RALLYING

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          You’re home, in bed, but it’s not your bed. It’s more like a crib, with sides.

           A hospital bed.

           But, why? And . . . What happened last?

           That place, stinking of meds and flowers they all know you hate. Lying helpless, with pests all around you. Raoul, your ex, teary-eyed, like he loved you again. But in the doorway, her. Marina, that fat-assed bitch he’d dumped you for.

           And a priest. That sad-faced priest means only one thing . . .

           But now . . . you’re home. And . . . You sit up, look around. “Hey!” comes out louder, stronger, than you’d expect. “Hey!”

           No reply. So . . . You sit up straighter, feeling pissed now. Why are you alone?

           I’m dying, you think, but they left me alone.

          If Raoul hadn't left you, you'd still be alone. Things were great in the beginning, but money-wise, he'd bled you dry. When you got too sick to work, Marina your neighbor was right there, paying his way and sucking his dick.

         You were never missed. 

           No cats here, either. Or they’d be napping on your almost-corpse. You’re so close to the end, someone already came for your cats.

           But still they left you alone . . .

           To die.

          But they left you your phone. You clutch it to you, wondering who to call. But you don’t feel like talking.

          Where’s the remote? For this stupid bed?

          How quickly you hop out of it. Like you’re not even sick! And get dressed. At least nobody packed up your clothes.

         But that priest . . . or a different, younger one, you told, “My confession would eat up the last hour I’ve got.”

          Yet, here you are. A miracle! Or, maybe you’re just . . .

         Rallying,

         Toward the very end, the dying one might sit up, feel hungry, seem like their old self . . .

         This is different.

         Sure, there’s pain, but so much energy, you’re flying across the room. Music! You search your playlist: Bruce, Dylan, Metallica, KISS…

         Even better, you want to go out!

         Why not?

         Makeup just right, though your hand shakes a little. You look damn good, actually. Maybe time to wash your favorite jeans, and top?

         Downstairs, you head, with the bottle of Tide.

         In one landing window, a sparrow eyes you from the fire escape. So happy, you think, to be alive! Like you.

         In the cellar, her fat ass to you, Marina sticks Raoul’s shirts in the washing machine. Bleached white, angel-soft, he likes them.

         Your own laundry slides to the floor. Then the Tide, with a thump.

         She whirls around, covers her mouth. “You . . . he said you were . . .”

          Stiff-legged, zombie-like, you walk toward her. Arms out like Karloff playing Frankenstein.

          Screaming, she runs past you and outside.

          Laughing exhausts you, but you just can’t stop. You’ve got to, you realize, as you nearly sink to the floor.

         You need energy now more than ever.

          Sadly, you kick your favorite clothes into a corner.

          Till you got sick, Scratch’s up the block, was your favorite bar.

          As you go inside, the delightful smell of spilled beer hits you. No matter how much the bar got wiped down, it was always sticky from ‘Buca.

          “Sandy!” Butchie, the bartender, looks so glad to see you.

          Home, this feels like. More home than that cat-less dump with the empty hospital bed.

          You grab and hug Butchie like you’ll never let go.

          On Saturdays, this was the best time to hang out here. Before things got crazy. Scratch’s had great bands, both cover and original. Usually, the guys started setting up around this time.

          As Butchie gets your beer, you see a guy on the stage fidgeting with the amp. At least, you think it’s the amp.

          All you know is, he’s hot.

          “How’re you feeling, Sandy?” Butchie asks. “You know. We all got worried.”

          “I’m good.”

          That guy on the stage. You can’t stop staring, there’s just something about him. A lot younger, but you like that. Raoul being your age was a fluke. This guy’s lean and long-haired. Back in the 80s he’d be all glammed up, in spandex. You dug that, too.

          This, you know, is what your energy’s for.

          But you feel too shy to talk to him. Always hated talking to strange guys. Cut right to the good stuff. Their pants down before they knew what hit them.

          You’re woozy from that first beer. But there’s no time to waste. You’ve got to talk to him. You grab your second beer and head for the stage.

          “GREEN MILE” is his band’s name. Like the long walk to death. Their logo’s on the drum, like they’re famous.

           Green Mile, you think, will be huge soon. How you know that is a mystery. Like an angel whispered it in your ear.

          “Hey,” you say, “What time you playing tonight?”

          The guy looks down. Somehow you have a beer in each hand. He jumps down, takes one.

          “Thanks. Ten, eleven.” He sips the beer. “You coming?’

          Up close, it hits you. Something in his eyes—big and almost-black—haunts you. This overwhelming, excruciating pain. Out of nowhere, he’ll feel it. And it’ll be soon. Today, you’re the one dying, but you feel sadder for him.

          “I’d . . . like to.”

          Smiling, he gets you both shots of ‘Buca. And you start talking.

          “My folks . . . ,” he says, after a while. By now, you’re sitting so close, almost touching. “Didn’t want me in a band. Even hear my songs.” He looks so sad.

          “Mine . . .” you say, then stop yourself. “Why not?”

          “I was supposed to be a doctor,” he says bitterly. “‘A doctor can heal,’ Dad said.” Sounding almost choked, he picks up his shot. “But maybe I could heal, too,” he says, “through my songs!” 

          Green Mile will be big, but without him as their frontman. They’ll get big singing his songs. How you know this is still a mystery.

          Suddenly you know so much. Like how these shots are numbing the last of your own pain.

          How this delicious, Buca-tasting kiss you give him will be your best, and last, ever.

          How the pink-gold halo encircling him is not from the setting sun.

          ‘Cos the sun had set long ago.

 

 

THE END