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A prose poem by John Adams
All I know is that if I make other people unhappy, I am no less unhappy myself.
Lermontov, A Hero of Our Time
I.
The Simple Part
It's predictable. The more I talk about it, the bigger it gets.
I was happy as short a time back
as last Sunday. I had reasons to be. My wife was still at home. I had a good meal in me. I was warm. I had a healthy tan.
I
was on top of it.
So, I woke up a few minutes ago. I don't booze, I can't stomach pills. All the same, I felt wretched.
I felt as if my skin was tightening, and my stomach was yellowing to junket. I smoked two cigarettes, both of which tasted
and smelled like burning carpet. And I held my head.
I felt like I was in a cradle on board a ship. Awful.
That
was something I'll never understand. That feeling was driving me mad. And yet, I felt at moments as if I would prevail, ideals
and hope intact. As I say, I don't drink.
I started that week. I tried a glass of bourbon, felt worse, and went on the
wagon.
Depression makes us fickle, doesnt it?
Satellites are the only things I thought about those first few days.
I sat in my armchair, and every thought was barbed. And I thought: If I could bob up there with those planets
I sat there.
The entire house was in disorder. The dishes had stacked up. The pile dwarfed me. The toilet was clogged. The stench wafted
around, filling every corner. Laundry was all over the place. It was as if I didnt have a closet, and had just flung them
wherever. The floors were filthy, the curtains were stained. Dust reigned.
The next cigarette I smoked didn't have any
taste. It was as if I was sucking on my own finger.
So I was determined to beat it. I thought murkily: My birthday is this
Tuesday. And I will be feted and carried upon the shoulders of loved ones. The cards will roll in soon. Soon.
I checked
the mail later that day, dressed in a ratty bathrobe. I was barefoot as a Samoan.
My wifes attorney had sent me a letter.
I
sat in the armchair for another few hours. I didn't even have the energy to light another cigarette.
The man in
the bottle black suit rang the bell then.
I ran to the door and looked out the peephole. It was amazing. It was as if hed
been there since I had signed the lease. Before I let him in, I tried to collect myself. I couldn't. Opening the door and
facing the man, I felt just as lost as I had an hour ago. Another hour ago, too. Another hour ago. It stretched beyond these,
it seemed.
The man invited himself in, doffing his Panama and throwing it on the hat rack. He held out a scraggy hand.
I
didn't know what to say. So I said: Who are you?
He showed his teeth. He said: You know why I look so happy. One reason,
least?
No. I said. I was ready to club him. I had the cops on speed dial, I thought just then.
Well, sir. The answer
is, in a word, fasting.
Hmm.
Yes, if you can subsist for days on the thought of nourishment alone, you'll be happier
than forty clams and a pope. He laughed so loudly my ears throbbed.
Well
Sound crazy to you? Sound loony? Well, before
you pass your petty judgement, let me ask: When was the last time you took a bath? Changed your clothes?
I swallowed hard.
I wasn't about to judge you. I began to guide him out the door.
Thoughts and imaginings were in ferment then. I was
giddy with abstractions. I imagined: The ladder there, and that strange series of rungs. The barriers and horrors of childhood,
those night terrors always clawing. That trellis of fears, those vines of the realization of said fears. And the fracas, the
churning evolutions of young adulthood. Beyond that pale: Adulthood. Digging for a career and, once that career was found,
shooing away the ants. Dusting that treasured burden. Anticipating paychecks. Stocking a wine cellar against winter.
Capsizing.
His
eyes were rabid. He raised his arms, and his hands swooped down gracelessly. It was as if he was conjuring. As if he was ushering
in a splendid alchemy of symbols.
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