CHAPTER TWENTY

With a flurry of violent coughing spasms collapsing my lungs, I hastily awoke inside of my tub. As I clutched the outside wall, I felt as though something inside of my chest had wrapped itself around those two mirrored organs and was constricting them to the point of imminent implosion. Such was my consternation, in all of this, that I had been forced to bypass the brief moment of reverie, which I frequently found between the dreamworld and what I reluctantly perceived to be the real one.

To say the least, this departure from a more naturalistic transition was as unexpected as it was unwelcomed. Since the introduction of chemical sleeping aids into my sleeping regimen, I had found solace in those fleeting moments of twilight but not this time. This time, I immediately launched myself into a position where I was helplessly kneeling on all fours, with my back arched, like a sick dog. As I held that posture, my lungs involuntarily convulsed and threw me into an asthmatic state.

This was the type of cough that expelled itself with such brute force that it evacuated every last trace of oxygen from within my lungs. Worse yet, my inability to keep from flushing all of that oxygen out into the atmosphere left me desperately failing to inhale, through a constricted diaphragm that was unable to do anything but push outward.

And so, in this way, the game, for which I gave no consent to play, was played nonetheless: all of the air was forced out of my lungs, through a thunderous evacuation, leaving me only microseconds to suck back in enough to keep from asphyxiating before the process repeated itself. I couldn’t see my face, as I suffered through all of this, but I was sure it had adopted a darkened shade of blue.

After the longest thirty seconds on Earth, my wheezing eventually subsided and I was left, still kneeling, gasping for air in my bathtub. I hadn’t smoked tobacco in over twenty years but my throat felt as if I had spent an entire evening chain-smoking cheap cigarettes, in a noisy, dimly-lit bar somewhere.

As my senses began to return to me, I noticed I was once again back in the same pair of comfortably tattered jeans, with that same ripped shirt and those same black high-top shoes. Somewhat defeated, but unexpectedly optimistic, I assumed a position that had me resting on my rear end, with my right knee spilling over the side of the tub, in a space-constrained, half lotus position. For a moment, as I replenished my breath, I sat there, trying to glean some sort of meaning from Lulenne and my escape from her world.

While wiping sweat from my brow and attempting to recount the details of an adventure that was still fresh in my head, I suddenly grew distracted by the gun lying at the bottom of the tub. As if I’d never seen the instrument before, I picked it up to examine it. It was heavy—not to the point that holding it was strenuous but its weight was always something on which people commented, when they first gripped it for themselves. I decided, then, to have a look inside. Still empty. Still clean. Still ominous yet oddly alluring. As I was holding it and admiring the engineering and craftsmanship that went into producing the weapon, I couldn’t help but wonder if it held the power to rid me of my tormentor.

Without really noticing it, my breathing had begun to stabilize while I handled the firearm. So entrenched was I in my own head that I had almost forgotten that it was ever strained at all. Feeling thusly revived once more, I rose from the tub and ventured out into the world outside my bathroom.

Blue, as expected, was there to meet me. He was scared but also curious and I couldn’t tell which emotion, of the two, was actually dominating him. As I knelt down to pet his head, I could see the digital clock, through the hallway, in the living room beyond. It was well into the late afternoon, which I recognized as the time of the week when, up until recently, my phone would typically begin to fill with various requests to join with friends at obscure watering holes throughout the city.

I was glad those calls had tapered off, though. From a physical sense, I was much more isolated now but, mentally, I felt no worse sitting alone in my trailer than I did when I was surrounded by people who couldn’t actually see me. At least here, I could be myself. At least here, I didn’t feel invisible or (worse) inconsequential.

With a desire to clear my head, I trudged down the hallway, with Blue happily in tow. I didn’t even utter a word of my intentions but the beast somehow knew I was planning on taking us both for a much-needed, head-clearing walk. It was obvious in the way he was prancing and wagging his tail. I wondered: was that because he was especially intuitive or was I just that predictable?

Regardless of the reasons, Blue was oftentimes more perceptive than I gave him credit but, on this particular day, I needed more than he could offer. I needed human perception and understanding. I was both concerned and dismayed at how quickly my mental faculties seemed to be deteriorating but who could handle, or even understand, the insanity of my life? Certainly not my dog! Chris, of course, would listen if I engaged him but I wasn’t ready for that. My doctor would listen too but I wanted to practice on someone else first. Unfortunately for me, Fisky was the only person with whom I felt comfortable enough to try.

Just before I committed to reaching into the closet to fetch the animal’s leash and walking collar, I braced myself, took a deep breath and brought my phone to life. Within an instant, its vibrant shine was dancing across my eyes. Instinctively, they darted toward the top notification bar, scanning for any icon indicating I had a missed call or an unread message of some kind but I received no such confirmation. Just to be sure, I opened up my text messaging app and there, at the top of my conversation list, sitting alone, was Chris.

Despite the palpable warning emanating from my heart, I then logged into my social media account, made my way into the “settings” tab and clicked on “blocked users.” There was only one. For a second, I hesitated, with my thumb hovering above the “unblock” icon, before I engaged it and reopened access to Fisky’s account. The first thing I saw, after I clicked on her profile, was a picture of her left hand, adorned with an expensive-looking diamond on her ring finger and an endless stream of comments congratulating her on her betrothal.

For a moment, I was dumbfounded but, after the initial shock wore off, I decided I was actually happy for her. In a strange twist, I felt more than a little relieved as well. That ring on her finger represented the undisputed finality of our relationship and, in that way, it also meant that I no longer had to worry about her—at least not in the way I had been. With that door now completely closed, I no longer had to wait outside of it so I closed my phone and finished accessorizing Blue for his walk.

Upon stepping outside, I immediately noticed that it was uncommonly warm for an Ohio December; although, asserting that any type of weather is uncommon during any portion of the calendar, in Ohio, is itself actually quite common, I suppose. With that in mind, I guess I really shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact that just this morning it was snowing and now the sun was shining so brightly that I was actually considering turning back and leaving my coat inside. After a moment of deliberation, however, I resolved to keep it.

On the ground, next to my truck, there was a pool of water, from where all the snow and ice had melted off of it. A mild inspection proved that the doors were still secured tightly to the frame; what’s more, the stereo and the rearview mirror were pristine and undamaged. I stared at the vehicle for a moment or two and, once I was satisfied it was real, I stepped out of my driveway and onto the street.

Without any further assistance from the owners of the park, the snow on the streets had begun to recede as well. Their lack of effort in removing it did not stymie Mother Nature from implementing her own pavement-thawing process. About 70 percent of the street was still caked in white powder and hardened ice but the other thirty was full of pockets of black asphalt, peeking out, under the sun’s indulgence.

Those sloppy, slushy pockets of unencumbered street made for excellent—albeit messy—footholds and so, whenever I could, I made sure my boots found them. Once again I’d chosen them over my high-top sneakers and, as I splashed along, I knew I’d made the right choice. Blue, on the other hand, wasn’t stricken with the responsibilities of making such fashion choices. To him, it had always been “bare paws or bust.” As I watched him happily strut along, stopping every four seconds to sniff something new, I couldn’t help but envy the simplicity of his life.

Toward the end of our street was a wooded, undeveloped area where, on many occasions, I’d seen deer and other wildlife gather and sometimes peep out of the tree line. I usually avoided that area because, during my only expedition there, Blue came back with ticks—an inconvenience that disgusted me far more than it did him.

Though the day was beginning to warm up, I recognized that it was still the dead of winter. To my point, the natural ground—unlike the paved roads inside the park—was still completely covered in snow and most of the ankle-high vegetation beneath it, where those parasitic blighters lived, was presumably inhospitable. Because of that, I decided that there was little risk in contracting more ticks and so, with Blue enthusiastically walking beside me, we made our way toward the edge of the forest entrance.

After about fifteen minutes of stepping over downed trees and guiding Blue around the various obstacles of the forest, we arrived at the edge of a cliff I never knew was there. This region was historically known for being rich in a multitude of desirable rock quarries and, through no direct intention, it seemed that I had just stumbled upon the remnants of one of them.

As I peered over the edge, there was no doubt that a fall from this height would be not only fatal but gruesome as well. For some reason, I felt compelled to fixate on this fact, much to the chagrin of my dog. He was pulling in the opposite direction. He wanted to sniff something I was sure.

Blue had never been the type of dog that wanted to escape and he usually came when I called him so I knelt down and unhitched his leash, after which he stared up at me for permission to explore. With a friendly gesture of my arm, I granted it to him and he sauntered off behind me only to stop and pour all his attention into sniffing a bush, not twenty feet from where I released him.

I trusted him enough to be unconcerned and so I allowed my attention to be recaptured by the summit of the rock edifice on which I now stood. It was obvious that I stood on the top of a wall that was clearly man-made because the sheer angle of the cut, into the giant rock, was completely vertical. To even a child’s eye, the precision would have been unmistakably mathematical. Based on my admittedly limited experience in skydiving, I posited that a leap from where I stood would have me splattering against the jagged rocks below in no less than three seconds.

Free-falling through the heavens… The feeling it had elicited in me was unexpectedly calming, to say the least. Fisky and I only tried it once and, in that solitary experience, I felt more like I was floating or hovering—not like I was falling at all. It was quite peaceful, actually.

For a moment, I closed my eyes, spread open my arms, as if they were wings, and imagined simply letting go. Could I recreate that serenity in this very different set of circumstances? Would I panic for that three-second-free fall or would I fall free, as I did before?

And what about Blue? Would he try and find a way down to me? Would he wait there, at the top of the cliff and, if so, for how long? Surely he’d eventually find his way back into someone’s yard, wouldn’t he? Although he was frightened of nearly everyone and everything, hunger’s a powerful motivator and I imagined it would, at some point, overtake his trepidation.

While deep in contemplation, I had unknowingly removed an Alcoholics Anonymous “sobriety chip” from my coat pocket to unconsciously fiddle with it. In my unfortunate clumsiness, however, I inadvertently dropped the coin, which landed safely next to my boot, at the edge of the cliff wall. Seconds later, when I carefully squatted down to grab the keepsake, I felt the slug inside my head begin to squirm.

Simultaneously, the snow and the trees around me turned gray and, from within my skull, I heard the familiar demand to “DO IT!” That’s when a feeling of vertigo began to make its way through me and, in my suddenly dizzied state, I felt as though I might inadvertently tumble over the side. Using as much concentration as I could muster, I kept control over my swaying, carefully reacquired the chip, transferred my weight behind me and then let myself go. I landed on my back, next to a snowy log, just as the voice inside my head disappeared and the natural colors of the sky, trees and snow returned in full.

Bewildered by the fact that I had somehow repelled the demon in my head, I slowly sat up and looked around the snowy forest. It was as if I was viewing it for the first time. Its beauty was affecting me and so, in what I hoped would be perceived as an act of gratitude, I decided to stay a bit longer. After clearing some ledge snow that had already mostly melted, I plopped myself down, at the edge of that cold, wet cliff and let my legs dangle off the side.

For several hours, I sat and ruminated over all of my recent experiences and tried to derive some meaning from them all. Was I simply going crazy? I wondered what my psychiatrist would think after hearing all my stories and reading the doomsday note inside my back pocket.

As I pondered a plethora of unanswerable questions, a solitary tree unexpectedly caught my eye and pulled my consciousness back into the forest we both inhabited. I hadn’t noticed the leafless, dead-looking husk before but—with its winding trunk and flaky gray bark—it looked strikingly similar to the tree into which Fisky and I had once carved our names. Just to be sure, I pulled my phone from my pocket, located the photo and compared it, side by side, with the tree before me.

Unfortunately, the tree on my phone wasn’t as prominent as the one in front of me. Although Fisky had intended for it to be the focal point of the photo when she captured it, it was sandwiched between our two smiling faces. Still, it was undeniable that the two trees were nearly identical—save for the carved letters that distinguished them.

So, in a symbolic gesture, I half scooted/half crawled over to the new tree, sat with my back propped up against it, faked a smile and raised my phone above my head, in an effort to recapture the same angle as before—this time sans Fisky, of course. Several times, throughout the process, I compared what I was doing to the photo on my phone—in order to make sure I reproduced the image, to the best of my ability.

When I’d finally created a likeness that satisfied me, I deleted all the attempts that didn’t. After that, I began clearing out the older, original pictures as well. When I got to that final one—the one I had used as a template for this new picture—I stared at the label Fisky had attached to the bottom of it. It said, “That Island next to The Docks.” The Docks was the name of a bar located on the same lake where we had ice-skated and took the original picture. I thought about the bar, the lake and the tree for a moment before I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and deleted that last photo.

Blue was happy when I finished and finally stood up to re-leash him. For hours he’d been interrupting my meditation, nuzzling me to let me know he was still in the area, before disappearing once more to investigate whatever it is that dogs feel so compelled to investigate.

By the time we’d returned home, the sun was already beginning to set. I was glad. I figured the darkness would only aid me in my newly-formed, destructive plan and so I grabbed my axe, activated the GPS on my phone and set the destination for The Docks.

***

It was well into the evening, by the time I parked my truck outside The Docks. As I opened my door to step outside, the last gaseous remnants of an extinguished heater evacuated the cab and escaped into the air. For a moment, I apathetically left the door ajar and found myself in a moment of indecision and inaction.

Within seconds, most of the heat had already dissipated out of the truck cabin but I silently soaked in what was left over. As I stared out of my quickly-fogging windshield, I could see The Docks, to my left. It was a popular bar that catered to a multitude of different tastes—one such example being the boating crew who preferred anchoring their various nautical vessels, at the end of the titular pier. Though, on this particular night, they no doubt consisted of a significant portion of the crowd, the frozen lake had made them harder to detect. It insisted that their arrival, like mine, had been dictated by land-based vehicles only.

Their vehicles of choice, however, when available, were usually captained by older, upper-class businessmen and aging divorcees who had talked themselves into a reality where they were much younger and less encumbered. I always smiled and let them continue to believe that narrative, without my reproach, but it was a version of reality that was much different than the one to which the rest of us were beholden.

There was also the younger crowd, who pretended to be much older and more sophisticated than their years would have suggested—a charade that usually broke down after they’d imbibed a few cocktails. There were those who danced to popular dance songs the DJ was playing, on the indoor dance floor, while others preferred the local band, playing underneath a hanging row of outdoor heaters, on one of the many-tiered, massive decks outside.

They were covering “oldies” that many of my peers thought were edgy when they first came out, in the mid-’90s. Those closer to my age seemed to enjoy it, while the older folks tolerated it and most of the younger ones avoided it altogether, preferring the DJ inside instead. A lot of the older folks preferred him too—that, or they preferred the indoor heat, along with the attention they received when they danced to the songs he selected from his playlist.

There was more than just music though. Billiard tables inside attracted both the serious and the obnoxious competitor, as well as spectators of varying levels of sobriety; so too did the cornhole boards, in the corner of one of the outside decks.

There was a giant rectangular bar outside, with outdoor heaters burning brightly around it, and a smaller counterpart bar on the inside. All the stools surrounding both of them were filled and, unless one was lucky enough to have a friend that could hold one for him, he’d lose it the second he left it for a trip to the bathroom.

Above both bars, a sea of televisions were broadcasting various sporting events—some live and some long since passed. Some of the patrons focused on their captivating, glowing flashes exclusively, while others directed their attention to the attractive bartenders struggling to keep up below them. All in all, the backgrounds were diverse but the goal was unified: liberation of some sort. Some were there to eat; most were there to drink but, in one way or another, everyone there wanted to escape something.

Sitting there in my truck, I supposed I was no different. I wanted to escape too but, for me, this bar (and others like it) were no longer the place to do it. There was nothing I wanted in there anymore—nothing I couldn’t at least get an improved version of elsewhere anyway. Camaraderie, respectable discourse, enlightenment, music, participating and spectating in various games—alcohol only impaired my enjoyment of all these things.

For most of my life, I thought quite the contrary—that it enhanced those experiences. The reality in which I now lived was very different though. The friendships I thought I was forging when I was drinking were illusions; most of the times, the people I met either didn’t remember me or vice versa, or both! Discussions usually devolved into shouting and I rarely learned anything of consequence.

I struggled to see the bigger picture in most things but the smaller, background details eluded me as well. Even my motor skills suffered and so too did my retention of the topics I discussed and the events I witnessed. In the end, it was all just a mirage—an expensive, poisonous mirage.

I used to think I was so outgoing; I was even proud of it. Most of that was the alcohol though. I wasn’t outgoing; I was a drunken buffoon. Since quitting, I’d actually become quite a bit more reserved. As sad as it was to admit, I was able to see that people used to view me as more of a party favor than a friend.

That realization, when it first came to me, was gut-wrenching but also necessary. To change that perception is hard too—especially when it’s been true for the majority of my life. Still, the process had slowly begun and for that I was grateful.

If there was any downside to my sobriety, I guess it would have been that not drinking had made it so much more difficult for me to engage with people who were. I’d smile and nod, while I listened to their drunken delusions, but so many of them never even give me a chance to respond. As a drunk, I probably would have simply yelled over them but I no longer felt the ease in doing that. That said, I had effectively gone from a human party favor to a free, mute therapist.

I often felt it would have been better to leave a life-size cutout of myself at the table and then simply go somewhere else. I doubted they would even know the difference and, even if they did, they’d forget about it the next day anyway. That’s the thing: they’d always forget what they talked about and that meant they were just going to tell me again the next time I’d see them.

I enjoy listening. I enjoy helping. I really, truly do. Down in my heart, I do. There comes a point, though, when I’m just listening to the same stories and the same delusions over and over. It’s an endless cycle and the drunker my counterparts became, the more detached they’d become; that means, the drunker they became, the less likely I was to actually help them. Still, in most cases, it was either that or sit at home with Blue. Too bad man is a social animal.

While thinking about all this, I stared out into the barely visible bar to my left. My breath had been sticking to the windshield—specifically, to the driver’s side portion of the glass. It was thickest and most prevalent there but I knew it wouldn’t be long before it covered the entire surface area of the glass and obstructed my view completely.

Even so, I could still hear perfectly well, at least. The laughter… the music… it was all very inviting but, for reasons I’ve already stated, I knew it was a mirage. Through the passenger’s side of the windshield, I could also see the frozen lake and the aforementioned island about two hundred yards from the icy shore. It was much colder than it had been when the sun was still out; besides, I knew the ice was likely thick and, while I didn’t want to fall in, I also didn’t much care if I did.

So, with a sudden surge of determination, I took one final look at my newest photograph, grabbed hold of the axe behind my seat, exited the truck and began walking toward that island, in the middle of the lake. On my way there, I had to pass by The Docks, on my left. I could hear a few drunk women hollering at me but I pretended otherwise. With the loud wind and louder music, I convinced myself that it would be an easy lie to maintain.

I could see, out of the corner of my eye, that one of the women was wearing a tiara and a white sash with writing I wouldn’t have been able to read unless I purposefully looked her way. It probably said “Bride to Be” or something of that nature. She was probably part of a bachelorette party.

Her friends continued to yell and I continued to walk, as though I hadn’t noticed. It didn’t seem to matter how believable my performance was though. They weren’t buying it. I couldn’t deny that I was lonely but I doubted the woman I needed was, at that moment, drunk, and catcalling at me from an outdoor deck of a bar.

So I continued to walk. Alone. As I half walked/half slipped across the ice, I thought about my situation. All this depression, change and uncertainty that I was going through—it wasn’t stemming from failing to achieve the life I wanted. Some of the punishments/ailments I’d incurred were, to be fair, unforeseen but, for the most part, I was unhappy/unfulfilled because I had exactly the life I wanted and, as I tried to separate from it, I was being forced to rebuild myself from nothing.

Up until very recently, I thought the dream life was working Monday through Friday, at a job I didn’t completely hate so that I could enjoy my weekends getting wasted somewhere. Sure: I traveled. Yes: I went to a lot of different events but, at the focal point of all of it was a desire to be inebriated. It wasn’t just a baseball game; it was getting drunk at a baseball game. It wasn’t just Europe; it was getting drunk in Europe. It wasn’t just bowling; it was getting drunk at a bowling alley. It wasn’t just a concert; it was getting drunk at a concert.

And that’s how I lived… for twenty years! Then, one day after quitting, as my alcohol-soaked brain began to rewire itself, I realized that I had changed and that I didn’t want that life anymore. I used to think that something had gone terribly wrong in my life but, in actuality, the problem was that it had gone, for the most part, according to plan. I had gotten exactly what I wanted: just spending my time getting hammered, with like-minded companions, until I eventually die. It’s tough to admit but the truth of the matter is that I was in crisis because I got exactly what I wanted.

As I walked, I was thinking about all of this and that obnoxiously loud bridal party. I wondered if they would ever look back and think similar thoughts about their own lives. I hoped not. That is to say, I hoped this night of debauchery was special for them and not simply as “run-of-the-mill” as it would have been for me.

Though I didn’t realize it in real time, I could see, after the fact, that alcohol helped me to normalize the abhorrent. Blacking out, forgetting entire conversations, saying things I shouldn’t have said, embarrassing myself, waking up sick… I used to sort of laugh it off. It was “normal.”

Needing extra time in the morning because I knew I was going to be sick was normal. Having to try to piece together my night, through the accounts of others, was normal. Passing out, facedown in my dog’s bed was normal. It wasn’t until very recently that I started to see these things for the abnormal behaviors they were. I hoped those girls on that dock would never have to sink as low as I did and that none of them would end up wasting twenty years, or maybe even more, before they realized the lives we think we want are often exactly the ones we get.

With my axe in hand, I had traversed halfway across the lake, on my way toward that carved tree, when I began to take note of the lights in the parking lot across from me. They were bringing everything into better focus. They’d helped me to see an auspiciously-placed billboard, in a drugstore parking lot, across the lake I was crossing. Quite simply, it said, “Cabinets by Chris. I can help.” It also listed a phone number I recognized, as belonging to the same Chris that had been invading my own life.

Despite my efforts to avoid him, he seemed to be pursuing me in a relentless fashion. Thinking about that sign, in that manner, caused me to laugh at the absurdity of such a notion and it conjured up a couple well-intentioned curses under my breath. What a spectacular coincidence! This was the kind of situational humor for which comedians lived!

The ice was both solid and slippery, at the same time. At least that’s what I was thinking about when one of the light bulbs surrounding Chris’s sign suddenly popped. As soon as the glass bulb shattered, the remnants of the now-defunct bulb began behaving like a black hole, sucking in all the color from the otherwise white, snow-covered lake and leaving it as a dull shade of gray.

It was so unexpected that I barely noticed when the ice broke under my boot and it suddenly filled with frigid lake water. Before the water reached my knee, however, my attention abruptly shifted from the lightbulb to drowning and hypothermia. Perhaps, I wasn’t as prepared for death as I had assumed I was.