Textul acesta e scris într-o limbă care nu e a mea, dar e a celor care mi l-au cerut. Nu acest text, ci un text. Și asta a ieșit.
Torn between the sweet promises of death and the constant torment of that life, he jumped. And nobody can tell how long his fall lasted or how it ended. Some say that there, in the twilight, in his fall, angel wings grew on him and carried him away. Other people say he was just in love. One thing they all agree: he jumped. And that was a fit conclusion for all that.
This is how it ends. In truth being said, no angel or angel wings have ever occurred in this story. As for his jump, that is debatable. Where, toward what or to what end he jumped I can not tell and, anyway, since Van Halen jumping is a sort of a meaningless enterprise.
So, this is how it ends. But never mind Van Halen or their bouncing, we have a few steps ahead of us before we get to that end. Call it story if you will, but that’s not it. What the hell is a story? I know two kinds of those. The ones we live – a huge inventory of deceits, hurt, blood shedding, pointless hope, sharp disappointments, acute failures, and endless search of the brightest nothingness. A strong cocktail of sweat, blood, and cum. Yes, I said that, now take your outrage and get the fuck out of here, this one is not for you! I was saying that is one kind of stories. Then there are those contrived by some troubled mind for the sole purpose of entertainment. For the masses. The crowd. The plebes. They need stories to be entertained, charmed, amazed, doped, and flaccid. A good story and a few silly songs can turn the darkest, most rabid desperation in the moldy tranquility they call hope.
Sometimes, what am I saying, most of times the stories we live are spilled on paper by some unfulfilled plagiarist and they become entertainment. For the masses. The crowd. And since everyone I ever met believed that his or her story is one worth telling, I can legitimately infer that life is nothing but entertainment in making. Cheap, stupid, interchangeable. And we are neither the stories, nor the main characters. Only some low-cost extras passing by in the background.
Let’s make the first step toward that already disclosed end.
Step 1 – This is not a love story.
Since we already have agreed upon the classification (one of them) of stories, one other thing must be stated upfront:
“This ain’t no fucking love story!”, he screamed.
Screaming was pointless since there was no one there to hear it or answer. Yet he screamed. Again, and again. The same thing. With harsh voice, like his voice was trying to scratch signs on those walls, mark those words in the old smoky paint, leave a trace of anger, desperation or whatever that was.
“None!”, he screamed again. “No anger, no desperation! Don’t assume, just write it as it happens!”
That one was for me. So, his screaming was pointless since there was no one there to hear it or answer. Yet he screamed. Again, and again. The same thing. God might have been there since he is ubiquitous. But here I am assuming again.
He opened the window. Stepped on the sill and then sat on it, letting his feet hanging, swinging. No, this is not that jump.
“This dusk is meaningless”, he whispered this time.
So far, we know that the dusk was meaningless and that this is not a love story. We can take the next step.
Step 2 – But you can have heaven.
“You probably expected this… Your condition is nothing new and you probably noticed the evolution, so here is the sad truth, and I am sorry I must be the bearer of such unfortunate news… However, you are an educated mature man and…”
A fucking word salad!
You! Yes, you, the outraged one! Why are you still here? Go! Just go.
The serious man in a serious outfit in a serious hospital continued his serious speech about serious matters. All serious. Too serious.
“So, I am going to die!”, he smiled. “That is not a huge revelation, doc! Just tell me how long?”
The doctor was a bit confused. The word salad was part of the job. His favorite part. He gets to be the delivery boy for the most popular joint in town “Death and sons”. This was the fun part, or he gets to watch the stages of desperation/anger unveiling one by one so that at the end he can play God a little and say a number. That was not fair. You can not have numbers if you don’t eat your salad.
“It’s not that simple…”, the doctor recomposed himself. “There are certain factors that must be considered. Also, there are options…”
“Doc! I had my entire life to prepare myself for this. So, save your well-crafted bullshit for the angels or the hopeful ones. Just give me the number.”
That was an outrage! Where is the sadness? How about cry? At least a teardrop or two, a deep sigh. That would be decent. That would be civilized. With utmost disgust the doc sighed:
“Six. Maybe more if we start…”
“Years?”
“Months”
“So, that’s it?”
“Like I was trying to explain, there are…”, the salad, the salad again.
“Doc, skip the bullshit. That’s it, right?”
A short moment of silence. The doc couldn’t hide that grin when he said, loud and clear:
“That’s it!”
Back home he took his bible. That was a heavy book, he thought. He remembered he noticed that before, many years ago.
“Because it holds the truth, the whole truth in it, son!”, explained to him Father Andrew at that time.
“What truth, Father?”, he asked.” Life and death?”
“Oh, mostly death son. Mostly death!”
He was on his sick bed at that time. They called the priest just in case. And Father Andrew always had the words, just as much as he himself had the meaning. Despite age gap, they were best friends. He liked spending time with the priest. That was where he learned about cursing, but this was a secret I shouldn’t share.
“You’re fucking right!”
That one was for me. Again. Well, now it’s too late. However, their friendship was fair and honest. Friendship. Actual friendship. Yes, between an old priest and a young boy and damned be you all who dare think beyond what I have just said. Friendship! The priest knew stories from the past, from those days when God was a raging old guy consumed by frequent outbursts of furry. And for the kid there was nothing more amazing than to learn how that angry guy matured and became more patient and loving.
Then came the stories about that wonderful and innocent man who came to save the world. And they killed him. But Father Andrew said that no, that was not just a wonderful and innocent man, that was God himself. And how comes they could kill God? the kid wondered. Father Andrew answered something, but the kid never remembered the answer.
Holding the book in his hand he decided that the thick leather cover weighed more, much more than the truth within. Yeah, he admitted, that is life. Nice cover, bullshit inside.
He remembered asking Father Andrew: “Will I die too, Father?”
“Yes, son”, came the answer. “But then you can have heaven!”
Step 3 – Love, are you ok?
Those colors crawling on the carpet, riding up the walls and then bursting in blinding darkness, that was his favorite part of the day. Sitting in the balcony, chin resting on his knees gathered and held by his arms. Eyes closed. Breathing in the darkness, breathing out the life.
“Love are you ok?”, she asked.
Breath in, breath out. Raised his eyes. Her head crowned by the moon behind. He sighed. That is as good an answer as any.
“So, what the doc said?”, she asked again.
The doc. The salad delivery boy. He said something. He mentioned a number. He…
“All good!”, was the answer.
She squinted her eyes. Her usual smile glided away, the eyebrows raised, and the chin trembled, just enough to make that notch.
“I need more than that, love.”
More. Who doesn’t need more. More sky, more green, more nouns, more more. Time.
“The usual crap. Fuck him!”, he mumbled looking to the wall behind her.
“As you say love, but I still need more!”, she never gave up easily.
“Why? Why the fuck do you need more? Why? Why can’t you be happy with what you have, with what I, we have?”.
He was screaming. The scream came out of nowhere. An unjustifiable outburst. All fake. He used to be better at faking. He used to be better. He used to be.
She sat next to him. Took his hand. The moon crown was lost. He closed the eyes, trying to hold that image hostage. The moon crown and that evening.
“What is going on?”, she whispered taking his cigarette and smashing it in the ashtray.
Music came out loud from the car stopped at the traffic lights. “You might as well jump!” – David Lee Roth hinted him.
“Right…”, he whispered.
“What love?”, she squeezed his hand.
Short anger, short outrage, shorter pain. Much better than the long and boring pain. Keep the purity of pain! he thought. And then screamed:
“This ain’t no fucking love story!”
She blinked. Just blinked. Wet blink. Salty blink.
“Can people like me go to heaven too, Father?”, he asked in that day. And Father Andrew stood up, lit a cigarette, yes, a cigarette, inhaled the thick sour smoke, then sighed:
“What the fuck do I know? There must be a heaven for the sort of us too… some discount heaven. A darker heaven…”
“This ain’t no fucking love story!”, he screamed again. And he jumped.
And now this is the conclusion:
Torn between the sweet promises of death and the constant torment of that life, he jumped. And nobody can tell how long his fall lasted or how it ended. Some say that there, in the twilight, in his fall, angel wings grew on him and carried him away. Other people say he was just in love. One thing they all agree: he jumped. And that was a fit conclusion for all that.
Yes, the same one you have read at the top. What did you expect? Like I said, no angels were involved. But if you ask her, she will swear that there was this voice from above giggling:
“That was fucked up!”
And Eddie Van Halen was smiling too. In some discount heaven. A darker one.