The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  That’s Christian Franco and the gentleman intends to prove it to them.

  64

  I decide the only thing I can spend my remaining cash on is food.

  Which means I can’t afford to pay for a cab and I can’t take the ride and beat the fare because I can barely walk much less outrun some fat Czech driver. Looks like I’m shuffling home.

  It’s late afternoon. There are no windows in Cordoba’s lab so this comes as a surprise to me. Could have been midnight for all I knew. I head up Allen and make a left on Broome when I hear my name. They must have been calling me for a while because by the time it registers whoever is calling sounds agitated.

  It’s a man. He may be someone I recognize.

  —Franco?! Christian?!

  It’s a guy from the law firm. I think his name is DiRienz. Frank. Or James. We used to be office friends. Sometimes we got drunk together. I sort of remember him. He talks very loud. As I recall, he felt it made him a better litigator. It didn’t. He smiles and I can’t tell if he’s happy to see me or happy to see that I look like a deranged homeless guy.

  —Dude, what the fuck?

  He must have walked by me and realized who I am a few steps later. He’s walking back up toward me followed by a gaggle of adoring douchebags from the office. I used to know some of them.

  —I heard you got fired for driving a car into a bank or some shit.

  I find them hostile although I doubt they intend to be. They’re smiling with their perfect teeth. Leering interchangeable hyenas. I can see they’re shocked by my appearance. I should be embarrassed but I’m enjoying their discomfort on so many levels.

  —Aren’t you supposed to be in rehab or something?

  That’s not concern in his voice. I’m silent because I have nothing to say to Frank or James DiRienz. He’s not concerned for me. He’s digging for a good story to tell the boys at the Monday morning staff meeting. His eyes are eating me up.

  —Well, um, it’s great to see you. Are you working or . . .

  He trails off when even he realizes what an idiotic question it is. Yes, FrankOrJames. I’m working. I’m running M&A at Goldman. I’m heading up NASA’s next Mars expedition. I just signed a three-picture deal with Warner Bros.

  Look at me. I’ll never work again. It’s not an unsettling thought.

  I turn to walk off and as I do, I bump into a guy in a chicken costume handing out flyers for a local restaurant. The impact knocks my arm and sends my syringe/magic meds pack flying out of my pocket to the ground. The ground! FrankOrJames and his dipshit buddies all see it. And there they’ve got their story for Monday. Not only do they see the syringe fall out but they watch me scramble to grab it. It’s my lifeblood and I act like it. The street is crowded and if someone steps on it, I’m fucked.

  I drop to all fours and lunge for the vial before an old lady crushes it with her chunky, sensible shoes. I’m flat on my stomach across the sidewalk. Who cares. I hold my meds and syringe close to my chest and stand back up. FrankOrJames and company eye me very closely. What am I supposed to do here, boys? Take a bow? Fuck off.

  I start to move past them when FrankOrJames puts a hand on my shoulder. I’m not sure why he feels the gesture is appropriate. I don’t think we were that close. We might have done some blow in a bathroom once. Maybe I’m wrong. I know when he walks away the first thing he’ll do is wash his hands.

  —Bro, are you okay? You need to talk to someone?

  Mmm-hmm. Why don’t you give Arnold Rosen a call for me? Oh, never mind, I already solved this problem myself. I cracked the code. Something you, FrankOrJames, will never do. But I don’t feel like explaining that to you because I guaran-fucking-tee you wouldn’t understand. Take your little news update back to the hive and choke on it, bro.

  —I have to go.

  I move past the slack-jawed meatheads with their padded bellies and continue toward my home. I wonder if they’re taking pictures of me with their phones but I don’t care enough to look back over my shoulder. This little incident shouldn’t take too long to get back to Harry. That doesn’t bother me. I’m done with him.

  My legs start to warm up as I shamble along. Soon it almost feels like a walk. Like I’m human.

  I don’t hear the footsteps of whoever is following me. I feel them. It strikes me as absurd that DiRienz would continue the ruse of concerned former coworker this far. He was never that committed to the joke as I recall. More of a one-liner kind of guy. But I know he’s there and it’s one more thing I have to deal with. I can’t have anyone interfering with what I’m doing no matter how much they think they can help me.

  I turn up Bowery. This will do the trick. DiRienz was most likely headed for happy hour and every step he takes after me puts him that much farther away from his next Jägerbomb. Yet I still feel him. Good god, could it be that he has an iota of altruistic tendencies in his dinky little brain? Impossible. So why is he still there?

  Every ounce of energy I have left I consider sacred, but I decide to invest some of it in turning around to tell Frank or James to fuck right off. Pretty sure it will pay off in the long run.

  He’s not there.

  My side of the street is empty. On the other side an old lady pushes a cart the opposite direction. So what was all that about?

  Side effects. I’m still waking up. I was dead only days before this and in a coma until thirty-six hours ago. There must be lingering effects. How could there not be?

  I start moving again and right away I know I’m not alone.

  I can’t hear the footsteps. But I know someone is there. Was there a doorway or something to hide in that I missed? Where are they?

  I turn left on Kenmare and speed my pace up as much as I can, which isn’t much. Halfway down the block I turn back. There’s a shopkeeper pulling a hose out to spray down his sidewalk. And a woman paying for parking. And a guy walking my way. Casually walking toward me with long confident strides. Smirking.

  I’m projecting way too much on this guy. He’s no one. I cross the street anyway. Fuck it. I’ll go over here and watch him pass.

  The syringe and meds are still in my front pocket in the vice grip of my hand. I am taking no chances.

  On the other side of the street I look back to see the guy with the smirk has followed me over here. Or he had business over here and came over without thinking twice about me. It’s possible. Calm down.

  No way this guy is from the city. Who smirks? And what’s with the mustache? He’s got a major Goose Gossage mustache. Maybe he’s on his way to shoot some porn.

  I turn and move my feet as quickly as they’ll go. I know Goose McSmirk is still behind me because he’s whistling. Who whistles? That fucking mustache makes me crazy. I’m hyper-focusing because of stress. It’s a release. It must be.

  I turn up Elizabeth and I know I’m about a block and a half from my house. Five seconds later I look back and see him make the same turn. He’s gaining quickly but I’ve only seen him walking casually. Is he running when I’m not looking? He looks like he’s in shape, but I don’t think college sprinters can make that kind of time. How is he moving so fast? He’s not making eye contact, but he is looking past me every time I look back. Like he’s looking ahead to where I’m going. My heart is working hard now, although I can’t be sure how much is anxiety and how much is basic necessity to keep my worn-out body upright and moving forward. That whistling. I hate tourists. They’re always such happy simpletons. He must be from out of town. With that corny, dated outfit.

  I’m worried about tripping and landing on my medicine. That has to remain my top priority. Get the meds home in one piece and shoot them into my god damn arm. There can be nothing else. Keep moving.

  I tell myself he’s not moving faster but I know he is. He’s gaining. I won’t look back. I don’t have to. The whistling is louder. Can I run? Is that possible? Is it smart? What if he is following me? Why? What could he possibly want from me? I don’t know this guy. I have nothing. Does he want my meds? T
hat’s not happening. But do I want him to know where I live? I should circle the block and see if he follows but I know I don’t have the energy for that. I’m heading straight for my apartment. At this rate, we’ll reach my front door at the same time.

  I’m sweating and it’s awkward to speed stagger with my hand in my pocket. I slide the meds out and use both hands to hold them. My mind is strong. I’ll will myself to move my legs faster. I am the Lance Armstrong of Frankensteins. If I need to run I’ll run. My legs move and I’m gaining speed.

  Don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall don’t fall.

  I can’t bring myself to turn around to see if he’s speeded up as well. He might still be whistling, but running without crashing is taking every ounce of focus I have so I don’t know for sure. I’m moving better than I expected. The body is an incredible thing. I turn left on Prince and I’m half a block away from my building.

  As I approach the front door I realize I don’t have the coordination to pull out my key with my one free hand while I’m going this fast. I don’t even know if I still have my key. I stopped locking the door to my apartment months ago. Sometimes I left it wide open when I went out. But the front door of the building is always locked. I don’t have the time to fumble around and I can’t do anything without putting my meds somewhere first. Fuck, am I going to have to confront this guy right now?

  My neighbor walks out. I race past her before the door can close and indicate back toward Goose.

  —Don’t let that guy in here.

  I slam the front door in my neighbor’s confused/irritated face and head up the stairs as fast as my pathetic quads will let me.

  Down the hall and into my apartment. Meds on the table by the entry. Slam the door. Lock all three locks. Turn my back to the door and slide down to the floor.

  My meds are safe. I’m locked in.

  Fuck that guy.

  I’m sweating bullets and feel like crying.

  I breathe deep. It feels good.

  My heart begins to slow back down to normal.

  BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM!

  Someone pounds on my door and I don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. I jump away and watch the sliver of a shadow underneath. Two confident feet face the door.

  BOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM!

  I don’t move a muscle or say a fucking word and neither does he for two full minutes.

  And then he leaves. I hear him strut down the stairs and I’m alone.

  65

  I’m at FedEx Office.

  No one gives me a second look because homeless and crazy people come in here every day to kill time, warm up, and organize their tatty bag of newspaper clippings and scribbled, illegible rants. By comparison, I’m a slight improvement.

  I waited around my apartment for a while, eager to shoot up but reluctant to relinquish control with that weirdo lurking. And then I started looking at my drawings. Two hours later, I realized I had been so deeply focused on my art that I’ve forgotten about my creepy shadow from this afternoon. If he was even real. We never made any physical contact and, technically, I never saw him outside my door. I assumed he was there. There’s so much missing in my collection of memories. I’ve got to fill in some blanks and it didn’t take much to convince myself that I had been hallucinating the smirking mustache man. Goose. How absurd. There’s no one following me. I’m exhausted and my mind is playing horrible tricks on me. The knocking was probably the building super or a neighbor. That could be true. I tell myself it is. I have important things to do.

  I know I have to get answers, and now I’ve got a willing accomplice to kill me as often as I’d like. The formula is there. But, honestly, how long can that go on? The toll is immense and I’m deteriorating quickly. I need to focus, to target specific memories. I need help.

  I need Ella.

  What I would have spent on food tonight, I’m spending on copies. My gamble is that my meds will make up the difference. Or I’ll steal a steak. But if I can create a catalyst to enhance my efforts, it’s worth skipping dinner.

  I know Ella remembers something and even if it’s only a minor detail that might save me a trip to the afterlife or at least offer some landmarks to look for while I’m there. I need to jar her memory. I know she has scar tissue in there. I want to know what it is. That’s my scar tissue too.

  Ella has one of the loudest voices I’ve ever heard. For the most part she’s soft spoken and reasonable. She’s nice. Until she’s not nice. And then she yells.

  I’m making copies of all my back-from-the-dead drawings to show Ella. Let her yell at me. That seems to be when we communicate best. And lately, that’s the only time she can be honest with me.

  I’m at Ella’s by nine.

  The house is dark and I know before I get to the front door that no one’s home. I should have called but she would have only hung up on me if she had even picked up the phone. This was my only choice and it didn’t pay off.

  The doors and windows are locked and I don’t want to break in. She’s pissed enough already. Also it wouldn’t do me any good. I need to interact with her.

  My options are limited. Abandon this plan, go home, and shoot up. I’ll be back in action in a few days and I can continue my harvesting scheme. Or I can wait here until she gets home from wherever she is and try to talk her into spending some quality time with me.

  Or I could leave the drawings.

  I hop up and start stuffing the sketches through the mail slot. She’ll know where they came from. She’ll know they’re for her. She’ll have to do some explaining to her kids and her husband but she’ll get through that.

  I wonder how much she’s told Tim. Not much I bet. I bet she changes the subject or straight-up lies when he asks about her childhood. Although, he’s so god damn self-centered he probably never asks. Which is why she was attracted to him in the first place. His egotism was the safest place for Ella to hide. The soothing comfort of someone else’s bloated self-worth. Poor thing.

  I give up trying to land each drawing on top of the last. They’re going everywhere. Drifting left and right all over the foyer floor. She’s going to come home to a bona fide mess. Maybe that’s a good thing. I’m a mess. This is me on the floor, Ella. I’m lying here asking you to look at me. Look at me with the innocent eyes of the three-year-old you were and tell me what you see. Strip away the tired cynicism and defeated hopelessness from your worldview and look at me. Tell me what connects. I know something here touches you deep down. You were there.

  I’m fading. The adrenaline that accompanied my realization that help might only be a shocking drawing away has played itself out and I’m running on fumes. I finish feeding the last few drawings through the mail slot and walk away.

  Look at me, Ella.

  I creep back to my building, watchful and wary of my friend with the smirk. Maybe I hadn’t so thoroughly convinced myself he was an illusion after all. I tell myself it’s ludicrous and then I decide to play it safe anyway. I know that this might be the dawn of paranoia but my fear feels so authentic I can’t help but indulge it. I see nothing suspicious as I turn onto my block. No one following me. No one waiting. Nothing unusual. I have my key out early anyway.

  If you think you’re crazy, you’re not. That’s the rule, isn’t it?

  I stole two plastic-wrapped bagels with cream cheese from a deli on the way back and my stomach is eating itself in anticipation. My overwhelming anxiety won’t let me take them out of my pocket. As if the Korean I stole them from is waiting in a shadow to pounce once he confirms I walked out with something. I make myself wait. It’s ridiculous but I do it anyway.

  My apartment smells like home and I rip into a bagel the second I get the door locked. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.

  The next thing I know it’s dawn. I’ve spent the last nine hours hanging and rearranging my drawings on the exposed brick in my living room. I had a thought that they
would be easier to digest if I could look at them as one piece. The sum of the parts must mean more than the individuals. It took me this long to get them right. Eleven rows. I’m not sure how many columns. My eyes are blurring.

  Stepping back I can take in the whole crop I have harvested as one unintelligible story. The world’s worst graphic novel. Why these images? Of the entire catalogue I had to choose from, why these? They have nothing to do with each other and have zero discernible relation to my life now.

  What’s still in my head? I could fill Giants stadium. For now I have this awful comic strip of a life on my lonely, lonely wall.

  I know there’s something here. Just as I know there’s plenty missing.

  There’s nothing more I can do with this and I know that if I go any further, I’ll collapse.

  Time for the needle.

  I’m late for it and I know Cordoba will be expecting me sooner than I’m going to show up but that’s the way it’s going to have to be. I’m already paid up. She can wait.

  I fill up a gallon bottle of water and set it next to where I intend to put myself out. My mouth waters at the thought of what’s about to happen.

  I tie off.

  I shoot up.

  I pass out.

  Black.

  The next forty-eight hours are a blur of the deepest, darkest sleep I’ve ever experienced, nonsensical rambling, crying jags, fist pounding, howling, and sweating. As far as I can remember, anyway.

  I wake up once again soaked in urine, shit, and vomit. There’s some blood also, but I couldn’t tell you what orifice it came out of. The water bottle is long empty. I’m across the room from where I started.

  But I feel better. Not strong. Not bulletproof. But better. Revitalized.

  I fill the water bottle up and drink the entire thing immediately. I wonder what day it is and then remember it no longer matters. The water hits my system and wakes me up further. Whatever was in those syringes is a bloody miracle.

  I shuffle into the bathroom to take the first shower I’ve had in I don’t know how many days (weeks?) and see myself in the mirror. Such lines in my face. Not just wrinkles, but deep crags. My stitched up kidney wound is nothing but a red line that no longer hurts.