Chuck Palahniuk - Doomed

I’d never really fit in the world, not easily, not like coffee fits into a cup. However, seeing Goran’s cold assessment of his own mistake, I realized that I was not entirely alone. Even on low-resolution security video, my living-alive self was clearly and unmistakably in love.

Gentle Tweeter,

Please take note, you predead persons: as former-cynical, former-snarky former nihilists, you’ve eschewed all forms of religious faith for years. Woe unto you, for it leaves you primed for a false prophet. This spiritual anorexia has left you starved, poised to gorge yourself on whatever newish theology is set before you. Witness my escort, the “psychic bounty hunter” sent to corral my ghost and wrangle me home to my parents. Walking through the arrivals level of LAX, Mr. Crescent City believes he’s hugging me close, but he embraces an armful of air.

“Little dead angel,” he says, loping along, “first we need to find our chauffeur. Then we need to catch the helicopter to get us to your mom’s boat.”

We stride past a young mother who leans over her toddler, cooing and coaxing it, “Say ‘fuck,’ sweetheart. Say ‘fuck’ so you and Mommy will never be separated, in this world or the next….”

It goes without saying that I am following at a distance well outside his distasteful grasp. Even the slightest contact with Mr. Crescent City means a comingling of his earthly form and my spiritual one, a union more intimate than even the most passionate goings-on of an earthly marriage. His touch is, well… imagine huffing a vast toke of vaporized depression. Or guzzling a tall glass of bitter regret.

“When I get to fucking Heaven,” says Crescent, “I’m teaching kids that drugs are a detour for the rest of your fucking life.”

As Crescent leads me through the crowds, LAX looks more tragic than I’d ever noticed. Among these milling hordes I see human beings so racked with hunger that they’re reduced to eating triple-bacon cheeseburgers dripping with a sauce identical to the loathsome fluid which once spurted from between the pages of the Beagle book. I see whole families forced by global inequalities of wealth to wear prêt-à-porter Tommy Hilfiger. A glance in any direction reveals such scenes of hardship and deprivation. It’s one thing to hear that such grinding poverty exists in the modern world, but it’s heartrending to actually see people compelled to carry their own luggage.

An ancient crone, almost my mother’s age, not an hour younger than thirty-two, walks past wearing last season’s Liz Claiborne, and the pathetic sight brings a flood of ghost tears to my eyes. One has only to see the damage wrought by home hair coloring and carbohydrates to feel the same passionate empathy that spurred the progressive likes of Jane Addams.

These sullied throngs of travelers—who, unlike my parents, are not being paid to wear their clothes—they must be crazed. Either crazed or intoxicated with drugs. Because? Because everyone is grinning the same exaggerated clown’s leer. They’re poor and pimpled and clutching coach tickets to Sioux Falls, and still—they’re smiling. They stroll along as if ambling through the Jardin du Luxembourg listening to the splash of the Medici Fountain. This is no 6th arrondissement. There’s nothing but thin plastic carpet laid atop airport concrete. Inexplicably, these apparent strangers coalesce into groups. They join hands while they wait for flights, forming impromptu prayer circles in sterile gate areas. Once assembled, they close their eyes. In somber unison they chant, “Fuck….” Their eyes closed, they make church faces. With their heads tilted back, they sing hymns of “Fuck… fag… nigger… cunt… kike…,” their words slow and deliberate as a NASA countdown.

Gentle Tweeter, how peaceful is a world where everyone gives offense but no one takes it. Within my circle of vision everyone is littering and spitting, and no one seems put off by those uncivil acts.

What’s more, I shudder to say, fat people are holding hands with thin people. Mexican tongues share ice-cream cones with white tongues. Homosexuals are being nice to other homosexuals. Blacks are happily rubbing elbows with Jews. My hero, Charles Darwin, would be so ashamed of me. My meddling has so destroyed the entire natural order of living things.

“The whole fucking world loves you, little dead girl, for showing us the righteous fucking path.” As Mr. Crescent City says this, we’re gliding down an escalator. We’ve no luggage to collect. Below us, our chauffeur waits among a bevy of other uniformed chauffeurs. One snaps his fingers, drawing our focus. He holds a clipboard hand-lettered with the name Mr. City . Even indoors, this chauffeur wears mirrored sunglasses and a brimmed cap. No name tag. He wears old-school black riding boots with gray-wool jodhpurs. Despite the Los Angeles heat he wears a double-breasted coat, like a driver right out of Agatha Christie sent by way of the Western Costume Company circa 1935.

“This is us,” says Crescent to the chauffeur, gesturing to nothing and then to himself. “We’re going to the chopper.”

The chauffeur turns to look his sunglasses directly at me. “Why, if it isn’t the angel,” he says, his breath scented like a hard-boiled egg. He drops to one knee. “Our most glorious redeemer.” With one gloved hand he sweeps the cap from his head and brings it to cover his heart. A mocking tone in his voice. That familiar methane stink to his words.

For my part, I don’t need to see a name tag. As he kneels before me I can see the twin tiny points of his horns buried deep in his thick blond hair. The crowd of chauffeurs surges forward to meet their respective passengers, and a jolly Falstaff wearing a blue serge uniform stumbles over the man kneeling. Both drivers sprawl. The mirrored sunglasses tumble, and I get a glimpse of yellow goat eyes. The bumbling Falstaff climbs back to his feet while our malodorous, supplicating driver scuttles on his belly to retrieve his fallen hat as it rolls away. Standing now, the Falstaff offers the fallen driver a hand up, saying, “Sorry, buddy.” He laughs and says, “Can you fucking forgive me?”

Another driver stoops to rescue the sunglasses, but their lenses are shattered, already broken by the tread of a scurrying air traveler. Yet another driver catches the rolling hat and returns it to the crawling man, who yanks it firmly over his head and pulls the brim low to hide his strange eyes. He reaches up to accept the Falstaff’s helping hand. Their two hands touch, like something depicted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or the floor of an upstate public toilet, and the fallen man says, “I forgive no one.” His voice a hiss. His uniformed body moving against the LAX carpet like a serpent.

With his free hand the oafish assailant is already slapping dust from his accidental victim. His mitt swats the shoulders of the wool coat, brushing the sleeves. “No harm done,” he says, but as the fallen man stands, the larger man sinks to his knees. Their hands unclasp. “Fuck,” says the Falstaff. Drops of sweat appear along his hairline and run down as if his forehead were a corn-based biodegradable plastic cup containing an iced soy latte. His goofy smile turns to gritted teeth, and so much blood rushes to his cheeks that he looks sunburned with agony. Clawing at his chest, he topples to make the shape of a fetus on the floor, and his legs run sideways against nothing, going nowhere fast. His Falstaff mouth stretches to turn his red face inside out while his hands dig at his jacket like a dog digs, like he can’t wait to rip out his own heart and show us. The brass buttons of his uniform pop and fly. His fingernails are through the skin, digging up blood, before he shudders and stiffens.