He's skinnier now than he used to be. He was never fat, by any means, and now he's lost nearly a third of his body weight. His stomach is shallow and his ribs stick out and I'm vaguely reminded of pictures I saw when I was younger of prisoners in concentration camps. It's the same sickly appearance, like he's already dead and his body just doesn't know it yet. Some of his hair is missing, too, and it makes him look that much more fragile.
It's strange watching him die. He was so young when I met him, but he's so very old now. Of course, I was young, too, that day fifteen years ago that I can still remember as if it were – no, I won't say, "yesterday." I don't remember anything that happened yesterday. We were about the same age, then. Indeed, he was a bit younger, but now he's ancient beyond dreams. His bleary eyes look out at each new day and I wonder if behind them he ponders how many more times he'll be allowed to do this. He walks slowly, wearily, with the weight of Death and an unfinished life on his back, and it takes longer than I thought possible for him to walk up a flight of stairs.
It's strange watching my best friend for three-fourths of my entire life waste away into oblivion. It's odd listening to his labored breaths and seeing him so happy to see me despite the cancer running rampant through his flesh, despite the ugly coughs from fluid in his lungs, despite frequent stops to rest as we walk because his heart is slowly failing.
I watch him one night staring up at the stars, just breathing, breathing, breathing, even though it's painful to draw breath – short, shallow inhalations with sharp exhalations are a constant reminder of borrowed time. We stand for a long time watching the infinite, marvellous cosmos, and I have just enough time to think painfully about all of my regrets before the moon dips below the horizon, and I say goodnight. So this is death.
I turn around and I'm three hundred miles away, still staring at an apathetic moon. I'm in the arms of a woman I barely know, and the dim light of a nearly winter sky casts further shadows of anonymity. Her arms wrap around me in the tender embrace of a satisfied lover. So this is mourning.
She's smiling. The world is dead and this fucking cunt is grinning stupidly! Pause. No, I can't fault her; hell, I'm smiling too, if barely more than a smirk, just so I don't have to bother telling her. She doesn't know, but I'm sure she'd care if she did. Just like everyone cares. Sympathy: "Oh, I'm so sorry." They say it with that same pitiful face everyone gets when they're trying to convey pity – frowning, pulling their cheeks down so it looks like their flesh is hanging too loosely beneath their eyes, and turning their eyebrows just so slightly upwards to widen their glistening eyes the tiniest fraction of an inch. "I just heard about your loss and I wanted to let you know I'm here for you." Yeah, I'm sure you are, at least today. Tomorrow you'll wonder why I'm still upset about it, I should move on with my life, not dwell in the past.
She interrupts my thoughts by pulling me back to bed. I suppose she was trying to be seductive, but as I glimpse her casually naked in front of me, that same photograph of starving, shaved headed Jews, Gypsies, and other Undesirables returns to my mind – rows of tired, naked corpses standing there staring at me. So this is lust.
I drive away, listening to the radio as loudly as it can be turned. The speakers rebel with static that distorts the words, but I'm pretty sure it's something by Smashing Pumpkins. "I used to be a little boy…" The sky turns sort of a washed out blood red as the sun dims, a sunset filtered through the exhaust from a million cars. I don't know how much time passes, but eventually I'm in the City. I spend the night in Brooklyn and become witness to a shooting at two in the morning. One shot…what the fuck?…two-three…should I call the cops?…someone else probably will…four…silence the whole time, broken merely by the stacato of gunfire, loudly echoing off the buildings – I guess I expected more yelling…five…I close my eyes, listening to the minutes pass…six…each shot is slow, deliberate, not the frenzied exchange shown in movies…seven…then nothing. Seven shots in as many minutes and the police don't arrive for another twenty. I guess this is the post-attack comraderie everyone spoke of, New Yorkers coming together in the spirit of harmony and friendship. Drug dealers offer me pot in Washington Square Park. It's probably little better than oregano. On the subway everyone has the look of permanent fatigue. They sleep. They sit staring at nothing, just waiting for their stop. No one talks, so the only sound is the clacking of wheels on railway, and no one makes eye contact. If the spiritual essence of a place had a color, here it would be grey.
A man enters the car I'm in. His clothes are old and smelly, as ragged and worn out as the man himself. Bags under his eyes could hold water. His skin is as dark as an arctic winter. Everyone who wasn't looking down already does so when he enters, studiously avoiding his eyes and purposefully not staring at his right arm, which is missing below the elbow. Old photographs in my mind. He gives the usual pitch: just a nickel to help me out; I'm just trying to get through the day, and hopefully the night. Almost everyone ignores him, but two don't, and as they drop a few coins into his cup he gives them a warm but infinitely sad smile. A whispered "thank you" escapes his lips, but is reflected a thousand times in his brown, rheumatic eyes. He walks away as I watch the ground. After all, I don't have enough money to help everyone, so why bother helping anyone?
The train doesn't stop at Cortland Street. The station there is completely empty, and as we go by the silence seems to increase a hundredfold. Only the ghosts have voices here. I get off at Rector street, instead.
I'm struck most by the contrast. People stand grieving, visibly holding back tears, next to tourists as they smile – modest smiles, but smiles nonetheless – while their pictures are taken with the skeletal remnants of some once-towering edifice in the background. Rows of flowers and candles and countless tiny memorials to the fallen lie beautifully as old postcards and pointless knick-knacks that were bought wholesale are sold nearby, even as water is still being poured on the ruins. Get a picture of the towers before there are none left. Love stands next to Greed and Life stands next to Death. So this is grieving.
I decide to leave, slightly nauseous, when two things catch my attention. The first is a simple piece of cloth – it could have been a tablecloth, once – covered in hundreds of signatures and tiny, heartfelt messages. This in and of itself is unremarkable; there are dozens like it and, like the others, it has its origin printed on it in larger letters. This is what catches me, simple black letters spelling out five words, "New York City, Rochester Cares." As I read this I notice for the first time music playing, and turn to see a man in simple clothes playing Christmas songs on a flute to the gathered throngs. This is beauty.
Beneath Union Square, as I'm leaving the city, I walk by a woman playing the musical saw just as she begins Ave Maria. I stop, listening. It was sung, years ago, at both of my grandparents' funerals, but it was not sung two weeks ago at the most recent burial I had to attend. There are no words this time, but the music is enough, sounding for all the world like an angel humming to herself. I listen, watching her play until it's finished, and whisper silently because my voice won't work that it's one of my favorite songs. It is, but I'm not sure if it's despite or because it reminds me of so many dead. So this is goodbye.

12/16/2001

Posted on 12/16/2001
Copyright © 2024 Gary Hoffmann