When I get to the Surfer Hotel I find the door to Polino’s shack, the air-conditioning room where Polino and I used to sleep, and of course the door is locked. I find a thin piece of aluminum siding at the construction site next door and fit it between the door and the jamb and with a little jiggling I’m able to slip back the bolt on the door. I walk inside where it’s cool, into the cinder-block hum of machinery. I go to the place behind the heater and find the box with the candle and the rolled-up blankets. I place the dictionary on the ground in front of the box, next to a valve with a tag hanging from the metal thread. I leave the book. No note, just the book.
4
I’m standing on a sidewalk at the side of a large supermarket. Cars are coming out of an underground parking garage. The world, as I notice it around me, has a clarity. Everything is clear, but also slightly removed. The outlines are sharp but the things themselves — the palm tree growing in the grass, the oil stains in the street, the sound of a motorcycle — all the things in the world are separate from me. Separate, and also the same. There’s a certain pleasure in standing there, seeing the world in front of me, and not constantly wanting something from it all the time.
I would almost call it tranquillity, this lack of desire. Everything is just moving or not moving according to some plan, and because it’s not my plan, and because I have no vested interest in the outcome, it seems perfect. And I want it to last. I want to keep feeling the perfection around me, and in me, but it can’t go on forever, I think. Not like this.
So I stand there, and whatever it is, I feel it. I don’t try to feel it, I just let it happen, and when I do, yes, the peace is there. The tranquillity is there, but I don’t know. Is the peace of it all being over better than being in the world?
Wanting life is life, and I’m not quite ready to give it up. I don’t want to be dead. I can adjust to anything, anything except not being. I still want to see what’s going to happen. Maybe I’m greedy, but my habit is to hold on, so that’s what I do.
And that’s when the tranquillity starts to fade. I liked that tranquillity, but now it’s replaced by the opposite of tranquillity, desire, a desire for the world. Without the world, and the tumult of the world, there’s nothing. Not nothingness. Just nothing. Without the world penetrating my senses, without that stimulation, there’s only numbness. And although that numbness has a tranquillity component, it also has a black hole component. Which is why, as usual, I start walking.
I don’t know what else to do. In an effort to keep from losing the world I wander along Mission Boulevard, along the narrow sidewalk, past the small pastel houses crowded together. I walk for what seems like a long time, until I come to the parking lot of the Mission Beach amusement park. I thought I was wandering aimlessly but maybe I had in my mind all along the idea of riding the roller coaster, because that’s where I go.
Geoff had given me some spending money and so in the middle of the stalls and rides I find the ticket booth, buy a small red ticket, and wait in a line. As I’m standing there I notice a man who looks like my father, and who may well be my father, smoking a cigarette against a chain-link fence. Because my father is dead I watch this man as he takes a last puff, throws the butt on the ground, and walks away.
The line moves forward and a man in a sweatshirt tells a teenager in front of me to step into one of the cars. I step into an empty car behind him, and a metal bar is lowered over my chest. I’m sitting in the seat, and my car, part of a train of cars, starts moving. It’s being pulled, slowly and deliberately, up the ramp, up to the highest point. I can hear the old metal wheels grating on the track. Then the silence of anticipation.
And then the car starts its plummet, and the rest of the ride is filled with the screams of excitement. But not my screams. During the ride, instead of excitement, I feel nostalgia. For life. This is life. You can’t get much more adrenaline in life than this. And although the ride doesn’t take much time, at the end of it I’m crying, not over the absence of that life, but over its existence.
5
It’s the middle of the day and people are out, walking in the sun. I’m walking with them, watching them as they go about building their lives. I remember back to who I was with Anne, who I wanted to be with Anne, trying to build my life — and our life together — thinking I was building it, happy that I was there in the world, with her, although at the time I wasn’t thinking about it, I was just doing it. It was my dream, and these people, I think, are also dreaming. Not lost in a dream, but dreaming of what can happen, dreaming of what life will mean, of who they want to be. Everyone wants to be something. I wanted to be something, but now I’ve forgotten what it was I wanted to be. I know it was something, something good, something that would make the world better, something that would make Anne happy.
Or maybe only I wanted to be happy? I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure my attraction to happiness included anyone other than me. I’m not convinced I wasn’t alone the whole time Anne and I were together.
In New Jersey we were together. I know that. At the gas station. We’d been driving together, talking together, crossing the bridge together. Dreaming even. We had dreams: of children, of success, of friends, the garden, old age. Not too much about old age. We weren’t there yet, but it was part of the dream, part of the implied dream we were dreaming together.
And now the dream is over. I didn’t want it to be over before but now I remember what happened at the gas station. I was in the convenience store picking out candy bars and snack food, not just for me, but for her. I knew her, knew what she liked, and it was simple to choose those things that she liked. Which I did. I paid the woman at the counter and walked outside, into the cool air, into the daylight, and there she was, she’d thought of me, she’d pulled up near the entrance so I wouldn’t have to walk so far. That was nice. I opened the car door. I bent down and leaned in, put my hand on the seat. Look what I got, I started to say. I did say it, “Look what I got.” And then I heard the sound, of the car. It wasn’t making any noise but I knew it was there, moving. I heard it. I knew something was there and I was about to stand up.
I saw what was about to happen.
And then it happened.
I think there ought to be more to the memory, but there isn’t. I think there ought to be the recollection of every detail, every imperceptible detail of metal bending and bodies bending against the metal. Soft, pliable, broken bodies. There ought to be memories of lying on the ground, looking up at the sky growing darker and darker. There ought to be a life passing before my eyes, but it happened too quickly.
And then it was over.
6
So this must be what it is to be dead, I think. To be dead and yet still holding on. In a way, I’m relieved. I’ve been fading away all this time, and now at least there’s a reason.
As I walk up the street I look around, thinking that everything ought to be different, that the world would look and act and be a different thing. But the light poles are still light poles, and the dead grass is just what it is.
Coming home I find a note tacked to the door. It’s a note with directions to a beach. I see the handwritten words on the paper and I’m surprised I can even make meaning from them. In a way they’re just scribbles, just black lines and dots on a piece of paper. I fold the piece of paper, put it in my pocket, and then I go into the house.