A Final Word
A Final Word
There is something patently obscene about having your work read aloud while you’re on your deathbed. Of course, they think I’m unconscious, but that doesn’t excuse it. The whole scene is like an exclamation point to my life; only the exclamation point is upside down. They arrive every afternoon and hover over me like a pack of jackals with copies of my stories in their hands. It’s supposed to be some kind of premature memoriam, a fitting end to a literary life. Good God! And, of course, the philosophers and poets had to call this the eternal present. So now I’m stuck, listening to these clowns for the rest of eternity.
“The edge of night closed in on him like a sable shroud.”
Pompous, self-satisfied looks of approval all around.
“And so he followed his dream to the end and then beyond,”
Oh, God! Did I really write that? Is that what I said? Why? Why would I write something like that? What in God’s name was I thinking? I should have seen something like this coming. I should have known that it would come back to haunt me. And I can’t even say they’re taking it out of context either because they’re reading the entire story. Jesus!
Now they’re taking turns, each one picking his favorite. And, of course, Sam, the titular leader of the group, steps forward. He is a cocky, barrel-chested little man with a head much too large for his body and a mouth that seems to be perpetually in motion, chewing on some invisible substance.
“Let’s read Junipers,” he suggests.
No, let’s not read Junipers. I didn’t like writing Junipers, and I sure don’t want to hear it now.
A nurse enters the room. She looks at the blood pressure monitor next to me and then takes out a syringe.
Good. Maybe she’ll kick them out.
“Should we leave?” Sam asks.
Yes, you should leave. Please leave.
“Oh, no, don’t mind me. I just have to take some blood.”
Wonderful!
“We’re reading his stories.”
“Isn’t that thoughtful,” she says as she pokes my arm with a needle.
I feel the pinprick, but other than that, there is no sensation except for the terror of imminent humiliation.
“We think he would have liked it.”
For God’s sake, I’m not dead yet, you moron!
“I’d like to read one of his stories. I hear they’re very good,” the nurse asks as she finishes taking blood from my arm.
“Sure, I’d be happy to let you have my copy.”
I hope this isn’t what I think this is.
“Oh, would you? That would be wonderful!” she says, beaming.
’Oh, would you? That would be wonderful!’ Dear God, he’s making a play for her. What’s next?
“Will there be another patient in the room?”
“Oh, not for another day or two.”
I don’t believe this! He’s planning on coming back tonight. He wants to go to bed with her. I know him; this is just the sort of thing he does.
“Are you going to be finished for the day?”
“Oh no, I’m here until tomorrow morning,” she says with a sly grin.
Shit, she’s going for it too. Well, isn’t this special! I can look forward to the two of them in the bed next to me, going at it like a couple of gerbils well into the night. A fitting end to a brilliant career--the grand finale!
The nurse smiles as she leaves the room. Sam starts to read another one of my stories. This time it’s one of my favorites, though.
“Thank God! A good one at last!”
Another nurse looks into the room and interrupts the reading.
“That’s actually one of his worst. He could have done a lot better with some of the metaphors, and some of the descriptions are…well, lacking.”
Everyone in the room looks stunned and confused--an argument ensues. Some agree with the nurse, and some do not.
Now the entire hospital is turning into one big Bloomsbury group! Dear God!
The nurse continues to make her case.
“I think several of his other stories were way more engaging.”
Sam will have none of it.
“Well, I think all of his stories are engaging, but I do think his final stories were his best. It’s as if he’s turning the last bend on the river of life, waiting for the lights to go out,”
“Oh, write that down, Sam, write that down!” one of the harpies says.
No, Sam, don’t write that down! In fact, if you do, I swear to God, I’ll come back from the grave and make your life a living hell! Why don’t they just get a cattle prod? That would be so much better.
Suddenly Miles Bartholomew enters the room. He has a blonde-gray ponytail, a handlebar mustache, and a mohair scarf wrapped around his neck. He is fifty pounds overweight and was the winner of the Hawthorne Award for fiction three years in a row. His stories have been published everywhere, ensuring him a lofty place in the pantheon of contemporary American letters. The room is in awe; looks of marveled piety prevail. He surveys the room as if he were General Patton just before the battle of El Guettar and announces that he would like to read one of his stories. The room is filled with the sounds of delighted enthusiasm.
“Oh yes, by all means, Miles! I think he would have loved that!”
He graciously accepts, pulls out his smartphone, and begins to read.
His story is about a man who never quite reached his potential but strived ceaselessly nonetheless. Though crippled by a prophylactic imagination and a tepid narrative style, the man persists in writing one story after another. Though his stories are rejected everywhere, he perseveres. Eventually, this brave literary homunculus defies all odds and produces a slim volume of some merit that can be found in Dollar Store remainder bins throughout the country.
And guess who that’s supposed to be? The matador has arrived to deliver the final blow!
But before he finishes reading the story, an orderly makes a merciful appearance. She apologizes to the Bloomsburys:
“I’ll only be a minute. I just have to change his pillow,” she says with a beautiful Jamaican accent.
“Well, please be quick about it,” Miles says. “We’d like to finish reading all his stories if that’s all right with you?”
Oh, you vile shits! She’s the only representative of humanity to enter this room all day.
The Bloomsbury Group looks perturbed as the orderly changes my pillow. Then, even though I know she thinks I’m unconscious, she smiles at me anyway and whispers, “You’re going to be OK.” I’m astonished--a simple occasion of kindness has punctuated this god-awful dirge.
Please don’t go!
“Are we done for today?” Miles asks her.
“I’m done for now,” the orderly says with a smile.
“You mean you’ll be back?” Miles says.
“That’s what I do.”
“Well, just don’t do it too soon,” Miles says with a brittle sneer.
There is appreciative chuckling from the Bloomsbury Group. I’m seething, but I have no way of expressing my anger.
Miles finishes reading his story. The Bloomsbury Group is in a state of respectful awe. Everyone in the room is overwhelmed by its brilliance except for me. I’m overwhelmed by an urge to kill him.
“Why don’t we read another one of his stories?” Miles asks.
“Which one should we read?”
“Oh, I’ve got one,” one of the twerps says.
He starts to read, but it’s not at all familiar.
I didn’t write it. I did not write that! So the idiot must be including his own shit. So that’s how it’s going to be? It’s like copycat criminals whose crimes are blamed on the original perpetrator.
He continues to read one of his stories. It’s awful and nothing at all like anything I’ve ever written. There is general approval and expressions of amazement that they’d somehow missed this one.
“What a find!”
“Easily one of his best!”
“Why didn’t he publish it in his lifetime?”
Suddenly I’ve reached the breaking point… It’s too much. A bubble has burst, and there is a surge of anger and desperation. I start screaming with all my might.
“Oh G…God! Just stop! Please stop it, please just stop it!”
Sam looks astonished. One of the others makes the sign of the cross. Miles looks like he’s about to get sick. The entire room is in shock: Lazarus has arisen, and they don’t know what to do. Finally, they yell for a doctor.
I reach for the button and hit it as hard as possible. Then I hit it again. Two nurses and a Doctor run into the room. The Doctor stands over me.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see me?”
“Yes!”
The Doctor looks amazed.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in hell!”
“No, you’re in a hospital bed,” the Doctor says, holding a stethoscope to my chest.
“I know! That was a metaphor!”
The Doctor gives the nurse a sidelong look.
“This is good. This is very good!”
“The metaphor?” the nurse responds. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t think it was all that good. I thought it was… derivative.”
“No, I meant the fact that he’s coming around.”
“Oh, that, right.
Now he places his stethoscope on my chest and stares at me with a look bordering on sheer wonder: it’s Dr. Frankenstein, and the monster has been brought back to life. I almost expect him to start chanting: “He’s alive! He’s alive!”
“You’ve been in a coma for the last two days now, but it looks like you’re out of it. This is good news, very good. We will have to run some tests, but it looks like you’re over the worst of it. If all of the tests check out, you can probably go home in a couple of days.”
He then turns to the reading party and says:
“Better leave him alone for a while so he can rest. You can come back tomorrow.”
The Bloomsburys file out of the room, talking among themselves as if it were intermission at the theater. The Doctor asks the nurse to give me some kind of prescription, and then he congratulates me as if I’ve just won a contest.
“Good going. It looks like you’ve made it.”
He leaves me with the nurse, who gives me a huge smile.
“You know you have your friends to thank for this. They really came through for you.”
“Oh, they sure did,” I answer, lying back in bed, trying not to think of the reading club as she enters some numbers on her Ipad and then walks out. Just as she leaves, the orderly enters with a tray of apple juice and cookies.
“It’s me; I’m back! Here you go,” she says with a brilliant, radiant smile. She seems genuinely glad to see me.
“It’s just apple juice and crackers. I know: boring! But don’t you worry; you’ll be having the real thing in no time.”
“Thank you! It’s good to see you again,” I answer, propping myself up in bed.
“You mean you saw me when I came into the room the last time.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly see you, but I was aware of your presence.”
“It looks like your friends were a little bit annoyed with me the last time I was here,” she says, placing the tray of snacks in front of me.
“Oh, they’re like that,” I answer, taking a sip of apple juice. “They get annoyed when anyone interrupts them. I attribute it to poor toilet training in their youth.”
She starts to laugh but checks herself.
“Do you mind if I pull up a chair?”
“No, go right ahead.”
“Some of your friends were reading your stories while you were out, you know.”
“Oh, believe me, I know!”
“So you were conscious?”
“Painfully so. What did you think?”
“You mean of your stories?”
“Right.”
She looks up, hesitates, and then looks at me as if she’s about to deliver an awful truth.
“Some seemed to have merit, but most were embarrassingly jejune.”
“Very funny!
She chuckles. Her laugh is so infectious that I start to laugh too. It’s impossible not to.
“What did you really think?”
“I really liked them. I should tell you that I’m a fan. I’ve been one for some time now.”
“No kidding. So you’re the one!”
“I’m the one!” she laughs. “I do some writing myself, you know, but I’m not at all sure that I’d want it read aloud while I was in a hospital bed.”
“What do you write about?”
“Oh, I write stories about when I was a child in Jamaica or sometimes about when I was in school. But for the most part, I like to make up stories about imaginary places and people. That’s the most fun.”
“Good for you, good for you! That’s exactly what you should do--use your imagination!”
“I guess I’m an ironist; at least, that’s what they say about me in writing class. Perhaps that’s why I like most of your stories.”
“You think my stories are ironic?”
“Well, aren’t they?”
“I guess so.”
I think back, trying to remember a story that was not ironic. And I realize that if there are any that are not ironic, it’s probably ironic that they’re not. She’s got a point. I decide that I’d like to read one of her stories, so I take a sip of apple juice and ask her. Suddenly she seems oddly demure. She tells me that she rarely lets people read her stories.
“That’s wise. Look what happened to me today.”
I take another sip of apple juice as the nurse pokes her head into the room and asks if everything is all right. I assure her that it is, and she is about to leave; but only after she looks at the orderly as if the orderly had just stepped into a cage with one of the animals at the zoo.
“Don’t you have work to do?” she asks with a snarky tone in her voice.
“I’m finished for today,” the orderly answers.
I’ve had enough of this nurse for one day. I almost shout at her:
“She’s fine; she’s been very helpful!”
“Is that supposed to be ironic?” the nurse asks.
“Could you please just leave us alone for a while?”
“You need to get some rest.”
“I’ve been resting for the last two days!”
The nurse turns abruptly and walks out of the room in a snit while the orderly puts her hand over her mouth suppressing a laugh.
“Look, I’d really like to read one of your stories,” I tell her. “Why don’t you read one of them to me? How about that?”
“You mean right now?” she asks.
“Sure. Do you have one on your cell phone?”
“I do.”
“Then go ahead. I won’t be too judgmental--really.”
She laughs and takes out her cell phone, then coughs to clear her throat and starts to read the story.
The story takes place in Jamaica after a hurricane has devastated the island. A woman has been separated from her daughter during the storm and is franticly trying to find her. It turns out that her daughter wasn’t separated from her by the hurricane at all, but had run off to be with her boyfriend. Mother and daughter are reunited only to find that the boyfriend is missing. The mother wonders if the boyfriend is missing or has run away to be with someone else. The story ends with the two of them searching for her boyfriend.
She finishes the story and looks at me with that vulnerable but probing expression—the kind students everywhere give their teacher when they ask for their opinion.
“Well, what did you think?”
“I liked it; I really did.”
I didn’t, but I’m too grateful for her presence in the room to say so. Besides, I also know full well that writers inevitably have to write a lot of junk before they can get to the good stuff. So many rockets have to blow up before one can go to the moon, or at least that’s what I tell first-time writers. I tell her that the story is ironic, and I suppose it is, but then I guess a case can always be made for irony.
Looking relieved, she thanks me and says, “perhaps you could read me one of yours?”
“Sure, I can read one right now, if you’d like.”
I reach over to the nightstand and open my laptop, but she stops me.
“Oh no, not now. Why don’t you wait until tomorrow or the next day when you’re about to leave?”
“You mean when I’m about to check out?”
“That’s right.”
“But why not now?”
“Oh, it’s much better when you’re on the way out.”
