Day 161 (#2): RIP

CURSE WHOEVER GAVE RIC THOSE PILLS: 'Pain Killer (Triumph of the Pharmacist)’ by Frank Zirbel

Ric is dead.

I can’t even read that.

I’ve failed him. And Lisa. Who’s next?

Day 161 (#3) Censored

THIS *&@%$^ IS TOTALLY *&@%$^ UP. (Yes, I went back and changed it.)

I am fed up with everyone—EVERTYTHING—including death and cowardice and lies.

Go to hell LES DIY and take the city of New York with you.

The SOONER THE BETTER.

Day 162: Revived

IN THE RAMBLE: SPOOKY NIGHT, SUNNY DAYI am heartily sorry for the previous post.

I can only explain that I was intellectually and emotionally shredded. I had just discovered my best friend’s corpse. Then things got worse.

I've just returned from the strangest night of my life—Halloween come alive. It ended in a bold sunny day. I'm trending normal again. I need sleep. I’ll post when I wake up.

Day 162 (#2): Killer Bugs & People

I've slept four hours, injected iced coffee, and can address the confusion I've stirred. Thanks go out to those who sent alarmed emails that weren’t abusive. I feel as if I've been drawn and quartered by positive and negative forces, hung from earth’s poles to roast on the equator.

Bits of me are dancing, others are paralyzed. The good stuff is rich, spectacular.

The bad commenced when I went to Ric's apartment.

MY ESCAPE HATCHHe had sent a disturbing email asking me to visit, wearing a good hat. When I got there, the door would be unlocked and I should take plastic bags from his door and secure them around my feet and legs while I was inside. Since bedbugs track us by the carbon dioxide we emit, I should not sit anywhere, or even stand still. I was to leave fast and thoroughly shake the hat outside in case any bugs had climbed along the ceiling to dive on me. Best to vacuum it.

Since he didn’t answer when I called for an explanation, I reckoned he had fallen into a disturbed state. I raced to his apartment. ‘Ric’s place’ isn’t funny now.

It was unlocked. As promised, plastic dangled from the doorknob. The apartment was neat, as ever. I called out to him when I entered, fancied I heard a welcoming grunt over the music. That was a cruel illusion.

Ric was stretched out in bed, wearing silk pajamas and a relieved expression. The pill bottles he’d emptied were already in the recycle bin for plastics. Bach was playing low, on repeat.

I had to keep reminding myself to stay in motion. Finding your best friend dead makes you want to sit down.

In shock, I called 911, which asked me to confirm that he was dead and then to stay put till “somebody” arrived. If it was the same somebody that was scheduled to pick up Lisa’s corpse for days, I’d be dried-up bedbug waste by the time they arrived.

I gave them my contact info. I took Ric’s final words (Never Surrender were two I’ll try to honor without judging him) and his financial documents, along with $132.72 he had stacked on them. I left the door unlocked, with Bach still playing. My goggles were soaked and smeared.

When I got home and drove the idea of bedbugs from my mind, I realized I’d be checking his flat for days, monitoring the city’s response. I was sickened to have left him to the pests. How long will they suck his blood before it becomes too ripe? They are known to travel on corpses, if not feed on them.

Great disease novels all present a moment at which death ceases to affect the living. Souls glaze over. How many corpses must I see before I feel numb? So far I merely feel selfish, stupid, and sad as hell.

The Best New Yorkers Are Moldering

I haven’t done much for those I’ve loved. Lisa and Ric died without even a visit from me. I was busy chatting with ducks, empathizing with strangers, pontificating online.

I wanted to call my parents last night, but it was too late. They’ve learned to expect little but words from me anyway. If they get sick in Round Two, words are all they’ll get. I texted Mark, who still hasn’t responded. I felt I deserved to be alone anyway, to die solo. Poor Sneeky, stuck with me.

I started throwing things, halfheartedly. I couldn’t punish myself more than their deaths had done.

Then I realized Ric was a non-practicing Jew far from his family, who would have wanted to honor him by sitting shiva for a week. I started to telephone them, but how could I say I’d left their son to be exploited and dishonored by bloodsuckers? His dad’s number in Seattle sits here, on my table.

I decided I should take it on myself to bury him. Here I was, waiting on a government whose services are certifiably dissolving. Me.

So many things I predicted are taking me by surprise.

I determined to bury Ric immediately. Somehow. I telephoned Anna, the new head of the LES DIY, whose number I’ve had for months. I’ve seen her cry twice as many times as I’ve engaged her in conversation, which I botched by bringing up her dead daughter. I am utterly clumsy in the presence of death.

I’ve wished for a chance to start over with Anna. Dreaded it, too. She’s an Iron Angel, a sprite with an unnaturally calm way of imposing her will on others—amid bouts of tears. I’ve never encountered anyone so appealing, yet so off-putting.

I knew corpse disposal was going to be a sensitive subject in view of the controversies the group has endured over the question. But I needed and deserved help. Certainly Ric did. The LES DIY is still using his restaurant.

When Anna answered, I made the idiotic mistake of talking around his death. I said I knew that corpse disposal was a controversial issue for them, but I needed advice regarding a very special case….

I heard her gasp. She snapped that the LES DIY has nothing to do with dead people, recited the city’s special number for pickups—and hung up.

I could hardly breathe. Why did this woman hate me?

When I called her back, I reached a recording that gave the address and LES DIY service hours. (At Ric’s restaurant!) I didn’t leave a message. I posted that SCREAM OF OUTRAGE (which I’ve just censored to placate the spiders) and took off.

Hell Comes to My Haven

I pedaled furiously around the entire park before heading into the Ramble. I remember thinking murder was inevitable if anyone tried to mug me. I didn’t know which end of the transaction I’d wind up at, but I was boiling. I yearned to encounter one of those bullying bird killers.

After chaining my bike to a fence under a lamppost, I followed the path onto my peninsula. With only a crescent moon, it was hard to see. Though I’d arrived earlier than usual, the woods were quiet. Good: I intended to grieve by the water till dawn, then glower and mope and reason my way back to sanity in the sun.

After sitting for a while, I rose to relieve myself. Then I thought I heard metal banging, back where I’d locked my bike.

I made my way over an informal trail between some rocks till I could see the lamppost. The streetlights outside my apartment are broken, but this one functions—just where nightly passersby probably wish it didn’t.

The chain was intact, the tires full, the taser in my hand unnecessary.

Two men were walking east, down toward the restaurant by the lake. The short one coughed harshly and I wondered if he had contracted H5N1. So many people don’t get it when they catch it.

I waited for a lurker to pass, then walked toward my spot. When I reached the main path, I heard someone behind me. I shifted to a dirt path that runs along the water and paused to see if I were being followed.

On the central path was what looked like an adolescent female wearing one of the masks I sell, complete with goggles and gloves. (I wish more New Yorkers sported my full product line.) The kid wasn’t tailing me. She was striding confidently toward my lair, where the land thrusts furthest into the lake. I felt a twinge of possessiveness, then alarm: What was she doing there so late at night?

Then I heard a muffled cough and a shhhh. The men I’d spotted near my bike were following her. I don’t wish to stereotype anyone, but they didn’t seem gay—not even sardonic-trucker gay. They looked mean and aggressive. Was it their malevolent presence that had cleared the woods so early?

I watched them split up to flank her, and then I followed the tall one up past the reeds. Gripping the taser, my ears pounding with blood, I watched him reach for her.

She cried out in fright as he grabbed at her mask.

I can’t continue. I’ll have to resume tomorrow. Sorry, but I’ve barely slept.

Day 163: Rumble in the Ramble

I’ll pick up where I passed out yesterday:

Late at night, in Central Park’s Ramble, a big, menacing guy had just grabbed what looked like a teenage girl in a mask and goggles and gloves….

I declared myself in what sounded to me a very shaky voice and ordered him to let her go, waving the taser. The guy cursed me loudly, waving his hands, till the back of my head exploded in bright flashes.

The little one had clubbed me with something. I turned around and without thinking punched him in the face. He was the first person I‘ve hit since high school, and he flew. The weapon in my hand must have added heft.

THERE’S A PLACE FOR US…..I turned around to see the big guy holding the girl. He pointed a handgun at me, demanded I drop the taser. I recognized her just as I let it go.

It was Anna, the LES DIY’s new coordinator. After hanging up on me, she had somehow shadowed me to the Ramble. How had she known I’d be there? Do the LES DIYers actually read my blog? (I thought you were all out-of-towners.)

The thug told me to empty my pockets. I slowly reached inside and managed to unleash some mace. Anna got sprayed, too. I should clarify that it was the classic CN tear gas originally sold as mace, not the pepper spray sold today under the Mace brand. The canister was a gift from an old-timer, and I wasn’t sure it would work.

The muggers choked and gasped enough for me to recover the taser and the big guy’s pistol. I was armed to the teeth. Now what?

The small one smacked me hard in the back with a rock, then leapt upon me. He turned out to be a vicious wrestler. The letter I won in 9^th grade didn’t save my mask or goggles. The big guy still couldn’t see much, so he kind of helped me by kicking both of us. My best move came when my opponent’s lungs seized up, but then I became easier to kick. Soon I was pinned.

They pounded me with fists and shoes, aiming to cripple me, at least. I hoped Anna would steal away while they stomped me. Would the city pick up my corpse if these guys finished me off? Would feral cats eat me while Sneeky starved?

Then the air vanished. My face caught fire.

By the time I understood I’d been gassed, the thugs were on their knees, coughing and spitting and drooling and pleading for Anna to stop. I crawled down to the lake as she emptied the can at them. How could she even see them? I had just gassed her.

I washed my face in the filthy pond. I could smell the water. The chemical effects were waning fast. The canister was indeed obsolete.

I looked back to see Anna rinsing her face with bottled water and tissues. Even in the dim light, her cheekbones gleamed. Deliberate as ever, she had gathered the weapons while the thugs sniffled and moaned.

She tried to explain about the telephone call.

Castle Dangerous

I couldn’t listen. We needed to get away. Even the freshest tear gas isn’t supposed to work well on drunks or drug users. Every time I moved, pain erupted.

We staggered toward my bicycle, but took cover by the rocks as the men stormed after us, coughing and cursing like madmen. I was through fighting if I could help it.

Somehow they knew the bike was mine. We huddled while the tall one used a knife to wreck my Kevlar tires and my seat. Anna squeezed my hand (!) while he savored his rampage, using rocks to flatten links in the chain, bend the brakes, crush the gears. The little one spewed ropy phlegm as he watched. I couldn’t see blood.

We slipped away while the maniac stomped my rims, grunting in a vengeful dance. We hadn’t gone far when the clamor ceased. I heard a deep hacking in the woods. They were after us.

I handed Anna the taser. I had lost our way in the darkness. The thugs could hear us snapping twigs, stumbling over branches, so we opted to outrun them on a path. We ran till we reached some steep steps, then climbed up past the weather station.

Suddenly we reached Belvedere Castle. Had we found sanctuary in a fairytale?

Not that we were safe. Somewhere behind us, men were locked in rage. One of them probably had bird flu and nothing to lose. They’d gladly spend what remained of the darkness trying to kill us.

Instead of climbing onto the castle itself, where we could be trapped while they telephoned for reinforcements, I chose to hide in a stone cupola, a blockhouse set over a cliff to the castle’s side. We’d see anyone approaching, just as their eyes would be drawn to the battlements above. I could tase the men in the courtyard, gun them down if necessary. Their loaded semiautomatic was in the hand of a country boy who could fire it with confidence.

It was cold up there, so we whispered for hours without looking at one another, our eyes pinned to the entry path. It took a lot not to inspect her vaulting brows, so near.

Anna couldn’t wait to explain why she’d hung up on me and then pursued me to Central Park in the dead of night. It was far more than I’ve ever heard her say. Her voice was cool and husky from the tear gas.

The LES DIY’s view of the government resembles that of my more anxious readers. They think the city wants to shut them down, break up the group—possibly to please the Feds: The DHS and RAISE don’t want competition.

It’s ideologically enticing—downright fulfilling—to hear this from left-wingers. It strikes me as absurd, given that we’re in the midst of a flu pandemic. America needs all hands on deck to help fight the pandemic. Yet I must respect their convictions.

‘The Inevitable Collision'

Here’s Anna’s explanation: When I called her about illegally disposing of a corpse, she presumed her line was tapped and refused to discuss it—or even to let me dig my own legal grave by spelling out any hopes of doing it on my own. She hung up, bent on breaking curfew by running to my apartment to explain.

When she found I had already left, she trekked four miles further to explain her rudeness. Her reward was to find out that Ric was dead.

She cried softly for half an hour. I was afraid to comfort her. I began to wonder how the Iron Angel knew where I lived—let alone where I sought peace in a huge park. I can be so freaking dense.

As Anna recovered, she gasped an apology for having confused me for so long. She even confessed that she’d wanted to join me as I greeted the sun. She’d been reading my blog. From the start.

Will it surprise you to learn that Anna is my most devoted reader? Evelyn.

She’s been hounding and provoking and counseling and amusing and befriending me through a round and a half of bird flu. She sent me Robinson Crusoe, the Lenny Bruce ‘toon, diatribes against Ayn Rand, advice about how to handle Nina’s Relenza pregnancy, and Bruno to spring me from my house-trap.

Mindful of my zeal for self-sufficiency, Ric encouraged Anna to pursue me in her peculiar fashion. He wanted us to come together at the right moment—ordained by fate alone—in what she says he called the inevitable collision. Now we had met in the wake of his suicide. If there is an afterlife, Ric’s joking to his new companions about how cozy his friends are now that he’s bugged out.

While we hunched against a cold stone wall, staring into shadows. Anna apologized for what she called “enjoying [me] from a comfortable distance.” She explained that she’s been in a state of “hyperactive post-traumatic anxious depression” (Google has nothing to say on this particular condition) that could be salved only by working—or playing computer games with my mind.

That tide of jargon led to the twin revelations that she was studying psychology until her studies were interrupted by pregnancy and that she harbors a bizarre sense of humor. Anna’s work at the LES DIY was a laudable response to her daughter’s death. I understand her ensuing reluctance to flirt with strange men. Her emails didn’t start as a game. She does cry a lot. Her efforts were never wasted: She got me to donate protective gear and post her manifesto.

She, too, feels that she neglected Ric in his last days. She was extremely busy with the LES DIY. She was kind enough not to mention that she took a lot of trouble to get me out of my apartment and over to his, after which I dropped the ball.

I felt Anna’s (Evelyn’s?) pain envelop mine as she pressed into my damaged spine. We were both stiff with cold by the time the birds welcomed the light and the wind shifted to bring up a warmer breeze.

With it came the sickly sweet odor of at least one human body in the gully below.

By then we felt sufficiently safe to look (in vain) for the backpack I’d left by the lake and to dispose of the gun in its waters. We trudged home slowly, reluctant to risk the subway without protective gear. We held hands with raw flesh as the last rays of summer poked through clouds. I didn’t care about bruises.

A Mobile Meeting of Minds

As we talked for miles, we discovered we both like Chicago. Though she’s from Oregon, Anna knew about the radical visions that long ago led engineers to reverse the course of the Chicago River and to erect the first skyscraper. It turns out she agrees with Ayn Rand that contemporary architects employ a mishmash of period styles to no sensible or esthetic effect. (Would you like some columns with your towering pizza?)

As we passed the site of Rand’s 1960s salons, I was verbally demolishing the new buildings in this city, where land itself has become the best store of long-term value. Buildings are just a temporary delivery system. Where architects once dreamed of constructing striking, memorable towers in Manhattan, they now design buildings that make money till they can be replaced with more lucrative structures.

Any hint of compelling beauty is erased in the planning stage. Owners who look forward to tearing down their new skyscraper in a few decades don’t want the public demanding that the building be preserved. Architects find it prudent not to suggest anything worth keeping in the skyline. Mediocrity pays better than Rand imagined in The Fountainhead.

As I was going on and on, Anna stunned me by pointing out that Rand left architecture off her list of the arts, designating it as a mere utilitarian practice. A flash of Evelyn! Is this woman going to google me into submission?

Once home, we wolfed down hot soup and crackers while we fed a ravenous—and curious—Sneeky. We soaped the gas off. She iced my spine. We rested well.

Before she went home, Anna made me confess that I had consciously invited Evelyn to the Ramble by posting that I wished I could share it with someone, hint hint. “You were looking for more than trouble,” she said coolly.

I feel as if my life has abruptly rebooted. Parts of me are aglow. Then I remember that my best friend’s corpse needs attention.

I’ve lost the Ramble. I can’t run into those thugs again. My bike is obliterated.

I should probably quarantine myself. That tough little creep has H5N1. So far I’m resisting temptations to inhale Relenza. Anna says she doesn’t need to lie low because she caught H5N1 in the first wave. That would be after her daughter died. She wears masks only to set an example.