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Non-Fiction
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| The Day I Died | |
| By Emmuttmax | ||||||||||||||||||
| 18 May 2008 | ||||||||||||||||||
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The beginning of a memoir that covers 14 years of my life.
The Day I Died
The day began like any another day. I was a creature of habit and enjoyed my routine. I arrived at work under the early Texas sky about 6:00 a.m., well ahead of anyone else, as was my routine. It would be another in a line of hot, humid days that had given the local TV weathermen little to do but try apologize. I was dressed for the occasion, loose, cargo shorts, a flowered Hawaiian shirt, and floppy sandals--my usual summer office attire. When I unlocked the door to the building, a small gust of chilled air burst out and quickly evaporated. Once inside, routine took over; I switched on the overhead lights, dropped my knapsack in my office, and headed to the break room to brew the first pot of coffee. Journalism may run on words, but coffee is the glue that holds them together. Although I always felt uncomfortable with the term “journalist”—I preferred “a guy who writes stuff”--the smell of roasted Columbian-coffee stirred the adjectives and nouns in my blood, and its nectar would soon fortify me for another day as the editor of San Antonio Current, an alternative newsweekly. Coffee in hand, I returned to my corner office, sat at desk, opened daily newspaper, and settled into the comfort of my daily routine. But, on this day, my routine would be altered, my would life would be shattered; something inside of me would die, and I would not find comfort for many years. With the day’s news digested, and only lees in the coffee cup, I put the finishing touches on my weekly column. I loved writing in the early morning, before phone calls and the voices of my staff intruded on my concentration. For me, writing was a painful but rewarding process, and I liked to suffer in private. My column complete, my privacy came to an end as people began to wander in about 8:30. I reloaded the coffee cup and wandered about, greeting the staff and engaging in small talk. At 9:00, I gathered the editorial people for a quick meeting to check on the progress of the upcoming issue. We were on schedule. As painful as researching, interviewing, writing, re-writing, editing, adding art, and to can be, it is a mere irritant compared to the feeling of joy I got when the newspaper came out. No matter how flawed the end creation might be, I swelled with the pride of a first-time father when I held a new issue in my hands. I couldn’t believe I had anything to do with it. The staff disbanded and went about their daily chores, and I glanced out my office windows; the sun had beat back the temperate early morning and sucked up the spittle that passes for dew in this part of Texas. I returned a few phone calls, and then called a couple of freelance writers to check on their progress with upcoming stories I’d assigned them. Those tasks complete, I settled in to edit the copy for the next issue. I fired up the Mac, brought up the cover story and began to read. I remember getting to the third paragraph, to one sentence in particular; it was there my brain stalled. When my synapses re-started, I glanced at the computer screen and found myself re-reading the same sentence. My engine sputtered and stalled once more. It happened again and again and again. I was aware that something wasn’t right but unaware that anything was wrong. I was caught in some sort of journalistic loop; I could not get past that sentence. Now you might think this sentence held some great importance, a mystical code, an esoteric revelation perhaps. If you do, I believe you would be wrong. I have no idea how the sentence read, what words it contained. Looking back, what I do know is that while reading that sentence over and over, part, something within me died. I had no flashbacks, saw no white light and didn’t gasp for air, I simply stopped being me. Oh, my heart kept pumping, my synapses kept snapping and my lungs still filled with conditioned air, but the me that I had known ceased to be. Decomposition had begun, and in Texas, during a hot, sultry summer, the decomposition rate accelerates rapidly. I felt as if a swarm of wasps flew in my ears and punctured my brain with their thorny butts, unleashing a potent anesthetic. The light in my eyes flickered, then died, doused by a flood of unexpected tears. The “me” flatlined. I have no memory of a post-death journey, but I like to think I was transported to a heaven or haven to help me prepare for what became a long sojourn into hell. I sat there in my cushioned, high-backed casket-on-casters for centuries. The wasps had exited the cranial hive, leaving a blubbering zombie in their wake. I was drowning in a numb, watery blackout when I heard my name being called. “Mike. Mike, are you Ok?” The voice pulled me closer to the surface. “Mike, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” “No,” I thought, “I’m not alright. I’m a fucking corpse, a rotting piece of shark bait.” I finally reached the surface and opened my eyes. The computer was still in front of me, but I didn’t bother trying to read. My blood had thicken, slowed, and I heard a feint hum of low-wattage electricity as my internal battery tried to spark a connection between my brain and my body. “Mike, did something happen?” Turning my head to the sound of the voice, I saw Eric, the senior writer. Something had definitely happened, but I had no idea what. “You’re crying, Mike. What’s going on?” At first, I had no idea anything was wrong, Things just felt…different. “You’re crying,” repeated Eric, “what happened?” “I don’t know.” I raised my hands to my face and felt the wetness--mixed with the inevitable nasal leakage that comes with crying--covering my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I, uh, I don’t know what’s going on.” I wiped my eyes, but the water continued to flow, a portent of the coming storm. I tried to stand but felt weak. I tried to turn off the faucet in my head, but it had jammed open. “What the fuck is going on?” part of me demanded, “why is this happening?” It was a question I would ask myself often in the coming years. Then the storm hit. Great sobs wracked my body; the tears would not stop. Eric closed my office door, came to my side and asked if there was anything he could do. I was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say. I was scared and wanted to be away from the office; I certainly didn’t want anyone else to see me in the state I was in. “I think I need to get out of here, Eric. Can you drive me home?” “No problem. Come on, let’s go out the back door.” Eric told the receptionist we were leaving, and I made my escape. He drove me home, and I cried all the way. I wanted more than anything to stop, but I couldn’t. On the drive to my house, between the sobs and attacks of sorrow, I kept apologizing to Eric. I was ashamed and embarrassed. It was difficult for me to know someone was witnessing my emotional train wreck. Eric, whom I had come to respect not only for his writing skills but also as an honest, caring human being, was most supportive; he told me I had nothing to apologize for and not to worry about anything, he would make sure the work got done today. When we finally arrived at the house, Eric held my arm as I zombie-shuffled inside. He sat me on the couch then called my wife Linda at work and apprised her of my situation. I did not want her to see me like this, but I couldn’t make sense of what was happening to me and needed something familiar to hold onto. Eric wanted to stay with me until Linda arrived, but I insisted he go back to the office. He reluctantly departed, and I sank into the cushions of the couch to await the arrival of the woman whose love I would put to the test many times over the coming years.
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