path: root/old notes/cut - dean's arrival story.txt

cut - dean's arrival story

ItÕs fucking ridiculous, the whole damn show is just the dumbest thing IÕve ever seen. People care about the weirdest stuff. I mean here I am, you know me SilÉ.Ó The words hang while he scratches the back of his head. ÒI mean I donÕt own anything that doesnÕt fit in this suitcase you know? WhatÕs the fucking point? But Melissa starts talking about buying our own place and having nice things and all this garbage, and IÕm thinking why? WhatÕs wrong with the stuff we got? What about the friendship, the sex, the smell of the subway, the city at twilight, that kind of stuffÑstuff you donÕt buy? 
ÒMaybe IÕm just the most na•ve person in world, but I donÕt need a semi-disposable Ikea furniture set to make me feel likeÉ god, I donÕt even knowÑhow is that supposed to make you feel? ItÕs all a hologram, the tableÕs not even there, there is no donkey. Ya ever hear that one? Ah well, nevermind.Ó Dean tugs his goatee and thinks for a bit. 
ÒThe weirdest part,Ó he continues, Òis that we live in a beautiful world, but weÕre caricatures in it. We are terrified to stop and look around at it, at our creationÉ we take it all too seriously, the act of creating that is, to ever stop and marvel at it. I got in the habit of spending my free time in museumsÑthereÕs a lot up thereÑwatching the peopleÉ forget the art, itÕs all crap, watch the peopleÉ.Ó He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head languidly from side to side. ÒHell I donÕt knowÉ you mind if I stay with you for a while? ItÕs too late to say no anyway, I already moved in.Ó He takes an enormous gulp of mead 


Dean is like that, free of everything; he just hasnÕt realized it yet. I catch him up on Almont in one quick sentence: nothing here has changed. Nothing here ever will change which is what makes Almont such a good place to wait, because when something does change you wonÕt miss it. 
Jimmy and I agree to help him with his book. Dean thanks us and then Jimmy asks why 

Dean left DC, I like the mystery myself, but Dean offers it up without hesitation. ÒIt was two days ago,Ó he begins. ÒI was sitting on a bench smoking and reading as usual and this guy came over and sat down next to me. He works in the mailroom, always says hello, real happy chap, friendly in a genuine way. I suspected he was Muslim, but I had never talked to him. You know I have a problem with religions, especially ones founded on an oxymoron, like that Christianity racketÉ Virgin motherÉ? I mean, does Sizzler claim to be god because they serve jumbo shrimp? IÕm sure thereÕs some hideous fundamental logical flaw in the Koran as well, but I donÕt know about it so I can overlook it. I mean Mohammed was just a prophet of god right? You know tend sheep long enough with the Arabian heat bake-potatoing your brains and you might start talking to god too. So anyway this guy sits down with me and I figure, I donÕt know much about Islam, itÕs gotta be better than the virgin crap, why not? I say hello and he asks me what IÕm reading...I hate that question. Last week someone stopped me in the hall and asked what Naked Lunch was about... ÔUm.... a guy living in TangierÕ.... Week before that I was reading Junky.... IÕm not sure if anyone was paying attention or doing any math back thereÉ. Anyway... I try to get across that Western Lands is Burroughs going through death and meditating on the afterlife myths et cetera while he was nearing the Great Divide himself. This guy starts laying down some thick rap about Islam, and I was mesmerized. Their stories are fucking INTENSE. He laid down this Angel of Death gig that was a definite keeper. I closed my book and was genuinely enthralled. Not by what he was saying, but by him. HeÕs one of those people who, regardless of what they are spouting, give off this haze of education, and inner peace, and wisdom. It was really something.Ó Dean takes a swig of beer and clears his throat.
 ÒWhen I got home that night I was looking around the apartment and I had this terrible suffocating feeling and I heard this voice, angel of death, what have you, but it kept saying Ôis this what you want? Is this what matters to you?Õ All night it was muttering that to me, over spaghetti, during the Simpsons, the whole rest of my insufferable routine. I was lying in bed watching Alexis undress, already starting to miss her and I hadnÕt even left yet, and all the sudden I have this epiphany. I realize that it was never the girls that got to me, it was me that got to me.Ó He eyes Jimmy who nods his head conspiratorially.
 ÒI had a fucked up dream that nightÑof course. Sis and mom and I were living in Texas again, where I grew up, and I was walking barefoot outside. I walked through a stagnant pool of water to avoid a vicious barking dog. When I got to the house, I lit a cigarette and looked at my hand. I saw my skin move. REALLY move. In the dream, I remember thinking that I was hallucinating, but then it moved again and it started moving all over my body. The stagnant water had some sort of microscopic parasite in itÑlike a tapeworm with a leech body. It had seeped through my pores and reproduced and grown. I ran around the house freaking out, my skin moving in little bumpy black wave-like ripples. I could feel them crawling under my epidermis. I stopped and had an epiphany. I began kneading my flesh, corralling the parasites to my extremities and forcing them out through the skin. My skin was shredding like latex paper mache`, hemorrhaging, my arms and face were peeling ribbons of flesh. When I had finally gotten the last one out, and crushed it in my hand, I lay back knowing I was in agonizing pain, but only feeling the smooth balance of shock soothing my nervous system, fooling it into feeling okay. I felt tired, and realized I was bleeding to death. I didnÕt fight; I just slipped awayÉ.  I woke up at four in the morning. I kissed Alexis on the cheek and I sent you that email. And see, here I am. Not sure if that makes any sense to you guys, but it sure as hell did to me. FeetÕs start walkinÕÑya know?Ó 

Jimmy and I exchange a look. I shrug. There is a placid stillness while we absorb his words. I have learned from Dean, over the years, that you have to look out for yourself, or selves, and those that are near you. But you canÕt go looking for help, it will come to you or it wonÕt. YouÕre not in control. It came to Dean in a nightmare. Whether or not I understand doesnÕt matter, Dean understands. He understands that something is drawing him slowly away from here. I smile to myself thinking that one day he will embark on somethingÉ. beautifulÉ  And no matter if he should end up destitute, selling children in the back alleys of Milan like a Rumanian gypsy or at a static oasis on the edge of a desolate gasoline holocaustÉ. The point is that whatever and wherever it is, it will start right here in the torn, desolate, used up fabric of reality. More than likely it will start in ugliness and squalor, it will dredge up every avarice and horror we have ever known, but it will start right here. Nothing of any consequence ever happened yesterday and nothing important will ever happen tomorrow, there is only right now.