First of the Gang to Die

IV - In The Future When All's Well

        Now, at this point, those clever folk among you probably believe they’ve got everything figured out; that my cosmic jaunt will be my undoing, and I’m recounting these memories from an unspecified afterlife, in the vain hope of somehow prolonging my life history. Well, I guess that’s half right. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, just yet...

        I’ll spare you all the mundane details about how our individual lives turned out, after the predictable break­up of the Gang of Four. Suffice it to say that we ended up becoming more or less what you’d expect us to. (“More or less” being the operative phrase here.)

        Even the advent of e­mail, and Facebook, and instant messaging failed to keep us in touch with each other. For the most part, it wouldn’t have been necessary, anyway. Javi and I went on to be classmates in high school, and we picked the same major at a common university, but that didn’t stop us from leading parallel lives. Heck, I still run into him at Sa Guijo, every now and then, and we have no desire to exchange more than a cursory nod.

        I’ve spotted Buboy – excuse me, Charles – numerous times, in cafes, and exhibit openings, and shopping malls. I’ve joined him for merienda on a few occasions, but it’s always so formal and business-­like. Then again, I understand he treats everybody that way now (including his own wife, or so the tsismis goes).

        I really did intend to keep up with JR, but I was always so distracted. So when I noticed an announcement for a talk he was delivering at my alma mater, several years ago, I decided to set up a rendezvous. Understandably, I was a bit nervous – I’d heard different accounts about his current demeanor, varying from self­important egghead, to socially awkward genius. But when we finally sat down for coffee, he was the same guy I’d always known him to be. He didn’t bother wasting time on small talk, engaging me in a number of subjects that I’d addressed in my modest body of published work. Whether or not he’d followed my “writing career” (if one may call it that), JR had clearly done his homework, ahead of our meeting. We reached an uneasy pause, after the conversation had shifted towards the Mayan calendar and “ancient astronaut” theories, as depicted in pop culture. As I quietly mulled over the possibility of bringing up my Storyscape experience, he intuitively asked me if I was ready to discuss what happened to me inside the sigil. I nodded yes, and began telling him all about it.

        It was cathartic, really. Over the years, I had made allusions to the Storyscape in my writing, but it was fulfilling to just let it out. JR immediately reached the same conclusion that I did, just as I guessed he would. The symbol may have been an aleph, a kind of ‘flattened’ representation of the universe, such that all possible moments in time appeared as a kind of clockwork, each mo(ve)ment reinforcing the next one, simultaneously. (At least, that’s how I make sense of it. But then again, my knowledge of the concept was informed by British comic book writers and Jorge Luis Borges; JR had an understanding of quantum mechanics on his side.) Once JR needed to shuffle off to his next appointment, we agreed that it was probably better off not to dwell on the matter any more than necessary. After all, we had more ‘adult’ things to concern ourselves with. Of course, both of us knew that we’d probably keep obsessing about it, anyway. Just the same, we were too busy to keep any correspondence going. Our meeting would be the last time I ever spoke with JR.

∞

     So how exactly did I become the First of the Gang to Die? After the high drama I’ve recounted, I suspect the Truth will feel rather mundane. One fateful August night, I stumbled back to my car, after dinner at an upscale bistro in The Fort. I was beginning to regret the quantity of red wine I had consumed, intending to drown my usual trio of clichéd miseries: prolonged writer’s block, money issues, and relationship struggles. I happened to back out from my parking spot, just as some cranky tycoon’s son was pulling up in his new SUV. The young brat was quite possibly strung out from a little chemical action, long before our vehicles made contact. I barely grazed his “ride”. Nevertheless, things heated up during the resulting confrontation, and he ended up putting a gun to my face. I laughed off his threat, emboldened by the Cabernet, believing he wouldn’t do anything quite so foolish in public. Bang!

        And that’s all he wrote, folks. I think it’s safe to head back to my funeral now...

        A few photographers are discretely attempting to photograph JR. He’s still dewy-­eyed, and huddled over the piano, minutes after the Aerosmith ballad reached its glorious end. Apparently, he’s become more hermit-­like than ever, and most probably on the payroll of the US Defense Department, enlisting subatomic wonders in the service of the War on Terror.

        The Girlfriend, who never quite became The Ex, is being her typical Virgo self. She’s dutifully putting up a strong front. She makes sure the guests are well­fed. She tells my dear Mom all the right lines about what a loving and dedicated guy I had been. She delivers the eulogy just as she’d rehearsed it the night before, making sure to throw in the proper Vonnegut quote, and just the right pauses for dramatic effect.

        I didn’t expect Javi to keep up appearances, but there he is, looking charismatically disheveled in a borrowed pinstripe suit. In a move that shocks even me, he makes a subtle but discernible attempt to hit on The Girlfriend, playing the estranged buddy card for all it’s worth, offering insincere regrets about not getting to know me better. To his credit, he seems to be genuinely familiar with my body of work, a knowledge that he’s now attempting to use to get into her pants. Oh, please God, don’t let her grief-­fuck him!

        Buboy finally shows up by himself, long after the bulk of the mourners have left. He’s been working late on a deal with a Texan client, organizing his work days to follow Central Standard Time. With head bowed tentatively, he approaches my open casket. He sprinkles the glass ceiling with a dash of holy water from a plastic receptacle, as his tears mix with the sacred liquid. In the resulting droplets, he traces the loose outline of an infinity symbol.

        The Gang has paid their last respects. My story is over.