Riding the Fugues

Corbin watched the dying embers of the fire from where he lay on the cabin rug. He had always found mesmerizing the waves of orange & yellow, highlighted with flicking tongues of blue. They had the power to transport him to magical lands of haunting beauty filled with excitement & danger, contentment & peace.

Tonight was different.

His back had felt cold, so he’d turned over to let it warm by the fire. As he turned toward the relative darkness of the cabin, he found himself no longer lying on the rug but rather the vinyl seats inside his pickup. And he was cold, not just on his back, but all of him.

He remembered nothing about how he’d arrived there except that he’d been driving the mountain pass in a blizzard. The road had been heavy with snow & slush & he’d been driving a little too fast, upset about something. He’d been fighting the drag of the slush on the road for some time, but it had finally won the struggle, pulling him sideways into a solid wall of white.

He wasn’t even sure who he was, just that he was him. He knew he’d hit his head & had a nasty lump, & yet he only noticed it throbbing for a moment. He found himself completely buried in snow, but the cab wasn’t dark. The instrument panel was still on, though the engine was no longer running. He tried the key & got nothing. He sat up & tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. So, he rolled down the window.

Snow tumbled into the cab & across his lap. He attempted to brush it off but as his hand swept over it, the snow began turning red. He turned his hands to look at his fingers & palms. They looked pink & healthy. He turned them over again to look at the backs of his hands & blood began dripping into the snow once more. He lifted them up & the blood dripped from his elbows. When he turned his arms so that the insides of his wrists were in front of him, he found the source: multiple long, deep cuts stretching from the tops of his wrists over halfway down his arms, as though some great beast had clawed him.

Or a knife. But he didn’t carry one. And the only one in the cab was in the glove compartment…, which was open. And he could see the red of that Swiss Army Knife on the passenger side floor. But he couldn’t have done this to himself. He was headed to the cabin to figure things out, to find a way to move on.

Ah, that’s what he was doing there. He had been heading to the cabin.

He did remember a time when he’d seriously considered something like this. After Heather had said, “No,” to his proposal of marriage, he had slipped into a deep depression. He tried to keep it hidden from others, especially Heather, but when he was on his own….

He always kept on his person a Swiss Army Knife & a blade sharpener. When he was alone, he would take them out & go at it. If he was reading, watching tv, or simply in a chair staring out into space, he’d be sharpening his blade. On the rare occasions when someone did walk in on him, it was easy enough to explain. “You never know when you’re going to need a knife, & you don’t want a blade that’s dull or dirty.”

After he’d spent fifteen minutes or more doing this, & when he knew no one was around, he would test the blade on the inside of his arm to see how sharp it was, how much pressure it took to slice through the outer layer of the epidermis. But never once had he actually drawn blood from himself. He might have wondered from time to time what it would feel like to lie in a tub of warm bath water, watching your life slip away. But he’d never considered going through with it.

Okay, maybe when he was really down he’d thought about it. But he’d never done it, never even once tried to go through with it.

But now, however it happened, he was faced with a question. “How badly do you want to live? Enough to stop the bleeding? Enough to make it to the cabin? Enough to survive the storm?”

Corbin wasn’t sure how he would ultimately answer those questions, but he had decided what he was going to do. He thrust both arms through the open window into the snow, driving them until it was up to his elbows. Without understanding why, he somehow knew that the snow would not only cleanse the wounds but stop the bleeding.

He sat there, watching the snow turn red, waiting for the flow of blood to slow down, waiting for the healing to begin, waiting… as his eyelids became increasingly heavy, waiting… as his world faded to black….

~~~~~~~~~~

Lights up.

As he opened his eyes, he noticed he was still reaching with both arms…. Still? For what had he been reaching before?

He couldn’t remember. But right now, it was for a bottle of vino. He was sitting at a table at a sidewalk café in Paris with Leah. And he was feeling great. They had just come from watching a theatrical group performing in the park & now were enjoying a mime’s performance as they shared a light lunch.

Leah grabbed him by the hand & dragged him over so that the two of them might join in her performance. Leah & Corbin had done some acting together & had always enjoyed the thrill of the lights & stage. She seemed to think he was good. He knew she was incredibly talented. They spent the next twenty minutes helping the mime escape from her box, carrying crates that were too heavy, serving tables, catching bottles or glasses as they fell—they had a blast!

When it was time for them to leave—they were going to watch some Shakespeare in the Park—the mime gave each of them a big hug, kissed them on their cheeks, & bid them adieu with a gracious bow & a tip of the hat. As they took each other’s hand, laughing & waving back, he noticed the mime had left a big white pair of lips on Leah’s cheek.

Something about the makeup, the lips, the white, drew him in. He found himself getting lost as the lips became her eyes, became her smile, became everything Leah was to him. He felt himself falling, the world slipping away, fading…,

…into black.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lights up.

He & Perry were sitting in a bar. Corbin had been trying to act as his wingman all night, attempting to find the perfect woman (or man) for him. Perry had been having none of it, consistently changing the subject or brushing away the matchmaker’s art.

Corbin had noticed that what they were drinking was constantly changing. In one moment they would be drinking beer from mugs with beautiful foaming heads, the next it would be martinis with olives, or margheritas, or domestic beer from a bottle….

But they never changed. Their attitudes, their purpose, none of that. They laughed & partied & thoroughly enjoyed one other. They loved each other. They were each other’s best friend…,

…but they never changed. They never moved from the bar or did anything else. They never grew. They never found the right woman (or man), never fell in love or got married. They never found what they were looking for.

What they did find was a big mountain of a man who was getting a bit rowdy & noisy. He was trying to make this woman leave with him & she obviously didn’t want to go. That was not the kind of thing either of them could bear, but Corbin got there first. As Perry watched from the side, Corbin grabbed the man’s arm & said, “Hey, fella, I don’t think she wants to go with you.”

As this brute turned to him, the image Corbin had in his mind was of Brutus grabbing a Popeye-without-spinach & getting ready to pound him either into the ground or into the next county.

But he also had the image of her face in his head. She seemed familiar but he couldn’t quite place her, almost as though her features kept shifting & morphing from one to another.

And then everything went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lights up.

Corbin & Clarisse are just sitting on the side of a grassy hill in a park somewhere, overlooking the city. Which city, he doesn’t know & he doesn’t care. He remembers he’s had a crush on her, but they aren’t in love. They’re just sitting, enjoying the time together.

They stay there, never touching, never holding hands, never saying a word, until the sun goes down & the world turns dark.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lights up.

He sees Patrick in the distance. Corbin doesn’t hate him. He doesn’t really know him. But seeing his rival does make him feel a little nauseous.

Patrick climbs the steps to a brownstone. He sees Corbin & offers a friendly wave. Corbin just stands there, taking it all in, but not responding.

As Patrick enters his home, the world goes dark.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lights up.

Corbin has been called into the office. Murray puts his arm around his shoulder & tells him that one day all of this will be his. He invites Corbin to dinner. He meets Marge but can’t quite tell how she looks. And now Murray is beginning to look like Carson. They eat pears, nothing but pears for every dish, every course, from hors d'oeuvres to dessert. Everything is pears.

Murray/Carson tells him that the day will come when this world will be filled with his pear trees. Then everything will be perfect.

Marge gives him a doggy bag. He still can’t make out her face. He walks through the door into the night…,

~~~~~~~~~~

Lights up.

Corbin is in the cab of his pickup. The front end has broken through the ice & has begun to sink into the pond. Water is running in through the floor. The snow is falling so heavily he can barely see a thing outside.

He hears a loud crack & the pickup plunges into the water. The pond is deep—every bit as deep as he remembers. As the pickup sinks, he’s struck by the fact that he can see through the water, even though it is the middle of the night & the pond is covered with at least two feet of snow.

He peers through the windows & sees figures swimming through the water—mermaids & mermen. But these merfolk are familiar to him. He knows them. Penny is at her desk on the phone. The picture of her family is there. They come to meet her & they swim off together. Murray/Carson is there with Marge, eating a pear. He still can’t see her face. Leah & Perry are swimming apart but looking as though they don’t want to be. Heather, Patrick & Josiah are hanging around in the background. All his colleagues are there, his classmates, family & friends. And no one seems to notice him. They’re oblivious to his presence.

He wants to join them, but he can’t. The door won’t open, the window won’t roll down, & he has nothing with which to break the glass. The cab is filling with water &, though soon he will be just like them, he will never be able to join them.

And they will never know he is here.

As the pickup settles in the mud & the water grows dark, he hears an old familiar question.

“How badly do you want to live?”