by Joel Arnold
I never met Jill, so we never had a daughter.
What, then, had I become?
I searched my apartment. It already felt familiar. I knew where everything was even before finding it — not that there was much to find. Pay stubs from a place called the Rigel Company. What did I — I was a mailroom clerk there. Jesus, I already felt a pang of the job’s drudgery.
In my old life (I’m calling it “my old life” already?) I was an accountant at a software company. Not the best, but it paid well. A lot better than a mail clerk position. Jill was the one who got me out of the world of dead-end jobs, encouraging me to finish my college degree, to give myself some credit.
Jill—
But here in the trash and piled up next to it were empty pizza boxes, empty cans of tuna and Campbell’s soup and three empty bottles of Jim Beam. God, how long had it been since I’d had a drink? In this new life, apparently not long. Already I felt my tongue slide across my lips in anticipation of a bourbon and Coke.
This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. But—
Something caught my eye. A stack of compact discs piled next to a portable CD player. Within that pile were six post-1980 John Lennon CD’s.
I forgot about my loss, my newfound poverty, and picked out a CD.
On the cover was a picture of John and Yoko walking through Central Park with a seven year old Sean. I slid a disc into the CD player and pressed play.
Strangely enough, the songs were familiar, like old friends, already stored in my new set of memories. And just like John’s pre-1980 songs, these cut to the bone. He sang with such raw emotion and power, I wondered how he was able to keep from breaking down during each take. It was amazing. Tears dripped from my eyes in a slow, gentle rain.
Listen—
Music bypasses the skin, the muscle, the bone and travels directly to the heart and mind. It amplifies our feelings and reminds us of our soul. Music, like nothing else, spreads our humanity from person to person like the shockwave of a nuclear bomb.
I spent the rest of the night listening to his CD’s, not eating, not sleeping, only stumbling from a worn-out beanbag chair to use the bathroom.
But also — I was afraid. Tremors ran through my body like a colony of ants. Here was the voice of a dead man. A man I’d resurrected.
And I found myself longing.
Longing for Jill.
Longing for Brianna. My daughter. By saving John Lennon’s life, I had snuffed my daughter out of existence.
I found a bottle of Jim Beam. I held it up to the light. The seal was broken and a third of the contents was gone. I stared at it as if I was staring at a shiny bauble. The label blurred. I tilted the bottle to my lips and drank.
Later, I curled up into a corner, shivering with fever, John’s music playing, filling the room with the sound of a modern-day Lazarus. At times, it wrapped around me like a warm blanket. At other times, it unsettled so much that I pressed my thumbs into my temples to keep my head from exploding.
How could the joy of changing the world be so fleeting? I felt empty, I felt like I’d been hung by my ankles over a rocky abyss. One day in this new world and my life was already unbearable. Was this the price I had to pay? And to whom was I paying it? No one would ever know what I’d done.
And what was the reward?
The CD player stopped. I popped in another disc and pressed play.
The music.
The music was my reward.
The next morning, my head throbbing, the taste of rot in my mouth, I searched for Jill. What had become of her? In this new world, we’d never met, yet why did I still remember her? Why did I remember Bree? Why didn’t my old memories get washed away the moment I saved John’s life? The memories were painful, a curse. How could my daughter weigh so heavily in my mind when she was a mere dream, a fragment of shadow from some other life?
I couldn’t find Jill in the phonebook. Perhaps she had married. I called her parents. I told her mother I was an old high school friend.
“Oh, I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.” Her mother sounded as I’d remembered her, always cordial, always in the middle of a cigarette.
I choked out the words — “Is Jill — is she married?”
Her mother laughed. “Five years. They just celebrated their anniversary in Bermuda.” She exhaled and I could almost smell the smoke through the receiver. “I offered to tag along and take care of Danny, but they said they’d manage.”
“Danny?”
“Their son.”
A son.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks. I’ll give her a call.” I hung up. My stomach lurched.
I vomited. I cried. An hour went by before I had the will to clean up the slick mess.
And all the while, I listened to his music.
At least there was that.
He still sang about love. About peace. About the frailty of men and women, their vulnerabilities and weaknesses. He sang about the strength of the heart. The resiliency of the soul. Mostly, he sang about you and me and how the world is a crazy, strange place, and how we should embrace it for what it is. We should love each other for who we are.
Yet there I sat, with the people I cared about, the ones closest to me, wiped from existence, like chalk from a board of slate. And John’s songs, old and new, told me that this is not right. They told me that in my attempt to save the world by bringing him back, I destroyed my own world.
The phone rang, but I didn’t answer. I unplugged it from the wall. I grew hungry, and I welcomed the hunger as punishment for what I’d done. I listened to his music, listened to it all, the old and the new. I listened to it over and over, rocking on my knees, leaning over the kitchen sink with eyes closed, swaying, swooning, drinking in his music and letting it fill the deepening fissures of my psyche. Twice, I held a razor blade over my wrist. I took off my clothes. I poured bourbon over my head, letting it rain over my face and sting my eyes. I screamed. I cursed myself until my voice gave out.
I listened. I danced.
Though my voice was broken, I mouthed the words in a rasp.
Other tenants pounded on the walls, but I ignored them. I rolled on the floor and cried and hit the refrigerator with my fists until I lost all the feeling in my hands.
And then I made a decision. I knew what I had to do. I knew how to make things right.
I lay on my back on the floor with an old Army surplus blanket rolled beneath my head. I cleared my mind. Prayed I had the strength. The strength to travel far enough, long enough. The strength to make things right.
There’s a famous picture of John taken by Bob Gruen in 1974. In it, John stands at the base of the Statue of Liberty giving the peace sign. He looks so human in that photograph, like he could be your brother or friend, and just looking at that, to think that this man, this very man I’m looking at, was shot — not once, but four times — the hollow point bullets merciless as they devoured him…
It made me ill.
I had a postcard of this photograph in the apartment, and I stared at it, no longer feeling hunger, no longer feeling pain. My tears had long since dried up, and all I could do was croak out the words, “I’m sorry.”
I traveled.
Words, printed words, appear, come into focus, and at first I’m afraid I failed, I grabbed hold of the wrong thread, the wrong hook. But as my eyes skim the words, I recognize the sentences, recognize the voice in the words. Holden Caulfield. The Catcher in the Rye. Mark David Chapman’s eyes, the same eyes I see through, devour the text like holy scripture.
He looks up. The Dakota is a huge brick mountain in front of us. The gun is heavy in his pocket.
The white limousine pulls up. First the woman steps out. Black hair cropped short over a complexion of cream-kissed coffee.
Then he steps out. My hero. My idol.
I fight through the voices in Chapman’s head, trying to gain a foothold. My hands rise steadily. Jesus, no. But it’s not me, I remind myself through the cacophony. It’
s not me, it’s him. It’s Chapman. This is how it was meant to be. I had no business changing the course of history. I had no business changing something that already was.
Do it, I tell him. I’m fighting my own conscience as much as his.
Do it, do it, do it!
“Mr. Lennon.” The voice comes out of my mouth, his mouth, and again I watch John turn. Again, I watch his eyes, his kind eyes finding me through the night, and this time I let the fingers, my fingers, his fingers, do their work, the work they were meant to do. They firmly squeeze the trigger.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The hollow points rip into him, into the man I most admire, and it is me pulling the trigger. No, it’s him, it’s Mark David Chapman, but this time I don’t fight him, this time I am complicit in the deed.
Blood splashes across the ground beneath the Dakota lights.
“I’ve been shot.” John’s voice. This is the first time I’ve heard his voice undiluted by electronics, his voice floating unhindered into my — into Chapman’s — ears. Jesus.
But I think of Jill. I think of Brianna. This is how it was meant to be. They — my wife, my child — were meant to be, and this is the only way I can get them back.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” the doorman asks.
I shove him aside and lean over John’s body, now sprawled over the steps of the entryway. I ignore Yoko’s screams, ignore her pounding on my back. I push and force Chapman to grab John’s collar. I force Chapman’s mouth to open. Force words out. Force him to say,
“I’m sorry.”
Force him to say,
“I love you.”
John is still alive, but he can’t talk, and already a squad car screeches to a halt, and with one last push I force Chapman’s arm to rise and bring the gun smashing down on John’s skull.
I had to be sure.
I need to go back now. It’s done. The world is right again. I need to get back to Jill. To Brianna. I’m ready. I’m ready. Take me back. Take me back.
But — I still feel Yoko punching me, kicking me. I feel the rough hands of cops pull me away and throw me to the ground. I hear Yoko screaming. I hear I hear I hear
Attica prison. 2006. There are times I remember the old me. Times I remember the man who loved Jill, who loved Brianna.
But every day, I forget a little bit more.
But the songs. I still remember the songs. They are wonderful songs. Beautiful songs. I sing them every day so that I won’t forget them.
I sing them out loud.
I sing them to the tiny cracks in the walls, and I sing them to the voices in my head. There are so many voices.
His songs and the voices in my head are all that keep me sane.
FETAL POSITION
and Other Stories
Turista
Portman lay sick in the back of the pickup, his throat like a sponge drying on hot asphalt, the crystalline glare from the stars making his skin ache. China had thrown together a bed for him: the two blankets they haggled for in San Miguel, and a small pillow she’d made in home-ec over twelve years ago. The pillow was soaked through with his sweat.
The drive was endless. Over 1100 miles from Mexico City to El Paso through central Mexico, and at night the countryside was all looming shadows edged with silver.
He slid in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he’d sit up with the wind howling through his hair, unable to tell how far they’d gone, or where they were. Sometimes it seemed as if they’d traveled 200 miles in a few minutes, while other times, it seemed to take hours just to burrow through the deserted streets of some shit-hole town.
“How are you doing back there?” China had to yell to be heard through the small window at the back of the pick-up’s cab.
Portman sat with his back to the cab, the blankets pulled tight around him. He turned to the open window and shook his head. He saw China’s eyes in the rearview mirror, wide with worry, darting between him and the endless, snaking road ahead. His mouth felt full of sand, but when he hefted the plastic water jug up to his lips and sipped, his abdomen clenched in protest.
“We’re making good time.” Most of China’s words were swallowed by the wind and the noise of the truck’s engine. “We should be in Chihuahua by morning.”
Portman closed his eyes tight against the harsh starlight. He had tried averting his eyes earlier by looking down at himself, but it had made him nauseous seeing his stomach, feeling it churn and recoil and writhe within.
The truck hit a painful series of bumps in the road, and then there was China’s voice.
“—the chicken or maybe the chocolate. Could’ve been the chocolate. Wasn’t wrapped. That’s not a good sign. That’s never a good sign.”
Portman wondered how long she had been talking. He had given up responding to her conversations earlier in the evening, shortly before the sun had finished stretching long shadows across the highway like dirty taffy. It took too much effort to talk. Too much energy to respond. He sensed that China knew this, and felt maybe she was talking to him to keep herself awake. Sometimes he was thankful for her voice, and other times it was unbearable.
He took another weak sip of water. It felt like a dull knife jabbing him in the guts. But he was dehydrated. He needed more. He took a deep breath, raised the jug to his lips and poured it down his throat. When the water hit his stomach, it was like an explosion of glass. He fell to his side gasping for air, wheezing, trying to hold the water down. The thing in his stomach—
“—you doing?”
China was yelling again.
“I said how are you doing?”
Portman felt the truck begin to slow down. He forced himself to sit up, his stomach screaming in protest. He looked through the small open window into the cab and shook his head. Even that was hard. “No,” he said, his vocal cords shredded. “Keep going.”
China glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “You look like shit.”
“Keep going.” Portman wrapped his fingers loosely around the cold metal at his side. He wished she would just keep her eyes focused in the cone of the headlights and shut up. He closed his eyes again and concentrated. Constricted his wrist and triceps to lift.
“Keep going.” His words were swallowed by the long silver-lined throat of night as he pointed the gun at China’s neck.
“Hey, okay. Okay. Put that down.” She peeked at him one more time in the rearview mirror, then turned her attention to the road ahead. Portman felt the truck accelerate, the vibrations of the passing road turning from a trot to a gallop. He let his arm drop to his side, his fingers too tired to unwrap themselves from the pistol’s grip.
They had known each other for only two months before embarking on their journey. Met the last month of their sophomore year in college, their passion consuming and sweaty, increasing at a feverish pitch. They wanted to see the world. Expand their minds. Fuck like animals.
Neither of them knew much Spanish or had ever been to Mexico, but they poured over the guidebooks. They didn’t want to experience Mexico from first class resorts and restaurants. They wanted to starve a little, hurt a little. What better way to experience the world than through the crystal clarity that a little suffering can bring. Besides, most of their money was already earmarked for their last few years of school.
The trip south had gone great. Seeing the countryside of the central highlands, the colonial towns, the small villages in between. They ate mysterious meats from street-carts, tortillas hand-made by little wrinkled women squatting at the sides of roads. They drank cheap beer and tequila. They wanted to remain lucid, but a slight buzz was better than no buzz at all.
Yet even after all the driving, the hours and hours of driving, they didn’t really know each other. But hell, the sex was great and it seemed to get better the hungrier they were, the dirtier.
They fucked like animals. He buried himself in her, felt the primal force of her heat turn him inside out, like snakes coupling, their limbs twisting about each o
ther, shaping, reshaping.
When the time came to head north again, they were worn out. Almost out of money. Walking the fine line of getting too much of a good thing. Neither of them said it, but both knew that when they got home, they would take a break from each other. Not break up, but cool off. They knew the dangers of flying too close to the flame.
One of the last towns they stayed in was Guanajuato, about four hours north of Mexico City. China turned in early, but Portman wanted to drink up a little more culture. He watched China fall asleep next to him, and then stepped out of their simple motel room. Only two blocks away, he found the tavern—
—“Don’t you dare fucking stop.” Portman struggled to lift the gun. He didn’t want to hurt her, and hoped to God his finger didn’t slip on the sweat-slick trigger. But the truck had been slowing down.
He almost didn’t notice it. Sleep had overcome him, dreams of vibration and the sounds of things sliding wet and slimy over the earth. But when the truck slowed, the hiss of the wind died, and it was the approach of silence that screamed at Portman. He tapped the barrel of the gun on the frame of the cab’s window. “You can’t stop.”
“What’s happened to you?” There was fear and exhaustion and frustration in China’s voice. “I can’t go on forever. I can’t.”
Portman sucked in a mouthful of air. “You have to,” he managed. He touched the gun’s nozzle to her cheek. “’Til morning.”
She barely winced, but the engine roared back to life as she pressed heavily on the gas.
“Good girl,” Portman whispered. He let his hand drop to his side.
The hot, smoky tavern glowed with candlelight reflected off the polished wooden tables, off the mirror and liquor bottles behind the bar. He’d already had one too many shots of tequila and hadn’t paid for a single one.
“Here, friend, have another.” Juan slid a fresh shot across the table. It left a trail of spilled tequila in it’s path. Friends were easy to make when you were the only white guy in a bar full of Mexicans. A novelty.
