Bruce Wagner - The Empty Chair

Kelly went on a How It Can Dance! book tour that she organized herself, from Seattle to San Diego and every place in-between. She arranged for local library readings and hawked it out of vitamin barns, co-ops and daycare centers. Sold it from her car for God’s sake.

We were on a budget, notwithstanding the advance on the memoir and my disability checks. You know how the money thing goes. I admit I was getting a little wiggy. I must have gained, oh, close to 45 pounds. I put in a lot of time on the porch in a rocking chair that rumor had it once belonged to either Neil Young or Pigpen. (Got it at the flea market.) You know, my wife had an interesting relationship to my lawsuit. On the one hand, she said it was bad karma to be sitting on my ass waiting for reparations over something that happened as a result of karma anyway and that the case had turned all us plaintiffs into virtual eunuchs, which was the ultimate triumph of the abusers. Probably had a point. On the other, I knew she wasn’t above dreaming of the Big Win. With enough Merlot, Kelly’s thoughts wandered to India, a mainstay of her recurring encyclical money-pot grand tour. She loved to tease. She said that when my ship came in — always referred to as the Good Ship Lollipop —she expected no less than a first-class expedition. “And if that isn’t convenient for your schedule, Ryder and I will have a perfectly fine time by ourselves.” She always diva’d out when she drank Merlot. But no bullshit, Kelly considered the fact that she’d never traveled there to be a gaping hole in her CV. She desperately wanted to visit the cave where Siddhartha Gautama meditated; she longed to sit under the Buddha tree in Bodh Gaya. She wanted to go to the Deer Park in Sarnath where he gave his teachings, and to Sravasti, where he taught breath awareness meditation… and make the pilgrimage to Kushinagar, where the Buddha drew his last breath. Her fantasy itinerary for Ryder was catholic indeed, mixing elephant rides (like his beloved if recently outgrown Mowgli) with a visit to Varanasi to watch bodies burning on a ghat — a ritual for which Ryder, courtesy of Mom’s bedtime stories, had already seemed to have acquired a small but persistent curiosity.

After the third glass of wine she’d crinkle her eyes and stare at the moon, archly whispering, “Or maybe I’ll just bring a… ladyfriend. ”

She was a hoot.

Oh and look, Bruce, I don’t want to give you the impression I had no life . When Kelly was on the road doing her book or teaching thing, I took breaks from the drudgery of the legal waiting game. I’d arrange for Ryder to have a sleepover at a friend’s then ride into the city to buy crack in the Tenderloin. Find a friendly porn shop with booths in the back for watching movies and get high. Kneel in front of the glory hole and wait for Mr. Right to poke his dick through… Suck-A-Mole not Whac-A-Mole, huh. Not exactly a self-esteem builder but you do what you gostta do. I acquired gonorrhea that way once, in the throat. Nice. Another time I got crabs in my eyebrows. You haven’t lived until you’ve almost blinded yourself with A-200 before finding out that Vaseline asphyxiates the little fuckers. Vaseline!

I was in the yard. What was I doing? I have no memory.

I know it was a Saturday, three weekends before the news of the settlement — O happy day! — though of course at the time, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that everything had fallen apart or the case needed to be refiled on a technicality and would take five more years to resolve.

I went back in the house. Why? No memory.

As I passed Kelly’s meditation room, something caught my eye. A chair, overturned on the floor. I went in to right it. Something stank — my foot skidded — it was shit, right next to the chair— on the chair. How did a dog— what dog—

Then I saw him, hanging from a rope.

No clothes… he wore no clothes.

— what’s this?

(My heart was racing but my mind was calm, observing.)

Rushed to lift — so heavy.

Dead.

Dead—

But what is dead? And what does dead mean —

I could smell him, and all manner of stinky things — that thing Ram said — actually the awesome poet Ravidas said it, or wrote it, anyway — about everything being stinky — emanating from the untouchable touchable body of my son — poo smells, horsey, germy, sandalwoody smells — a complete, fetid jumble. The sky is falling —the phrase came into my head and kept repeating — the sky is falling — so this is what they mean by that — he was a bag, heavy boxer’s punching bag, and I, me, a freak stuck in timespace, slow-dancing with that cold nude weight— How It Can Dance! — and if you’ve ever confronted this sort of thing (there are more out there than you think, I went to a support group for folks who discovered loved ones hanging), there’s an odd moment when you’re lifting —later you wonder why you didn’t just cut them down — as if that might have saved him — you’re supposed to cut them down, but at the moment —dread moment of moments — it seems counterintuitive so you find yourself holding and lifting instead, lifting up —in that odd moment— very odd — you’re just stuck , your instincts say raise him up , take pressure off his neck (the damage already done, windpipes ruined forever), there you are left holding the bag, no way to cut the rope even if you wanted, there’s no knife and you can’t let go, and besides, the angle’s all wrong and your hands are full, so you’re stuck holding the torso of him who was— is —always was your love and your light — like one of those exhausted marathon dance couples from that wonderful movie They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? If you can’t cut it then you need to undo the knot but it’s too high , you’ll need to stand on a chair — conveniently provided! — so you can lift him with one arm and loosen the noose with the other… you’ll need to bend down to right the chair (now inconveniently laying on its side) but it’s been kicked a few feet away so you need to do more than bend, need to literally let go of him to get to it — the very first of a letting go that will stretch into Infinity — which you do, you have no choice but to let him dangle— have to —and it’s against the will of every cell of your body — body of father holding his son, every cell shrieking no no no he’ll choke… again! — and you cannot, will not bring yourself to be party to a further hanging — oh Bruce! It’s just a horrible, terrible bind — I found myself in — a wretched, killing, scum of the earth moment, alone with myself in the deadly present —and you feel… you’re just completely useless , you’re beyond , like some demon who never should have existed, why were you born? He wouldn’t have been in this ludicrous predicament if you never had been, you’ve murdered him by definition. Your busy, useless arms won’t let you dial for help— where are your clothes, son? — but eventually you do just that, blacking out all thoughts so as not to be party to an unspeakable second hanging — you let go of him as you shuffle over to right that dastardly chair. The seat is broken but you see a short wood plank (what’s that doing there? Well, never mind for now), you lay the plank across the broken drum of the seat so you can stand upon it, a good, pro-active move that suddenly vanquishes or at least diminishes other awful thoughts, our brains are so primitive, they enjoy ordering us to take action-steps, now suddenly face-to-face with Ryder’s dead head, staring at the twisted hard candy features. And again the mind begins its metal machine Muzak: