Seeking the Company of Women

By Fred Held

My name is Eric Nodwell. My life thus far has been a continuous carousel of rented apartments, third hand cars all with bad transmissions, and unusual eccentric girlfriends. My mortal adventure upon the planet has been both unpredictable and arbitrary, but never boring. By virtue of birth, I’ve bought the ticket, but like a bad movie, it’s not yet so terrible I want to walk out.

For twenty six years I was married to a woman who in addition to me, loved cigarettes with equal or even greater fervor. Her addiction proved to be a flawed health maintenance strategy. She died not long ago, leaving me a reluctant widower with an adolescent son afflicted by Asperger’s to raise alone.

This book is my largely autobiographical account of a middle aged man trying to reconnect with women again. Unaccustomed to loneliness, he does so with the intent of finding lasting companionship and maybe even love. It’s rife with blind date disasters; internet enabled dating debacles, crazy neighbors, and friendship. I discuss how I managed debilitating grief, deep introspection and self-doubt, to eventually rise to find resolution, and remarkably, hope. Included are a host of tangential but amusing escapades and situations in which I found myself ensnared, too numerous to enumerate here.

I detail my sons struggle with Asperger’s, and how I overcame my shortcomings as a single father, and advocated for him in his schooling. I relate how I was able to identify and isolate love, really for the first time, and my shock when discovering I’d been mistaking it my entire life. I suspect others might find themselves in a similar situation.

Life filtered through the prism of death has changed me. I now question the validity everything I believed true. I’m certain I’m not alone in this. This process, although painful, has made me a better man.

I’ve learned to reap pleasures in simple things, like vinyl record collecting, chili, and the fellowship of friends. My wife’s ending for me became a grudging beginning.

This is a largely humorous account written in the first person as a window into my dysfunction, for other people who for whatever reason; find themselves suddenly single and unaccustomedly vulnerable, that at this very moment might be groping their way blindly along an unfamiliar landscape, wondering where they went wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred Held
• Release date: Mar 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311267689

Book preview

Even small men stand tall in the dark.

This story begins one oppressively warm flower wilting early July morning that was unusually hot even by Southern standards. Already weakened by the heat, birds croaked unfamiliar songs from the cool shelter of shady places hard to find. Green summer leaves limply hung like shreds of soggy newspaper in the stagnant summer humidity. My steaming morning coffee seemed cold by comparison, and I really should have gone back to bed, but I couldn’t.

Sally and I fought at the door as I left for work. It was a stupid argument. Frustrated, we went independently about our hum drum weekday routines. By days end I would find myself saying farewell for a final time as she lay cooling on the gray tiled kitchen floor. Dead. Dry white disposable breathing tube clenched rigidly in a grim smile. I kept her confused spirit company. Sipping a parting cup of wine devoid of joy or flavor, waited for the arrival of the body wagon that would transport her empty husk away. Already overdue, late two weary hours ago.

We all carry an expiration date. Awareness of death is natures wake up call, but most of us just hit the snooze button. For some of us, tomorrow doesn’t always come.

Until now, I drifted carefree upon life’s open blue ocean, fluffy white clouds floating overhead; focused on a fickle future where it’s always happy hour somewhere, the tide is always high, and the girls are all pretty.

Nobody knows when the shit fountain will erupt out of the deep unforeseen. Surly, hulking, and stiff like Frankenstein, grief hoses my rose tinted world with malice. In a flash, fluffy white is transformed into a bleaker shade of black.

Death looted my wife, but her time was up anyway. We were married twenty-six years. That’s a long while. Now I’m single, cast adrift in the frigid night floating unanchored inside myself upon troubled waters and wondering what the Hell just happened? Sudden singleness for a mercifully married man is an unaccustomed feeling, like my rudder’s been ripped away and replaced with Fluffernutter.

Floundering, waves of unrestrained ‘what the fuck’ wash frothing over fractured rails. Filthy, rent and useless sails lay draped over twisted wooden spars like soggy third world laundry. Without propulsion I’m stuck in a strong current racing towards menacing shoals where disaster awaits with a mocking smile.

Distant booming thunder demands constant diligence. People tell me how sorry they are. They offer advice on what I should do, but most really don’t give a shit. They just don’t want the same to happen to them, but it will, and sooner than they think.

Caution boy! Don’t break with the bailing. Dark times ahead are certain. Danger abounds. Mysterious swirling in close water alerts me it’s lunchtime. I’ve reentered the food chain, and not at the top. There’s to be no peace in grief. Not yet.

In a recently reoccurring nightmare, I float disembodied, Manu a Manu with the baffling immensity of the infinite. I always introduce myself. My name’s Eric Nodwell, how do you do?

Eternity’s rank breath reeks of teen suicide, crypt rot and dusty discarded communion wafers. Corpulent smiling face mascara streaked, is acne scarred. Beyond beauty, beyond gender, forever doesn’t appear like I imagined it might. Then again, how did I suppose eternity would present itself? Sailing out here solo on the edge of forever, I have time to ponder these questions relative of late.

My life is positioned somewhere on a slippery Teflon time-line. I’m not dead. Yet. But I acknowledge death exists in my future. I share this reality with everything else existing in this universal matrix, including the universe its self. Ironic isn’t it? Does anything we do actually matter? Acceptance of my utter insignificance is a two edged sword that’s both unnerving, and liberating.

What does it all mean? This monolithic question has been considered throughout the course of human history. No one yet has given a satisfactory answer. There have been many attempts, all falling short of the mark. I think the answer lies within. Be happy. Drink more wine. Roll a bomber. Deeper inquiry is dangerous.

As a seeker, remember to tread nimbly along the lesser trodden neural pathways when directing the cold white light of reason inwards behind your bloodshot eyes. Exposing the darkened crannies and oily recesses where barricaded doors are boarded over and difficult to find can lead to years of expensive therapy.

The juncture where insecurity meets fear is a rough neighborhood unknown to the Easter Bunny and avoided by the Avon lady. Alone at last, I’m rediscovering the distilled essence of dysfunctional me. Life is brutal and brief. Death is a gift. God knows I’m not pretty, but I’m curious. Life is arbitrary and short, so I haven’t much time to dawdle here discussing semantics.

Mentally, I’m exactly where I need to be to go deep soul fishing. Deep down where big queasy questions swim is always less fished. Heartfelt inquires plunge into dark poisoned mind waters where the big bastards lurk unseen in deep subconscious canyons unmoved by laughter, grief, or charity.

Chapter Two

One plus One plus Twenty four equals Twenty Six.

Death and its immediate aftermath have emotionally reduced me to a two hundred pound porterhouse with an erratic pulse. I wept the day Sally died, and many long nights after. Death certainly wasn’t her first choice. Paradoxically, she might have avoided that inevitability with the simple cessation of a two pack a day smoking habit, but I think she was tired of living and secretly craved release.

Her abrupt departure from the planet was unplanned, but not unexpected. Life is akin to a large piñata, death is the cudgel by with which it’s broken. Often the impact is sudden and violent, sometimes not. When Sally’s piñata broke, twenty six years of marriage and memories tumbled out like sweet and sour ghost candy now sadly exposed to the harsh light of my angry scrutiny.

Ours weren’t all happy years, but whose are? In retrospect, I acknowledge I’m lucky to have had any at all. From my current vantage point they stretch away hazily like lines converging at an artificial point on the horizon fading into a dim unreality like a drunkards half remembered dream.

Did I only imagine Sally and our lifetime together? It feels that way. Am I awake now? More importantly, where do I go from here? By what star do I steer when the sky is all black? What road do I take to get there? These are pertinent questions beseeched of the Almighty Whatever in small hours curled cowering beneath blankets quaking with paralyzing fear in a phantom filled darkness where only ghosts have night vision.

Reduced to sentient pulp being slowly crushed under the weight of impenetrable silence, I realize what a tiny and fragile man I‘ve become. My inevitable mortality coupled with the heightened awareness of it makes me pitifully afraid of everything that bites.

Unusual paranormal phenomena taunt me. Sometimes it’s amusing. Other times it’s not. The road I’m rolling on is full of potholes and unfamiliar. Others have journeyed this way before. I’m not blazing a trail. Their names remain chiseled like graffiti on mossy memorials and churchyard headstones. The few landmarks are shrouded and obscured by fog and fear. Written to be read reflected in a mirror, the language of regret is unmistakable.

Again, by what star do you steer when all is black? I know not if this story has a happy ending, because I’m living it while it’s being told. There’s no other way to tell it, so I apologize in advance for any confusion on my part in the recounting. My urgent and admittedly clumsy attempts to regain a lost connective ness to another human female are simultaneously amusing and frightening.

So I’ve decided to write it all down before I forget. I hope that should you dear reader, find yourself in a similar situation, you might benefit from my experiences. Permit me to be your point man. At the very least allow me to single out where the landmines and shit piles lay concealed under leaf litter and good intentions. I wish someone had shown me before I stepped in them.

Chapter Three

What?

DESIRE is a concept best spelled in bold capital letters. It’s a big word. Temptation tags along behind DESIRE like an annoying little sister. It can be capitalized or not. Separately in themselves, they exist as harmless adjectives, but blended together in real life where male/female interactions are involved, they’re a volatile, explosive mix.

Men fight senseless bloody wars, sail oceans, climb mountains and slay dragons to possess a female they DESIRE. Those same men will fib, act foolishly and over-tip for the attention of a woman who might tempt them. It might seem like I’m splitting hairs, but there’s a difference.

Sex is mankind’s common denominator. Love is the pillow where temptation and DESIRE rest their weary heads at night. Passion is what they dream about. What happens when DESIRE is confused with sex, divided by temptation is usually unpredictable, and all previous bets are null and void. Not unlike the finger that touches the fire to the fuse, inject lust into the mix and interaction between the sexes can be a tricky business. Bet on the horses long enough and you’re bound to hit the trifecta once in a while. Boom.

My name is Eric Nodwell. I teach middle school Social Studies in central Virginia. I’m not a professional writer. I’m simply a man. What follows is my story. Tragically, I find myself in the unenviable position of being blindsided by a grim fate. I’m middle-aged, widowed, and left with a young son with Asperger’s to raise solo. I know things could be worse, but right now it doesn’t feel that way

The former Mrs. Nodwell, my friend and lover of twenty-six years abruptly departed the planet while actually sucking the final of thirty-five years’ worth of mentholated cigarettes. I don’t know how many that would be if you added them all up. I’m sure at the very least she significantly contributed to global warming.

Over the course of our courtship and marriage, I attempted persuading Sally to abandon this foul and fatal habit. I was unsuccessful in this. Her heart however accomplished what I could not by simply refusing to pump another drop of dirty blood in protest. She expired so expediently that the last ash still smoldered in a filter strewn Disneyland commemorative ashtray.

I’ll never understand Sally’s unwillingness to quit. I’m sure she’d proceed differently now if she could invoke a do-over. Or the five second rule. But life’s not a game, and we’re not kids. Unfortunately, not since Jesus has anyone been granted a second chance. Consequently, Sally remains dead. This was bad for me, but worse for her. For a long while I existed in a void emotionally and spiritually bereft. Where once I conducted myself with confidence, suddenly I became incapable of anything more than the most casual of peer to peer female interaction. I don’t know why, but so it was. I needed to snap out of that, and soon.

Sally’s dead, but I live. I’m relatively young and still seething with sexual vitality. I own the needs and desires of a healthy human male. Plus, it’s not my natural state to be alone. I require a woman’s ballast in my life. I’m lopsided and out of synch when deprived of the emotional and physical release of a mate. I’ve seldom been single for very long. From my earliest adolescence there’s always been a female counter-balance to help me.

I possess a vast capacity for love and intimacy. I need to give as well as receive. I’ve survived the crushing grief and ensuing trauma of Sally‘s death, but like a leg missing from a tripod, acutely notice the absence of female induced stability.

I’ve begun dating again, and it‘s scary. Some are actually less dating experiences and more research. Overall, the various women have been an adventure. And despite encountering several trolls, a Jesus freak, a frustrated librarian, and a goblin or two along the way, I remain hopeful that out there there’s a woman out there somewhere looking for me too.

To that end I’ll continue searching. The journey from married family man to single Dad has been so brimming with crazy, I need to tell somebody or I’ll burst. What follows is my story.

Chapter Four

The long road home begins with a whimper.

Not so long ago, mariners who left behind the reassuring sight of land often relied upon outdated maps, legends and rumor to steer a course. Frequently they knew not exactly where they were bound, but it had to be better than where they were at. Sometimes only one small step ahead of the debt collector or the law, they left familiar shores behind and stepped into a floating world brimming with uncertainty. If they had doubts or second thoughts, once away from the dock, it was usually too late to dog paddle back home.

Brass balls, courage, and belief in a Deity were useful qualities essential for survival. The promise of a big payday didn’t hurt either. Most had nothing left to lose anyway. If the Navigator was lucky enough to even have a chart, these were primitive at best, and rife with gross error.

Often notated in blank areas (and there were many of them) would be pertinent safety tips, such as watch out for monsters. Don’t get close to the edge. Don’t sail with scissors. For a good time call Calypso. Avoid sand bars, mermaids and sirens. The presence of these creatures usually indicates bad neighborhoods. Beware of pickpockets, and be sure to count your change.

If evasive action fails, and you find yourselves in a tough spot, fill your ears with bees wax, batten down the hatches and remember to lock the oars. Better men than you have been lost. Voyaging is serious business, pay attention. Many who prefer floating to the predictability of terra firma don’t return. You’ve been warned.

Early voyagers knew a thing or two about sailing. They also knew about wind, water currents and the lash. But they didn’t know squat about sea monsters. These were fundamentally superstitious people, so the threat of monsters became a huge problem. Often large dire warnings of HERE THERE BE DRAGONS were prominently displayed as a proto disclaimer. Leprechauns, Tooth fairies, Easter Bunnies, or Santa Claus, weren’t mentioned. It was always Dragons. Poor Puff was a Magic Dragon, and he spent years in aroma therapy struggling to overcome the stigma.

Just to make sure you got the point, like a crude wanted poster, there might be a pictorial depiction of a fierce many tentacle creature lurching up from the briny deep to drag an unsuspecting ship below. You never see Santa Claus acting like that. Can you see where I’m going here?

Now that I’m newly single, I require the updated map. I’m a baby navigating a monster filled ocean, and there’re acres of blank areas. Only these days the dragons that swim amongst us in singles bars and web sites have names like Debbie, Joan and Rhonda, and if you’re not careful, they’ll chew you up and leave nothing behind but an empty wallet.

If you survive the night, chances are good you’ll be bewildered, run over, hung over, broke, and broken, with a contagious STD as a souvenir of the experience. You’ll be regretting you didn’t heed the admonitions about stuffing your ears with bees wax. You poor stupid trusting bastard.

Chapter Five

Sherman, set the Way Back machine.

I spent my formative years becoming taller on the North Shore of Long Island. There lived across from us a man my friends and I heckled constantly. His name in those days was Crazy Allen. Allen was his last name. Never formally introduced, we were unaware of, or simply forgot his first. We weren’t sure he even had a first. One was enough.

There existed at that time a terra-centric 1960’s swarm of us who preferred playing in the street rather than other more acceptable areas. The street offered more room to run without tripping over fences or stepping in dog shit. We played everything in the street. Tag, Army, Stickball, Cowboys and Indians. In fact we played everything in the road except Doctor. For that we had an old boat.

Naturally, we competed with cars for street space. This was accepted. Most cars were cool with it. People would slow down and wave, but not Crazy Allen. Crazy Allen had a grudge against us. It pissed him off we existed, and it really pissed him off when we existed in the street. Crazy Allen hunched low behind the wheel of a beat-up battered old black Rambler with push button transmission, liked to interfere with our fun. The exhaust hole smelling like burnt moth balls and bad motor oil. A tortured pork pie hat pulled over his misshapen head couldn’t conceal his advancing baldness. It also didn’t do a thing to hide his virulent anti-kid contempt. He’d curse us as street rats and future felons, mostly in Italian. Geta outa ofa thea fucking streeta youa Goddamned kidsa.

We weren’t like kids in the old country. We didn’t obey our elders. The world was going mad, and if there was a God in heaven, we‘d be in Hell before breakfast. He was exceedingly nasty and inflexible in his worldview. I think a kid must have kicked him when he was a puppy.

This suburban street scene was rerun every summer day like it was on a loop. His harangue remained consistent and unchanged through the years until it became the natural order of things in our neighborhood. Eventually, we’d mimic him so perfectly; he didn’t even have to talk anymore. I’d later name this aberrant interaction The Crazy Allen universal constant. He’d cruise by, curse us, and we’d curse back him in juvenile retaliation. It was all fun and games until somebody got her feelings hurt.

We weren’t aware of a Mrs. Crazy Allen. There must have been one at some point. Either that or he managed to conjure the most beautiful illusion in the tri-street radius. Her name was Kathy, and she was cute. I mean, at eight or nine years old, my rating system for girls was crude and underdeveloped at best. I wasn’t even sure what cute meant, but I’d heard the word applied to Bat Girl Yvonne Craig, so whatever it was; she was all that, and more.

Although she was our age, the other boys refused any interaction with Kathy. She was simply Crazy Allen’s daughter, and therefore crazy by association. She probably had coodies and girl germs besides. We were cruel, harsh, and barely human in our associations with Kathy.

Occasionally Kathy might stand solo on her sheltered but sagging paint peeling porch, shielding her eyes from an imaginary sun while staring out at the gaggle of us yowling and schooling like piranhas in front of her house. We were predators drawn there by the rank scent of sweet innocence, Lavender, and fresh meat.

Using a rude precursor of modern Rap, we’d chant in a deranged demonic kid chorus hypnotically over and over again. Crazy Kathy, Crazy Kathy. Ten, twenty, a hundred times until some kid’s mom would charge out with a broom or garden hose that scattered us like toxic pigeons. She’s a girl for goodness sake. What’s wrong with you boys? I’m calling all your mothers. We’d run away howling like small lunatics. Hauling ass we’d hide in a friendly backyard or strategic tree fort. Looking back on it, I realize we were just assholes, but like my hero, then Vice President Dick Nixon, we operated within the righteousness of our convictions

On a memorable day that changed my life, Crazy Kathy once again appeared on her porch, but this time she caught me alone. My Pixie Stix addled friends were off playing Army or poking something dead with a sharp stick. I was having an off day, and really just didn’t feel like doing any of that usual stuff, so I pursued instead an independent pet project of fastening fresh baseball cards to the forks of my bicycle with mom’s clothes pins. When jammed into the spokes just right, they mimicked an authentic motorcycle sound. I became a pretend loud growling one boy parade. Naturally I took the show on the road. Touring up and down the street, my entire route, a short fifty foot circuit directly in front of Kathy’s house.

Puffed up, slicked back, and radiating frosty cool like Marlon Brando, I acted like I didn’t care if Kathy saw me or not. I lied to myself about that. The fact is, I performed solely for her. I side eye-balled her houses so strenuously, I gave myself drain bramage. God knows I wanted her to notice me. I wanted to talk to her. Crazy or not, the absence of the mob mentality that normally governed such interaction was off chasing itself with dog poop on a stick. This left my young mind free to chart its own course. The urge to torment had been replaced by an electric DESIRE that tingled all over.

Chrome plated spider handle bars were waxed and buffed shiny. Handgrips artfully enhanced by red white and blue tassels hanging long. Banana seat gloss white, set at a rakish upward angle. A furtive glance around confirmed the coast was clear, so I dropped the kickstand and boldly swaggered through the picket gated portal, I entered her yard. I couldn’t risk being observed by my gang crossing into forbidden coodie infested girl territory. Aware of the dire social implications if caught didn’t deter me. I managed to croak something awkward in the form of a stuttered greeting, and was relieved when she replied very sweetly in an angelic voice, Nice bike Eric. Can I have a ride?

Kathy was my first attempt to bridge the mysterious chasm separating the sexes. I was drawn to her like magnetism, sensing something that couldn’t be seen. I wanted to raise whatever it was that attracted me up out of a subliminal sexual darkness, get a good look so I might identify it later on. Swimming for the first time in a gravitational current of attraction where the water’s deep and cloudy, I was clumsy, but I wasn’t afraid. That afternoon we became diplomats, virgin emissaries venturing into an ill-defined, undeveloped, and uncertain sexual future. For me, this incident remains frozen in midnight memory as the launching pad of my lifelong sexual trajectory.

Like inventing a conceptual language yet unspoken, I struggled to name this tingly new sensation, or failing that, to fasten a sturdy handle to the thing so I might affix a recognizable word to the amorphous electric field sparking around my heart. I have since found through trial and error this is like trying to explain the color purple to a person blind from birth.

Naturally, none of the lofty thoughts set down here passed through my misfiring pre-pubescent mind at the time. At ten years old, I was incapable of analytical reasoning. I only speculate about it now, forty years down the trail, selectively during the deafening silence of grim nights when I’m haunted by regret and peace in sleep eludes me. During these times, silence is the enemy, and darkness its ally.

I’m hyperaware then of the rhythmic thumping of heart muscle pumping. The predictable hydraulic spasm of blood warm in my ears as it circulates. My son sleeping downstairs deeply breathing, and I’m terrified the flow might cease any moment. From one terrible minute to the next I resist the urge to scream in fragile lonely horror.

Recent experience has confirmed for me beyond any doubt that everything is temporary, especially my life hanging by a slender thread. Who will raise Jesse if I die tonight? What will happen to him? Where and to whom will he go? As the inexorable downward pressing mass of stale darkness slowly undoes me, I acknowledge I might need the help of powerful drugs or psychoanalysis to numb these creeping terrors that nightly threaten to slay me.

I struggle to comprehend the Karmic Cluster Fuck that’s left me shanghaied here, washed up and alone in a forlorn corner patch of life’s verdant garden. Like a ball bearing worn flat on one side, I‘ve ceased rolling, reduced to erratic wobbling, I need the balance of a woman to sooth me.

I’d like a lover, mate and best friend all contained in one attractively packaged female. She’s got to be smart, with Titanic tits, oral skills, red hair, long legs, and her own money, and I need her quick. Christ, I’m becoming overwhelmed just thinking about it. The dating process is daunting, and I’m not sure I’m even up to the task.

I’m angry at the universe for putting me in this weakened position. I curse at it horribly in the dark, but the universe is deaf to my rancor, and doesn’t respond. It flows omnipotent everywhere at all times in equal measure while I flail feebly with balled little baby fists like toddler threatening the immensity by holding my breath. I might as well curse the tide. I’ve become a bitter man.

How does one rekindle DESIRE after twenty six years of marriage? I mean really. Enough is enough already. What am I thinking? I’m fifty five and hadn’t sexually touched my wife for several years prior. I’m not proud of that. In fact, that’s difficult to admit. But in my defense, how often might one trod those familiar paths and not be bored by the same shrubbery? Was I even a decent husband? Doubt about that gnaws at me. I’ve been given a blank slate to redraw what’s left of my life, but can I create the man I want to be within the skin of the man I already am?

Is there a course I can take? A tutorial? The University of Phoenix advertises on television. Maybe there I’ll find the information I need. Should I send in my Green Stamps and Captain Crunch box tops to receive lessons anonymously discrete and concealed with plain brown wrap like hardcore porn delivered anonymously in the mail? DVD disks, one through twenty, detailing the awkward dating process step by step sonorously narrated by Alec Baldwin. Maybe even individualized just for me. Eric, this is how you go about it. Alec is so cool. Dating’s easy for him. Twenty lessons detailing how to reawaken DESIRE and attract women, so simple even you can do it. I don’t know Alec; it might be easy for you. Even those Neanderthals on the Jersey Shore don‘t seem to have any trouble, but I’m rusted shut. I think it’s easier and I’m safer besides just surfing internet amateur housewife smut. I’m very knowledgeable about that. No fear of rejection. No STD’s. Just a hollow spasm repeated over and over until I wear the knob off my penis or drop dead trying, whichever comes first. No pun intended.

I look at other men suddenly female bereft. It doesn’t have to be because of death. Divorce, rejection, and simply breaking up, qualify. They usually deal with the vacancy by becoming heavy drinkers and chronic masturbators, concurrently.

Sullen and withdrawn, they demand God and the universe give justification for the judgment. They question the doctor’s ability or seek vengeance on the other driver. They wonder how this could happen, and why now. How could she abandon me here to raise the children alone? Sometimes death is so sudden there’s no time allotted for a final phone call or tear stained letter. It’s wise to treat every day as if it might be your last.

Death doesn’t knock. Death kicks in the door. Surprise! Ready or not. The Fates sever life’s fragile cord swiftly, surely, and without pity. The filament by which your existence hangs suspended is forever parted. Numbly, you dangle briefly between the worlds watching the high light reel of your life. You think you must be dreaming. But you’re not. You’re dead and your systems are shutting down. You’re on a nonrefundable one way trip to the great beyond. Commuter class.

Eyes glazed wide open stare out uncomprehending into infinite grim distance. Your life-force evaporates, and then you shit yourself as a parting gesture. There’s no round trip. No mistake made. Your moment on this sphere is over, and it’s time to shuffle along. You’ve completed the course, congratulations! God hopes you paid attention in class and hopefully learned the lessons, because there’s going be one hell of a final exam.

I closed Sally’s eyes in a final farewell act of tenderness. I composed her corpse like she was napping. Her body stiffened as it cooled. I sat beside her numb and weeping for two hours while I waited for the corpse handlers to cart her husk away. I spoke in a conversational manner to her suddenly homeless spirit as it hovered overhead. I promised I’d raise our boy to be a good man. I promised to honor her memory and be the man she knew I could be. I opened a bottle of wine and drained it as I spoke. The mechanics of my own body were still in excellent working order. The massive heart attack that caused her blood to stop flowing did so with Kung Fu grip. There was no negotiation. No point, counter point. No debate. No rewind. She departed the planet without leaving the customary forwarding address. I don’t think she was concerned about her mail.

I wasn’t home when it happened. My son called me with the news, and first responders were already on the scene. Jesse calmly informed me something terrible was wrong with Mom. Dad, Mom’s on the floor he said, and I can’t wake her up. He dialed 911 and stayed on the line as requested. Paramedics were already working when I arrived.

Earlier I’d asked if she wanted to accompany me for a swim. The date was July first, and the day was sweltering. I’d woken her from a nap, and she wasn’t happy about it. Get out Eric she replied get out and let me sleep. I didn’t think those were the last words she’d ever speak to me. Five minutes later she was dead.

I recall at least three paramedics working on her as I arrived who were heroically administrating the CPR. The unreality of that situation staggers me still. Surreally, time slowed to a crawl. I started to panic and suggested they just stab her with one of those giant adrenalin shots like John Travolta did Uma Thurman in that movie Pulp Fiction. A graying woman in her fifties drily informed me they’d already administered three.

Three. Three shots of adrenalin failed to reestablish her spark. Three syringes of industrial strength adrenalin are enough to jump start frozen hamburger, but not enough to restore the life force. Three shots. A police officer on the scene took me aside and informed me my wife had been dead already twenty minutes before the first paramedics had arrived. There was nothing anybody could do about that now.

I’m lack the language skills to describe the syrupy sensation experienced during the total stoppage of time. The closest I can come is it’s akin to walking under water. The supple laws of physics bend but they do not break. Sound and light still travel. The Earth remains suspended in space. I’m fairly certain you can’t influence time like Superman did.

Superman saved Lois Lane’s life by flying counter clockwise around the planet until it reversed direction. Earth’s motion sucked time along like an undertow. But he’s Superman, and I’m just a shlub. Sure, if I’d thought about it at the time, I would have given it a try. I would have done anything at that point.

No. For me the sluggishness of time was more like the suspense of falling off a barn backwards and blindfolded, and wondering whether it would be my head or ass that was going plant first.

My son sought shelter in his room. The sirens, radios, shouts and flashing lights were enough to unnerve anybody. Jesse hid under his bed with the dust bunnies. He has a form of Autism commonly known as Asperger’s. He’s gifted in some areas, but challenged in others.

People familiar with this condition all report similar unifying behaviors. Clumsiness, awkwardness in social situations, trouble with florescent lighting and maintaining human eye contact are some. He’s fine with animals. This is telling.

There’s more to it than that, but here’s the thing, when he was just a sprout, not much larger than an infant, he’d randomly blurt out things like we’re spirits in bodies . or it doesn’t matter if you believe in God, he doesn‘t care. This was weird and unexplainable behavior. Still is.

Jesse harbors an innate spirituality I didn’t teach him. I have never spoken those words in a sentence. Asperger’s provided him with the baffling ability to see into the blind heart of the cosmic matter. He has a direct connection to the infinite and channels spirits I don’t see or understand. His intuitiveness remains far beyond my verbal abilities to articulate. Jesse’s soul has traveled from far away to be here. Now his mother’s dead, and I’m the person who has to tell him.

So I trod slowly with a heavy deliberate tread. I need to formulate the news. I’m acutely aware this is a hinge moment he’ll remember for the rest of his life, and I need to phrase the verbiage right. The sensations of time’s stoppage are similar to what I imagine swimming in molasses would be. Sound becomes muted. Motion slows. The only process unaffected is thought.

When time has stopped, there’s no need to rush. The pressures off. Linger awhile. Sweep away the heavy drapery that separates Here from the Hereafter. Indulge in a leisurely look around. Commit the garish cosmic décor to memory. Make a mental picture for future reference. I did. I remember still the color of the trim paint and the flower pattern on the china.

It took ten years to cover the meager fourteen steps to where Jesse laid waiting. His was door closed. The cat sat obliviously on the carpet licking itself. I felt like a loose marionette controlled by a drunken monkey.

When time grinds to a halt, the ordinary world gets turned around. Nothing is real. Nothing is solid. Reality becomes multidimensional. Like a dream. It’s in that state that I’m aware of my hand rotating the door knob, but it’s not my hand. My conscious mind floats eight thousand years ago and a million miles straight up from here. As time and distance are measured, that’s far, but I’m quickly snapping back to the present. Karma commits me to Here and Now.

Chaos all around. Policemen, Firemen, County Sheriffs, Paramedics, all are working hard. They’re determined to do their duty to the best of their ability. There’s only one strange clueless bastard wandering around, and he concerns me. He’s not in a uniform, and I’ve never seen him before. Friend or foe? He claims he’s the friendly neighborhood Chaplin. I didn’t know such a guy existed, yet here he is, lounging on my leather sofa reading a magazine as my wife lay dying. I’ve lived in this house for ten years. Where was he during all that time? He couldn’t stop in to introduce himself before now? Is he here for a free meal? Tragedy pulls the greasiest worms out of lowest and most rotten woodwork. He asks if I need to talk. Yeah, I want to say something. Get the fuck out of my house. How‘s that?

I open Jesse’s bedroom door to find him playing Nintendo on the floor. He looks nonplused, like this crazy shit happens every day. Calmly he states Mommies gone. Yes she is Jesse, Mommies passed. "My prepared statement so labored over is useless. Then with the abruptness of a base jumper whose free fall is arrested by a bungee cord inches shy of sharp rocks, I’m jerked elastically back to a grim reality I’d avoid if I could. Instead I’m dangling like bait between now and what do I do now? What happens next? And who’s going to reel me back in? And to where?

Chapter Six

I wish I had bigger shoes.

A year has passed since Sally‘s sudden passing. It’s currently three o’clock on the small side of today, and I struggle to remain sane as sleep once again eludes me. Random movies play in my mind, and I’m reluctantly remembering my first encounter with DESIRE. This happens a lot. Like every other night, my brain and dark just don’t mix My mind won’t rest. Thoughts of Crazy Kathy surface from my subconscious like a recurring dirty dream. Kathy was my first girlfriend.

When Kathy and I were kids, we’d constantly play doctor in her father’s crashed cabin cruiser. This unfortunate vessel lay stranded on the Long Island hard. Far away from when it actually last floated, it rotted and rusted while waiting for future repair on cement blocks in the driveway. Memory of water was vague unless you counted the rain and snow that pooled on its indented decking. All boats are portable islands, but this boat was now less portable then most, but it made a convenient and stationary place for us to inspect each other’s anatomy in private.

Even in summer heat, the wooden interior of the wreck would be cool and shady. Removed from waters unpredictable motion, the cabin remained shady, quiet, stable, and musty smelling. It had blue terry cloth cushions where there was plenty of room to play doctor. Sometimes we grew tired of doctor and we’d pretend we were movie stars. That’s when we’d practice kissing. But mostly it was all I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

The first time we tried that game, I got angry because I thought she was hiding hers. The second time we played I experienced an erection I didn’t understand. After that, whenever I saw her around, I’d experience a surreptitious electric tingle to the genitals that’s preceded every relationship I’ve ever been in. I call it THE JOLT, and it’s shocking that I felt it so young. Its arrival isn’t always good news.

Our anatomical explorations carried on unceasingly all that first summer. We enjoyed it so much we continued uninterrupted into a first frosty autumn. We were on a mission from nature. We worked diligently with seriousness, like our bodies were an important top secret research project, which I guess they are. So while my idiot friends were chasing each other around with a dead bird stuck on a stick, Kathy and I’d be busy feeling each other up.

The name of this landlocked hole in the water was the Hocus Pocus. No kidding. We weren’t performing conventional magic, but we did make our pants disappear. Look! There’s nothing up our sleeves because we was naked. Kathy and I were curious about the natural naked order of things. Long before we knew about Darwin, we were curious about evolution, and our clothing just got in the way. Eyes opened wide with wonder that dim musky place; we questioned why we were so different. We inspected our respective bodies like crime scene detectives searching for clues. We asked the age-old questions. What does this do? How does that feel? Why can’t I make mine