D.W. Young
dwyoung6@earthlink.net

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THE IMPRACTICALITY OF PERMANENCE

        Though there is only glass between them it might as well be the thickest steel. A less intimate proximity is hard to imagine.
        JT walks in with his big, powerful hands cuffed and held out in front of him. His brother Freddy is already seated. Right away the younger man's pained demeanor breaks the news. The appeal has been denied. The setback isn't a surprise but it's still devastating. JT tries to mask his disappointment but without success: it leaks freely across his strained features.
        Freddy observes his brother's reaction anxiously, waving once in terse greeting, like a karate chop, as JT steps closer. JT nods grimly back from across the translucent partition, which might as well be a video screen: no sound or smell passes through it. There's no mistaking the setting over on his side. The bare, smudged white walls, the thick, steel reinforced doors that buzz noisily when unlocked, the ceiling lights enclosed in protective metal bars and the sweaty, antiseptic stink all signify maximum security prison.
        Removing JT's cuffs, the guard brusquely shoves him onto a bolted-down stool then leaves with a warning glance. JT tries to look humble. He needs to talk to his brother. Now's no time to be antagonizing a fickle guard. Lifting the short-corded telephone receiver on the wall, he places it to his ear. Freddy's breathing is quick and shallow on the other end, while his eyes study JT's bright orange jumpsuit with open revulsion.
          "Goddamn man, it's good to see you," JT announces, trying to avoid morose self-pity. Distraught by his older brother's changed appearance-by his empty, jailhouse stare, his shuffling, defeated gait, his lost bravura-Freddy looks like he might lose it at any second and breakdown crying. JT refuses to let that happen, so he jokes around and keeps it light.
        At first they talk casually but eventually their dialogue turns more serious and they arrive at the one subject they have never broached: JT's arrest. Now that all hope appears lost and freedom is a number to be measured in decades and not individual years, JT has nothing left to conceal. Never much of a mentor to Freddy before, he's recently felt the need to make amends for his neglect, to elucidate the circumstances of his downfall, as well as the difficult relativity of prison, all in a way his inexperienced sibling can understand.
        "Don't let anyone bullshit you and tell you I didn't know the risks," JT says. "That's just what dumb crooks pretend in order to avoid thinking about jail and death. Besides, the biggest risk of all is the one you can't do anything about, that no amount of planning can account for: the risk of random events. It affects crooks and saints alike Freddy. It's always there and it comes in all forms; cancer or the cops, it don't matter. Everyone is vulnerable all the time. It's the first and last lesson you should learn. I pity the guys who don't get it until after they've arrived here and it's too late. Man, if there's one thing-
        Cut!
        Leaping monkey-like into the frame, Irving gesticulates wildly with his megaphone to indicate his displeasure. "This is not television people!" he exhorts. "Good enough is not good enough."
        A low collective grumbling emanates from everyone on the set. Turning to face Ben, the gangly, hyperactive director adds, "Hey, I'm sorry man, I know this seems unfair. We're close, really, really close, but we're just not quite there yet. I need a little more out of you, capice paisan?"
        Ben can't stand it when Irving tries to talk like a wiseguy. Besides, this shoot is a mess. Ignoring Irving, he slams the phone in his hand back onto the hook, earning a derisive snicker from the best boy, who's standing nearby. It's the thirty-seventh take of the day and everyone's fed up and edgy and Ben's finally lost what little respect he once had for Irving. As he sees it, the director is harping-in a maddeningly inconsistent fashion-on trivial details in Ben's performance in order to mask his own uncertainties about the scene. Unless of course Irving knows about Ben's little fling with his girlfriend Victoria and this is his revenge... Ben doesn't think it's likely. They were extremely careful. Meanwhile, James, the big star (and even bigger asshole), smirks condescendingly at his young peer through the glass.
        Noticing, Ben wishes James actually was in jail. He wouldn't be so smug then, playing somebody's little bitch.
        "Look Ben," continues Irving, "I just need you to express a little more resentment. Project a little more silent intensity. But it's gotta be resentment mixed with awe. You've always been in awe of your older brother but now that's he's locked up, your world's been turned upside down. Your idol is a pathetic failure you can't do a thing about it. Are you following me?"
        Ben's only reply is to beckon to a PA for a bottle of spring water. Miffed by the slight, Irving starts pacing vigorously back and forth across the set. As he goes he chews viciously on his right thumbnail. It's hot under the stage lights (they start to feel like cafeteria heat lamps after a while) and soon the director is sweating visibly.
        "Come on Ben, quit being such a prima donna." he demands, halting abruptly. "We have a movie to make and it's imperative you let me know if anything's not clear. This close-up of your face may just be the most important shot in the film. It has to be perfect. Now will you work with me or what?"
        The set quiets down as all eyes turn to Ben. Through the glass (which is just a prop and hardly soundproof) he hears James complaining to his makeup artist: "Don't you think some of this dialogue is atrocious? Nobody talks like this in prison. It ain't legit, I can tell you that."
        Though he'd love to tell Irving off more than anything in the world, Ben settles for a loud, petulant huff instead. His agent would never forgive him if he lost the plum part mid-shoot. "Ok, fine. Let's try it again."
        "Excellent!" triumphs Irving. "Ok, places everyone."
        The best boy snickers again, just audible under the noise and chatter of the cast and crew returning to their positions, prompting Ben to turn and-
        Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep
        Albert loses hold of the dream the instant he awakes. Squinting painfully in the streaming morning light, he can't figure out why the curtains are wide open. Beep beep beep beep! There it is again. Blinded, he gropes about in search of the alarm clock. Eventually he manages to shut it off. Enough already! Groaning, he attempts to open his eyes a bit further. No luck. There's a relentless pounding in his head and his thoughts are scattered and faltering. He's never felt so groggy, so fuzzy before in his life-except maybe after that one time he tried acid in college. Yup, his evanescent dream is long gone… something about a movie set, that's the best he can do. Closing his eyes, Albert lets his head sink back onto his pillow. Ah, it's wonderfully soft… Sleep creeps up on him but then he jerks back awake with a start. What the hell was in that wine they drank with dinner? His head feels like a bowling ball. A light sleeper, he doesn't remember waking once during the night. And what time is it anyway? Rolling over, he checks the clock: 7:30 AM.
        Only then does he discover Emily's absence. Something's clearly amiss-her side of the bed is unruffled and hasn't been slept in. What's going on?
        "Em, are you here?" he calls out. Maybe she slept on the couch or something. "Em, are you in the living room?"
        When there's no answer Albert grows concerned. Their apartment's too small for her not to hear him. Sitting up in bed, he tries to focus. She couldn't possibly have gone to work so early. Is she playing some kind of weird practical joke on him? No, not at this matutinal hour, he decides. And he doesn't recollect them fighting before bed either. Of all the possible times for her to pull something crazy- on the very day he intended to propose to her! Maybe she found the ring? A vague foreboding of disaster accompanies the thought. Tense and more alert, Albert scans the room. Emily's closet catches his eye. It's half empty and her least favorite clothes lie strewn across the floor. Her bureau's been cleared out too-all her delicate perfume bottles, her antique jewelry box, her ornate pins and combs. These are distinct, tangible extensions of Emily he's never been able to observe without fondness. Their absence is like a slap in the face. Albert leaps out of bed, rushes to his desk and yanks open the drawer. The box containing the ring lies hidden in the very back. Rooting frantically around, his fingers close on it. He pries it open. Empty black felt greets him.
         How can this be? Baffled, his head cradled in his hands, Albert sits staring dumbly at the empty case. Various possible emergencies and excuses explaining Emily's actions come to mind, but they are all too implausible to be taken seriously and he fears the worst. Despite his emotional tumult, Albert's skull still feels as if its full of sludge and he can't stop his eyes from drooping shut. So, rising wearily, he returns to bed. Lying back down, he only notices the letter when his head comes to a rest. It lies inconspicuously white on white atop Emily's pillow in an unmarked envelope. Albert tears it open with shaking hands.
        Each sentence of the hurried epistle disgusts him more than the last. As implausible as it seems, Emily orchestrated his present exhaustion. Sometime during dinner she drugged his wine with ground up sleeping pills, all to expedite her cowardly desertion. Shaking his head in disbelief, Albert keeps reading. When he reaches the real kicker, he nearly tears the letter in half with the intensity of his trembling grip. The last paragraph leaves no doubt about her perfidy:
        As you may or may not have already discovered, I've taken the ring. Finding it really was the last straw. I'm sorry but it's true. It made me realize just how big a mistake I've been making with you. Maybe keeping it will serve as a little payback for all the pain and wasted time you caused me by convincing me I loved you when I didn't. Whatever you do, don't come after me. Goodbye.
        This is too much. Albert furiously rips the letter into tiny shreds and scatters them all over the bed like anti-confetti. There and then he vows that no matter what happens, no matter what he must do to achieve it, he will get his ring back. Emily has no idea-
        Brrring! Brrring! Brrring!
        Focused on the words on my computer screen-to an observer I probably look hypnotized by its bluish glow-I don't hear the front buzzer until it's already stopped. Then, like an echo, it returns to my ears, to my memory. Annoyed by the interruption, I stop typing, arise, and shuffle across my cluttered apartment to the intercom.
        "Hello?" I call down. "Hello…? Hello?!"
         No answer. Hoping to catch my visitor out on the street, I dart over to the kitchen window. I haven't yet grasped the buzzer's significance; I'm still thinking about my book, plotting Albert's next move. As I draw the curtains aside, radiant beams of sunshine burst into the room and I have to shield my eyes with my hand as I scan the sidewalk. There! A delivery truck is just pulling away. Now I grasp the obvious. Damn, he's got my package. How could I have been so thickheaded?
        I'm about to resign myself to waiting another day for my new, top of the line model-a span of time that suddenly seems far more intolerable than the months I've already spent eagerly anticipating it-when the truck stops two buildings down to make another delivery. There's still time to catch it! Snatching my keys and wallet from the hall table, I charge out the door and gallop down the stairs. Just as I burst enthusiastically from the front lobby, I spot the driver climbing back into his vehicle. "Hey wait!" I holler as I dash across the street after him. Meanwhile, a taxicab that's just caught the light at the avenue comes hurtling along from the other direction. I don't see it; the driver doesn't see me. By the time he slams on the brakes it's too late and the cab's front bumper smashes into my left side. Both my legs break on impact and I sail high into the air, a limp, contorted form, like a doll tossed by a child, landing with a sickening thud. Pain floods through me, pain like you can't imagine, overwhelming my individual senses. I can't move, I can't see and I can barely hear- little more than a low, steady humming mixed with a few faint voices from the crowd gathering about my crumpled, supine form. My head feels like it might explode yet I'm also hopelessly groggy, just like Albert, how funny. But it's an incurable fatigue-this much I can tell. I'm fucked. Death is no longer forestalled- it's inconceivably, undeniably immanent. On this point I'm perfectly lucid. It all seems impossibly fast. As the truth sinks in I desperately want to scream but I cannot. I have no voice with which to. Several thoughts now occur to me simultaneously: what an embarrassing way to die; I'll never get to try out my long-awaited new model; my novel is going to go unfinished and unread and my name and aspirations have just been sentenced to complete and irrevocable obscurity. Of all the misfortunes I've feared, of all the bad luck I've prayed to escape, an unforeseeable premature death was always the worst possible scenario. I don't believe in fate or salvation but as I lie here on the hard, dirty concrete, the world slipping away with my precious blood, everything, every minute detail, appears strangely inevitable. Maybe it's just my ebbing mind, my dusky thoughts, trying to construct a skeletal framework of order in the face of eradicating chaos. Yet I've hardly lived in delusion; on a daily basis I faced the ontological ramification- negation- of this possibility, rationally concluded it lay beyond my control and persevered. Et voila. Now I'm dying without company or solace or a legacy or the satisfaction of achievement. The moment is as cruel and unmitigable as I've always dreaded. But I can't quite accept it, can't quite swallow it. No! No! No! I might still make it. People survive the most grievous injuries every day. Then I feel my innards sloshing about like a big bowl of Jello, dispelling all hope. How pathetic, dying chasing after a truck like a dog. Ruf, ruf. How I wish. Even an animal growl would be something, an assertion, a defiant gesture. The enshrouding fatigue is irresistible now, terminal; my thoughts are incomplete, dim, fewer and fewer. I swear to myself I refuse to die like this-roadkill. Then I black out and never feel remorse again-
        Curtain
        

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