i used to dance at 155. in my twenties, i was a lean mean dancing machine. 40 years later, i’m now tipping the scales around 190, no matter how many times my well-meaning wife calls me, “fatso”. i tell her it’s age, and all the pills i’m taking to insure against becoming my father. low cholesterol pills, low blood pressure pills, anti-gout pills, doc sipkowitz says they’re keeping me alive longer, protecting me against the heart disease, hardened arteries, and gouty arthritis that i inherited from the old man who i ran 3000 miles across the country to get away from.
other than that, life is good. i have a terrific job, the same one for 24 friggin’ years now, teaching college kids how to look within and find themselves and how to take some of the same risks that i taught myself to take along the road less traveled. i have a good marriage, although it took me 55 years to get here, probably 2/3 of my lifetime… to find a young indonesian girl 31 years my junior, who was brave and crazy enough to cross 12,000 miles of ocean to meet me and stay with me here in lala land. we live in a poor man’s paradise, high above the pacific rim, over which we can literally see the bright orange globe of a sun sink over the far western ocean horizon about 321 days out of 365. pretty good numbers and percentages all around, don’tcha think?
but now i’m walkin’, almost stumblin’, around the white, shag-carpeted dining room which i always wished had hard wood, polished mahogany floors. but as mick always used to say, “you can’t always get what you want”, and like i’ve been practicing the last few years, trying to want less and appreciate more. it’s the last day of my winter break, and ok, yeah, i’ve had a few drinks too many. i’m barefoot and feeling good. in fact, life is great, practically perfect. what with all the numbers, percentages, sunset views, relatively good health, the lousy economy in which we find ourselves going out to eat more than i’ve ever been able to afford; what with the beautiful and brave, always 31 years younger, wife, so much of the planet already gloriously globe-trotted, most of my achievements and accomplishments already behind me, hey, what more can i want or do? nada!
i mean, it seems like the perfect time to make my exit. to die. to watch my own death… right here on the still shag-carpeted, not hard wood, floor. yeah, my wife’s in the other room. my gray wolf, faithful old dog, clay, is lyin’ right next to me in front of the hearth; i could do it right here… at home. an act of will and surrender, simultaneously. i mean, everything’s in order, right? i’ve had my living will and trust drawn up a few years ago when the old man passed, my 401k is big enough to support my lovely wife for a few more years until she grows into the rest of her life; there’s nothing else i want to do or accomplish. i could just…. let go… sink to the floor… like a movie… right now… and watch my life… be… gone.
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alright…… i’m letting go…… sinking slowly to the floor…. i feel my heart constricting…. pins and needles in my right arm… it’s gonna be a heart attack, i guess. bye bye, love, bye bye happiness… i think i’m gonna… die. i think i’m gonna… die.
ok, where’s the long white tunnel of light? negative. the series of my whole life’s carnival of events flashing before me? negative. visions? voices? negative. something’s not right…….
w-w-w-ait. hold on a minute. something’s terribly wrong! i’m not supposed to be dying here. i’m only 62. one knee touches the floor. i’m not supposed to be watching my own death. this isn’t a little daytime fantasy movie. it’s a fucking nightmare. but it’s real. i’m awake… having a heart attack in my own dining room. my wife has no idea. both my parents are dead. nobody knows. nobody cares. hellllllllp! things are so soft and hazy. clay turns his head from the hearth and blinks knowingly. “relax, old man. yeah, this is it… the big one you’ve been waiting for your whole life. the one you’ve been looking over your shoulder for. over guard rails for. in hospital rooms for. this is finally it. just realxxxxx… remember the night you found me in elysian park? i was so scared and lost and you lied on the tiled linoleum kitchen floor with me all night as i whined and cried, cuddled up next to your belly, my first night out of the wild?” yeah, i remember, ol’ boy. i remember so much. it IS all flashing before me. both knees are nailed to the white shag and one hand is barely holding me up at about 45 degrees.
“trrru-less.” it’s the wife calling me from the office. probably with some internet problem. she wants to send another resume that i have to check. “sorry, love, i’m dyin’ here. you’re gonna have to do a few more things without me.” i don’t say it aloud, so she belts out again, “trrru-less!”, a bit more impatiently. ok, wait, maybe it isn’t such a good idea. as perfect as it seems. maybe the paramedics will burst into the house and upset the wife. all the neighbors will be gathered outside, some in shock, worrying about their own deaths, others muttering under their breaths, “good riddance.” “so what if he wrote that nice little column, ‘meet your neighbors’, in the local news rag, ‘epian way’”. “so what if he lived in his nice little bohemian paradise for 16 years up the side of the hill.” “it was his time.” and like sonny boy always said, “we all have our time fer dyin’”.
more will than surrender, i summon all my strength and… drag my 190 pounds… back up to vertical. i stagger into the office, unevenly, and bolt out to the wife, “i don’t want to die. not yet!” she looks up at me from her red swivel desk chair, more amused than worried. “what are you talking about, my dearrr?” i lean over her. “i think i’m dyin’ here. i have no more reason to live. everything’s perfect already. i think i’m having a heart attack. i decided i was ok about it and just wanted to watch myself go… like a movie… but now i’m having second thoughts, and i think maybe i don’t want to die.” she slaps me hard in the face. owwwww! “you’ve had too much to drink. i’m taking clay out for a walk.”
“no! i know. i’m sorry, but don’t do that! if you do, you’ll come back and i’ll be dead. you’ll find me on the floor curled up in a pathetic heap and…” “shut up, you’re scaring me!” “i know. i’m sorry, but can you take me with you?” “what?” “take me with you and clay to the park?” “what about your gout? you can’t walk.” “i know. but i will. walk! just take me with you. on a short walk. not your run. just a walk…. a ‘walk… for life!’ you and clay. okay?” she looks at me dubiously, like i’m out of my mind. maybe i am but she agrees.
i squeeze my swollen left big toe into a slip-on pair of worn brown leather merrills, and we make out way up the hill. i’m still alive; i haven’t died yet. but maybe i will… right here…. on the hill in front of the house. that would be perfect too. on a walk with clay and the wife. all my ducks in order, walkin’ the dog, the perfect elegiac way to go. noooo, shut up, man! you’re not gonna die here. on the hill. just keep movin’… one foot in front of the other. that’s it, one foot in front of the other. ok…… good…. here’s the park. down the little dirt path…. onto the dirt fire road…. you’ve done this thousands of time before. look, clay’s up a head, tail curled in the air, he’s trotting happily in the park, looking back at the two of us… just like it’s always been. just like it’s always been. no, clay, i’m not gonna die here in the park… don’t worry… although that would be kinda perfect too, eh? just dropping dead right here in the park, on the fire road, on a walk with da wife and da dog, the ol’ bohemian family man…. life’s work complete. no longer raging at the world. perrr-fect……
i stumble. groooaaan. no, man, straighten up. i grab and squeeze the wife’s hand. you’re ok. we take the fork at the fire road. “you’re fine,”…. down the graceful little curve past the peaceful japanese garden and lake, up the grassy little knoll, elysian park’s own leashless dog park. “you’re fine, man. you’re not gonna die. you’re… not… gonna die…..”
ok.
it’s an hour later. clay, me and da wife have made it back from the park. we’ve taken our little “walk for life”, and i’m not lying in a heap on the white shag carpet, or on the not toney mahogany floor, or on the asphalt lucretian hill, or on the dusty fire road. i’m here, back in the house, having some hot caffeinated black tea. sitting at the same round glass indonesian dining room table. clay’s back at the hearth. my heart’s beating more steadily. the wife’s sitting with me.
all’s well in the world. i’ve dodged another bullet. maybe a life or two still left on my cat of nine tails. cancer didn’t get me. nor the car crash. nor my own envisaged death on the white shag carpet.
sometimes you don’t have to accept the signs. sometimes your wires are crossed. sometimes it’s not you’re time fer dyin’.
all is well………… all is well……
i’m one with the clouds and the sky.
