I already ate.

  —No you didn’t.

  —I’ll eat later.

  —No you won’t.

  —My stomach is upset.

  —No it’s not.

  —Fuck off. I’m not eating.

  She’s killing herself.

  Lisa’s asleep in bed next to me. She always goes down before I do. Denial can be exhausting. Also, I think she likes the idea that I will take care of locking up and setting the coffee maker and turning off all the lights and whatever else has to be done. So do I. This is the routine that we have discovered works for us. We kill ourselves at work all day, meet up at home, and bore a hole in our heads with the predictable tropes of Law & Order while tamping down the rush of thoughts in our heads with our drugs of choice.

  At some point the disease takes on a life of its own. It is an extra tenant in our apartment. The uninvited guest at every dinner we share together. It doesn’t take much for the simple exercise of self-control to spiral into something so much worse. Coping mechanisms are insidious.

  The sheets are crisp and the windows are cracked so wisps of the fall air can get in. I’m enjoying the last quarter of the double scotch I poured myself ten minutes ago. I can’t sleep without it. She’ll have a drink if it’s the only option but prefers to self-medicate with weed. Either way, we both get where we’re going. She just gets there sooner.

  I suspect it’s too late for me to help her without professional intervention. I barely have tools to maintain a relationship with her when she’s not overwhelmed with guilt and anger. But this. It’s beyond me. She’s emaciated to the point of concern.

  I watch her when she doesn’t know I’m looking and she seems so empty and lost. Lisa is thirty-five but in these unguarded moments, all I see is a little girl I want to take care of but can’t get close enough to. She’s backed herself into a corner she doesn’t have to be in. Her dad is going to die whether she starves herself or not.

  Sometimes when she’s desperate enough, she tries to talk to me but I don’t have the facilities to manage that much raw emotion. Or I did but I used them all up selfishly on myself years ago. I nod and try to think of something to say that won’t sound stupid or trite but it’s usually both and she slams shut again.

  I find myself confused by the storyline on the television and realize I’ve been nodding off for the last fifteen minutes. I finish the scotch on principal and move to turn the lights off when I see Lisa’s sleeping with her glasses on. She really expects me to take care of everything.

  I slip them off her face, fold them, and put them on her nightstand. In the process I stir her from the deep sleep she was already in. She furrows her brow and says something about me being an asshole but she doesn’t fully wake up and I know she won’t remember it tomorrow morning.

  I lie back and turn my light off. I thought I would make a better adult.

  41

  —I need you to choke me.

  Flaco misunderstands what I’m asking him to do because he barely speaks English which is infuriating and impressive at the same time. Fucking guy has been in America for twenty-whatever years from wherever he snuck in from and hasn’t ever so much as stopped rolling his r’s when he buys a lap dance.

  I speak slower, as if that might help, and throw in some hand gestures.

  —Not choke me like rough sex. I mean choke me until I pass out. And then a little bit more.

  I need something less risky. Something predictable. Quantifiable. I can’t keep hoping the ambulance gets to me in time. Plus I’ll get committed if I keep it up. That’s not my goal here. Maybe I can get the job done with the right amount of choking in the safety of my own home. Not enough to kill me kill me, but enough to get me back to The White long enough to nab another memory before Flaco slaps me awake or whatever. I wonder if he knows CPR. That would be such a bonus. If he doesn’t, there’s got to be a YouTube video for that. We’ll look it up before we get down to business.

  I thought about hiring a dominatrix who makes house calls, only I can’t help but think whoever I find won’t be entirely trustworthy. I feel like sex workers are usually in the industry for all the wrong reasons. Besides if she’s any good at her job, the last thing she’ll want to do is actually kill someone. Bad for business.

  So I called Flaco.

  He’s got meaty hands like you’d want if your job was cracking walnuts for a living. Ham hands. From what I understand he grew up working with concrete. That’ll do it. He could squeeze the life out of me with little to no effort. With that volume of muscle fiber, he should have a high degree of control. In theory.

  Nuance is the key here. If he crushes my windpipe, I’m done. And from what I understand that only takes about fourteen pounds of pressure. Knowing how to apply pressure by degree is the secret. A dimmer switch as opposed to a toggle. I wonder if Flaco would understand that analogy. Probably not. I don’t know that he’s a nuance kind of guy.

  Flaco finishes his beer, shakes his head, and mumbles some Spanish, most of which I don’t get except the part where he calls me gay. He’s disgusted but smells money so he stays.

  You’d think he’d be used to odd requests like this. Flaco was our go-to scumbag when the firm needed some quasi-legal work done. Surveillance pictures. Dirt on an ex-husband. The address of a mistress. Shrooms. He was our guy. One time a colleague paid him to plant she-male porn on an opposing counsel’s work laptop to ease the negotiation process. Even if he won’t do it himself, he must know someone who can help me. Plus he knows how to keep quiet about what he sees.

  I know as long as I’m buying, Flaco will sit here. I’ll wear him down. I nod at the bartender for another round and tell him to keep them coming. I’m sure I can outdrink Flaco.

  We sit and watch the game for another half an hour. Flaco manages to get three more beers and two shots into his fat belly before he finally loosens up.

  —Five thousand.

  Jesus, with that thick accent. I have to repeat his offer and clarify, because god forbid he elucidates on his own.

  —Five thousand. You’ll do it?

  —No. La Medica.

  His interpersonal skills are fucking terrible. What is he talking about?

  —La Medica. Who’s that? You got a guy who can help?

  He shrugs and I think it means yes.

  —La Medica es un… doc-tor.

  A doctor.

  Perfect. I knew Flaco would come through. Why hadn’t I thought of approaching a doctor? People doctor-shop for prescription meds all the time. And these guys have to know they’re dealing with addicts, right? What’s the difference here? I’m not hurting anyone but myself and I stopped caring about that weeks ago. There must be doctors who need a little extra gambling cash and are willing to overlook a few minor details like laws and oaths. Flexibility. That’s what I’m looking for. There’s always a gray area. I need a doctor who doesn’t mind practicing there.

  —La Medica. She’s bad. She’s a bad person.

  She? Really? I always pictured my bad doctors as either overconfident asshats with no conscience or quivering desperados with no choice. Always men, though. I feel like women are better than this. But apparently, they aren’t.

  —You know where she is? You have her number?

  —We no can call. I show you.

  Flaco has a body like a sack of bowling balls. He’s not a big man, but he’s solid. Dense. No way I could outwrestle him. It dawns on me now that I’m asking him to help me do something highly illegal and he’s offering to take me somewhere I have to think is dark and on the other side of safe. I should be w
ary, but what’s the worst that happens? He kills me?

  —So, great. Let’s go.

  —Five thousand.

  I patiently explain to Flaco that I don’t have five thousand dollars. He seems to think that lawyers all make salaries in the five to ten million dollar range and walk around with pimp rolls. We go back and forth a few times before he finally settles for my fifty-inch flat screen and four Oxycontin. Harry would have been so proud.

  —Let’s go.

  —Where are we going? Her office? It’s ten o’clock at night.

  —The dog fights.

  42

  *It’s a year and nine months ago.

  I’m standing in the kitchen arguing with Lisa about whether or not we even want to have kids after we officially get the word that her pregnancy test is negative. She got a positive reading from the test she bought at the drug store that guarantees it’s 97 percent accurate and then went to the doctor to make sure. Turns out she was in the 3 percent.

  We haven’t had sex in five weeks.

  I’m watching her talk and wondering why she can’t finish a sentence but I’m not saying anything because it doesn’t matter. She’s so beautiful. Even more so when I’m angry.

  She’s stammering and justifying and explaining her position of waiting until the time is right and I don’t care so I’m quiet while she rambles. With nothing to stem the stream of consciousness she’s trying to pass off as a logical soliloquy, she tangents into more haranguing about the Vegas thing. I’ve got plenty to say about that but it’s all been said before and she’s so worked up there’s no way she’d hear me. This is so much anger and avoidance, but what it is not is communication.

  On the upside, the affair I’m convinced she’s having has replaced her anorexia as her preferred means of distraction from her father’s impending death. So there’s that.

  I wonder what would happen if I brought my open hand down really hard on top of my almost empty wine glass. Could I do it hard enough that the bowl would shatter and the stem would jam straight through my palm and out the back of my hand? It would have to be pretty forceful and there’s a good chance of the stem running into a bone. I think the bones in your hand break easily, but probably not from wine glass stems. Still, I’m dying to find out.

  We were supposed to be at the Grossmans’ half an hour ago but she won’t let go of the Vegas thing even though I know it’s not really about the Vegas thing. I know she doesn’t care about the Vegas thing because I overheard her annoying girlfriend ask her about it and I heard Lisa laugh. I don’t say anything about her annoying girlfriend. Fucking hate Michelle.

  I raise my hand to about the height at which I feel like I could generate the most velocity and hold it there. I could change the course of the evening in an instant if I brought it straight down. We could have a nice, intimate four-hour chat in the emergency room waiting area. I’m losing the buzz of emotion and severing a tendon won’t get it back. Fuck it. I run my hand through my hair like I’m frustrated and then refill my wine glass. Funny how that can be appropriate in conversations like this. Civilized muggings that they are.

  Fighting is the only way we connect lately so I jump back into the conversation and pile on with cheap shots and half truths to keep the conversation going. I love you so much, Lisa. Fuck the Grossmans.

  43

  Flaco keeps passing out on the train.

  I shouldn’t have given him the Oxy up front. I make him write the address out for me in case he nods off for good. Not that I know the Bronx at all.

  What would Lisa think of this move? Probably not much. Too impulsive. I’d love to explain my reasoning to her, but I know I’ll never get that chance. Not that she would listen.

  I fall asleep for a few minutes and then jump awake when I’m convinced the train has run off a cliff and is plunging into a ravine. There are no cliffs in New York City. I’m so tired.

  We get off at 183rd street. Flaco uses my shoulder more and more to keep himself upright. God damn he’s heavy for a short guy.

  I follow his slurry directions for forty-five minutes and we end up outside a twenty-four-hour grocery store that claims to have a wide selection of Mediterranean options. This is the address. It’s almost midnight.

  In my head I’m fighting with Lisa.

  —Really? The Bronx? You fucking idiot. This neighborhood is one of the most dangerous parts of the city.

  —What could happen?

  —You could die.

  —I’ve died twice this week. What else could happen?

  It’s quiet inside. Not a lot of twenty-four-hour shopping being done right now. The check out girl looks up from her texting to watch me like the sore thumb that I am. The homies in the back by the storage room entrance slide their heavily lidded eyeballs our way and then look to each other as we approach the door.

  Flaco nods and waits for them to move. They don’t. So we wait for them to speak. Apparently, this is the protocol.

  —’Sup?

  I don’t even know Flaco’s last name. We always paid him cash.

  Flaco mumbles some garbled Spanish to the security detail and includes the words La Medica.

  Silence. More quick looks.

  The skinny one sighs and gives an almost imperceptible chin bob to indicate that we’re cleared and the rest move enough for us to get by. As they slide back, I notice each has a handgun tucked under his shirt. Despite the Oxy, Flaco looks nervous.

  44

  (If you would indulge me for a moment.)

  For those of you unfamiliar with the intricacies of dog fighting—and for the sake of decorum I will assume that encompasses the vast majority of you—a quick summary of the world our man has entered: It is fight night.

  The fighters are dogs. The contests are brutal. This description is invariably and inarguably accurate. This is the fantastical microcosm the owners, bookies, and fans of dog fighting have created. A self-contained hell with its own bizarre rules and specific rituals agreed upon by the participants and rigorously enforced by the hosts. To the outsider, it is the shabby and primitive distraction of mean-spirited rubes. But to those involved, dog fighting is life.

  The world is kept as secret as possible but, inevitably, reports from incidental or accidental eyewitnesses bleed out into the real world. Tales of unimaginable cruelty are whispered, with only the slightest tinge of pride, between shocked relatives. Posthumous horror stories of atrocities committed in the name of competitiveness are breathlessly related by on-the-spot reporters moments after a police raid. Regretful visitors explain their initial curiosity and eventual distaste for the sport to quasi-judgmental friends. Word spreads.

  I heard they have a special stand they strap the prize female dogs to so the winning male studs can rape them to make super strong puppies.

  I heard they electrocute the losers with a cut lamp cord and it can take up to ten shocks to kill them.

  I heard they cut fighting dogs’ ears off with wire cutters so there’s nothing for an opponent to grab onto.

  The stories are shameful enough that they are forcefully dispatched to the far recesses of memory as soon as the words are processed. Ignored to better pretend the world in which we live is not so hateful and cold. The natural byproduct of this collective contrived ignorance is the preservation of the layer of secrecy shrouding the sport. Who enjoys discussing such inhumanities?

  The trainers do. Training regimens are endlessly refined and continuously optimized. Once it is determined that fighting dogs are of no value beyond their win/loss record and the winnings associated therein, there is no length to which the top competitors won’t go.

  The training of a fighting dog involves raising it from birth to adulthood restrained with heavy chains, and later additional weights, to build upper body strength. The dog is administered severe and frequent abuse to engender aggression and starved regularly to create severe hunger and profound desperation. They are made to tug on hanging objects to increase jaw strength and their teeth are
filed to points to ensure the infliction of maximal damage to their equally sadistically trained opponents. Add to this a carefully calculated, protein-rich diet along with a generous helping of steroids and you end up with an animal composed almost entirely of angry muscles, razor sharp fangs, and mercenary attitude. A killing machine.

  To prepare a dog for a fight, the combatants, usually bred for the sport, are beaten, baited, and made to spar with smaller, less dangerous animals including cats, rabbits, and smaller dogs who have been kidnapped from wherever convenient. Perhaps this is what happened to the faithful companion you left tied up outside the grocery store while you ran in for only a moment. If not yours, then thousands of others. A good trainer can go through a raft of live opponents in a week’s time. The hope is that the regimen will spark a taste for fighting, blood, and killing as the dogs mature and grow stronger. It will become part of a fighting dog’s DNA.

  As you might suspect, but are trying to avoid lingering on, an event like this with more than a dozen of these very dangerous dogs must mean a great deal of bloodshed and mayhem and injury.

  You are correct.

  Dogs lose ears. Eyes. Blood. Legs.

  The losers are destroyed immediately. No one likes a loser. But often the winners will sustain serious injury during a match and need immediate attention their owners lack the knowledge or ability to give them. Some need stitches. Some need broken limbs set to heal. Some need blood transfusions. Some need more than that. Whatever damage has been done will have to be repaired as soon as possible. Winners have to fight again, after all.

  So they are taken to see La Medica.

  45

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  These people are animals. The pit in the middle of the basement is about five feet deep and fifteen feet wide with a hundred frothing lower class gamblers crammed around it. You can smell the tension and the testosterone and the intensity.

  The screaming. Men rabid in the throes of gambling. There must be ten thousand dollars in fives and tens exchanging hands as I walk by the ring. A pit bull is squaring off against a…