There were days of well-balanced meals; chicken, peas, rice, milk, juice, jello. There were days of sponge baths. There were nurses and orderlies, feeding and bathing me, asking me questions. They were telling me I was so brave. They couldn’t believe it, I was so brave.
There were the doctors and shrinks, another ton of questions. “How did you feel when you decided you had to kill them? When you poisoned them? When you saw them there, dead? When you awoke to discover you were missing a hand?”
Those, of course, are only a few of the questions. But my answers were – oh, fuck it. My answers weren’t honest. They were just a way to keep me out of the nut house, or out of prison (plea bargains and probation are two of my favorite things about this country). My real answer is I didn’t feel a thing. Not a thing. That wasn’t me, who did all those things. That guy, he doesn’t really exist.
There were visits from Dave, who’d quit the pot cold turkey. Dave, whose last memory of that night was meeting a “really big dude” in the parking lot of the diner and asking him if he’d seen a warehouse somewhere around here. He quit smoking weed because he knew that guy, but he didn’t remember it at the time. It affects the memory, you know.
There were visits from Dick, who’d managed to get some sort of immunity deal in return for turning in the surviving members of PEP. He lost his job, but was fine with it. “No more dead people,” he said. “I’m going cold turkey. I think I’ll write a book.”
If you’ve ever spent any time stranded and maybe dying in the mountains of Somewhere Near Alaska, Canada, you’ve learned that you can survive this, but only mostly. You’re not dead, you’re alive. But you’re not the same. Your story has changed because your story has changed you. That guy from before, you can forget about him. He’s gone.
If you’ve ever spent any time with an underground group of murderous cannibals, feasting on unclaimed bodies, sipping fine wine, pretending to be interested in mergers and acquisitions, being afraid for your life and the lives of those close to you, and plotting mass murders, you’ve learned you can survive this, too. But only mostly. Again, you’re not dead, but you’re not you. That guy, ancient history.
If you’ve ever spent any time touring the talk show circuit, the magazines, the newspapers, you’ve learned that these people, they don’t really care that you survived, even if it is only mostly. You’ve learned that you can make jokes like, “Oh, come on. Give me a hand here,” and you can wave your stump in the air, and everyone in the audience will laugh. The hosts will laugh. And then they’ll hand you a basket full of useless shit and send you on your way.
They’ll send you on your way, home to your little blonde angel, the only person in the world who doesn’t need to hear about what happened then. The one who understands best who you are now, because she’s someone different now, too.
If you’ve ever done any of this, you’ve learned to remain calm. The story changes, you change, the other characters change. You’ve learned to remain calm because it either all goes on, or it doesn’t.
You’re either dead, or you’re alive. And it’s amazing the way the story keeps changing when you’re not dead.