“To flight!” Abbad toasted.
They drank whiskey and wine and good beer and cheap beer. They talked about sex and love and marriage and planes and religion and politics and both kinds of football.
Too drunk to drive, they walked back to the airport and fell down on the hangar floor beneath Jimmy’s glorious airplane.
“To your plane!” Abbad toasted.
“Her name is Linda!” Jimmy shouted. His plane and his wife. Jimmy’s two loves shared the same name.
“To Linda!” Abbad toasted.
“To Linda!” Jimmy agreed.
Lying on the floor, Jimmy reached out and grabbed Abbad’s hand.
“You are my best friend,” Jimmy said.
“You are my brother,” Abbad said.
Oh, Abbad, you are a murderer. Oh, Abbad, you are a betrayer.
Alone in his airplane, Jimmy flies. I am with him. Jimmy flies out over the water, over the great lake, until the blue of the water and the blue of the sky are the same blue. He flies until he cannot see any land. Then he pushes down on the controls and sends the plane plummeting toward the water.
As we fall, I think about my mother and father. I think about the people I loved. I think about the people I hated. I think about the people I betrayed. I think about the people who have betrayed me.
We’re all the same people. And we are all falling.
I close my eyes and pray.
Jimmy stays silent all the way down.
Sixteen
WHEN I OPEN MY eyes I am staring at a rat.
No, wait.
The rat stares at me.
It’s a huge wharf rat, two feet long, with intelligent eyes. And the rat seems to be thinking, You’re too big to kill, but I’m going to take a bite out of your ass anyway.
I panic and roll away, thinking that the rat’s violent intentions might actually be amorous. What if I’ve dropped into the body of a rat? What if I’m about to get fucked by another rat?
Shit.
But, no, I feel human. I am human. A human who rolls away from a rat.
I roll through rotten food and dog shit and rank water and moldy newspaper. And then I slam into a Dumpster. Damn, it hurts.
But I have no time to complain. What if that rat has followed me? What if it’s ready to attack? I look back for it, my enemy.
It hasn’t moved. It stares at me.
“Fuck you, rat,” I say.
My words are quickly followed by projectile vomit. I spew half-digested food and booze toward the rat.
That scares it away, and I laugh.
Damn rat wasn’t expecting that. Of course, if I hadn’t scared him, the rat would have gladly eaten my vomit. And that disgusting thought makes me vomit again.
I retch. My stomach convulses. And I see blood in my vomit.
Am I dying?
Well, I’m certainly a street drunk, a loser whose belly is torn apart by booze. That’s why they call it rotgut.
A cliché now, but somebody coined that word centuries ago. And imagine how funny and sad and accurate it was the first time somebody said it.
Yeah, that whiskey will rot your guts. It’s rotgut.
Why the hell am I thinking this stupid shit? Probably because I’m still drunk.
“Hey, buddy!”
Somebody yells at me.
“Hey, buddy!”
I see two pairs of shoes walking toward me. I know those shoes are connected to legs, bodies, and faces, but I can’t lift my head high enough to see any details.
“You all right, dude?” A young man’s voice.
I roll onto my back and look up at a young man and woman. A couple. Pretty white people. Cameras around their necks, genuine concern in their eyes.
Gorgeous tourists.
“You okay?” the young man asks again.
“I’m drunk,” I say.
“Yes, you are.”
“What do I look like?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Am I young or old?”
The young couple look at each other and laugh. I don’t mean to amuse them. I just want to know whose body I’ve dropped into this time.
“Am I young or old?” I ask again.
“You look about fifty,” the young woman says. “Like my father.”
“Am I white?”
“No,” she says. “You’re Indian.”
“How do you know I’m Indian?”
“Your braids. And your shirt.”
I look down at my dirty T-shirt, emblazoned with a black-and-white photograph of the Apache warrior Geronimo and the ironed-on caption FIGHTING TERRORISM SINCE 1492.
“Do you need some help?” the young woman asks.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Pam,” she says. “And this is Paul.”
“Pam and Paul,” I say. “That’s too fucking cute.”
They laugh again. He laughs so hard that he stumbles and almost steps in my vomit. He dances and spins away from it, and that makes them laugh harder. Are they drunk, too?
“Where am I?” I ask. “What city?”
“Tacoma,” Paul says.
Just thirty miles from Seattle. I’m getting closer to home, if not closer to my own body.
“What year is it?” I ask.
That makes them laugh, too.
“Dude,” Paul says, “you are way drunk.”
“Just tell me what year it is,” I say. “Please.”
“Two thousand seven,” he says.
“It’s now,” I say.
“Well, no matter where you are, dude, it’s always now, ain’t it?”
Great, a fucking philosopher.
“Can you help me get up?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says.
Pam and Paul help me to my feet. I’m dizzy. And I vomit again. Pam and Paul leap away as I fall to my knees. I vomit again.
And it’s filled with blood, too much blood.
I must be dying.
“Dude,” Paul says. “You need a doctor.”
“Call nine-one-one,” Pam says.
Paul pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and calls for help.
“They’re on the way,” he says.
But I don’t want help.
No, wait. This body doesn’t want help. I’m vomiting blood but I want to flee.
That doesn’t make any sense. But I can’t control my emotions. My fears. Yes, I’m afraid.
“I have to go,” I say to Pam and Paul.
I don’t want to say it. But I can’t stop myself. This body is stronger than me. And this body wants to escape.
And so I run. No, I shamble.
Jesus, that’s the absolute worst way in which any human can traveclass="underline" shambling. Shit.
“Come back,” Pam and Paul call after me. I can hear the concern in their voices, but I don’t hear any passion. They’re not going to detain me or follow me or let me become anything other than an anecdote to tell at dinner parties.
And then there was the time we helped this homeless Indian guy…
Of course, they’d revise history in order to make themselves look more heroic, to give the story a happy fucking ending.
And then the ambulance came and saved him. And the paramedic said the Indian dude would have died if we’d called, like, five minutes later.
I don’t look back at Pam and Paul as I continue to shamble away. I hate their alliteration almost as much as I hate their reflexive compassion.
I want to hurt them.
So I turn around and point a finger at them. I want to accuse them. To curse them.
“It’s all your fault,” I say.
“What?” Paul asks.
“It’s all your fault,” I say again.
“What’s our fault?”
“White people did this to Indians. You make us like this.”
I don’t even know if I believe that. But I think this homeless body believes it. I think this fifty-year-old guy wants to blame somebody for his pain and his hunger.