Seriously, why can’t everything work toward good? (Is that a fascist question?) — This whole reptile epoch bothers me. I can’t make sense of it. Unless the Oversoul must also endure adolescence.
That’s why I’d like to do one of two things: Do you know of that profitable business named the Suicide Line? It’s that telephone number that you can dial — their ads say: “Call this number if you’re thinking of committing suicide, for we will talk you out of it and remind you that it’s a better decision to keep living.” — Well, here are the two things that I’d like to do:
I’d like to either work as one of the persons who answers that line, or else I’d like to be one of the persons who calls that line. Let’s give each situation its own text-nodule:
Abnormality 1
I’ll take the last idea first. Let’s say I’m suicidal. So I walk over to the Brooklyn Bridge and plan to jump off. As I enjoy the stroll, some lines from Hart Crane’s Proem keep running thru my head:
Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.
Now, these are just words of a verse composition that I’m recalling; I myself am not speeding to the parapets of this bridge — as I said, I’m just leisurely strolling. Neither have I tilted there on the edge with my shrill shirt ballooning yet, nor have I fallen. I’m just warming up for my scene.
Ah drats, look at that: as I’m approaching the Brooklyn Bridge, I see a billboard with an advertisement printed upon it. It sez “Suicide Line” and there’s a telephone number: 1-800-DON’T-DO’T. (Of course one is never expected to dial any apostrophes: those things were just added by the graphic artist who developed this sign, as a way to clarify the message of the lingual part of the phone number’s alphanumeric-ness, since everything after the 1-800 prefix is, alas, limited to exactly seven digits. It just means “DO NOT DO IT,” with it being a bridge-leap into rebirth.) So I feel pressured to at least try this outfit on.
I stop at a phone booth; I always use the one from The Birds (1963) — and I dial the number. A friendly voice answers:
“How can I help you?”
“Is this the Suicide Line?”
“Yes it is!”
“I’m just calling because I saw your ad on the roadside. It’s the one that spans the billboard near the pedestrian walkway that begins at the intersection of Tillary Street and Boerum Place — I’m headed for the Brooklyn Bridge, cuz I’m thinking of jumping. I just wondered what type of counterarguments you might be able to offer me.”
“Oh, well then you called the proper number. Talking people out of committing suicide is our specialty.”
“Alright, well I’m not entirely sold on the idea myself; but I’m rather impulsive, so I began walking in the bridge’s direction after realizing that all of humankind went to shit. However, the reason for my call is that I’m more than willing to listen to any perspectives that fall on the life-affirming side of the scale.”
“Oh, you mean that you’d like to hear a number of reasons to keep on truckin?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
“OK, I understand. Well, first, there is family and friendship—”
“Sorry, I hate to interrupt, but I actually don’t have any family or friends. I know this might sound implausible, but it’s the unfortunate truth of my situation. I’m the last of my line, therefore I have neither kith nor kin (local rabbits ate me out of hearth and home); and I alienated all my friends when I decided to become a bigshot author. I’m the fake novelist Bryan ‘Antichrist’ Ray. That name is perhaps familiar to you: I’m known for inviting the reader herself to do all the heavy lifting; and I get away with this scam by calling it ‘sharing the creative experience’. Then I myself pocket all of the profits.”
“Hm… sorry, I’ve never heard of you.”
“I’m a bestselling author.”
“The name’s not ringing a bell.”
“Alright, then I’m just gonna go commit suidice by jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. Thanks for taking the time to speak with me, senhora…”
“Wait! Wait! Please, if you can, refrain from jumping for just one moment — I have many more reasons to give you, to make you want to live… I just need to sort out these notecards here; I’m truly sorry, you just happened to call when I was getting back from my break…”
“That’s OK; take your time. I’m in no hurry.”
“Alright, first: think of how nice the sunshine is. That feel of the warmth on your skin. The cheerful light…”
“I hate the sun. I’d strike the sun if I could reach it. I wouldn’t even wait for it to insult me — I’d just punch it and kill it.”
“But then there would be darkness, all thru the land.”
“Yes, all along the way. Nothing but black.”
“And this would make you happy?”
“Who said I desire happiness? I just want fair compensation, plus a change for the better; and I think that the sun was a bad idea.”
[Long pause.] “God, you have a point.”
“Hey, listen; you sound like a good egg. Why don’t you quit your job as a televangelist (or whatever they call you phone-answerers at the Suicide Line) and come on down to Brooklyn and join my cause — we can make it a suicide pact. I swear on my unborn multitudes that I will wait for you.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Without hesitation. You lent me an ear. I appreciate that.”
There is a silence for the space of half a sec in the celestial realm; then the phone operator sez:
“OK. Let’s do’t.”
And it happened, just as planned. And they all lived happily ever after.
Abnormality 2
But I’ll retell this whole thing from the opposite viewpoint. Now I myself will play the character who works at the Suicide Line…
No comments:
Post a Comment