On The Run

I am on the run. 

I haven’t slept well since the doctor said I had six months to live. She didn’t say why it was six months, not more or less, but I don’t recall my asking. I might have quit my job and enjoyed what was left of my life, maybe traveled some. I’ve never been to New Jersey, or the original one, but all the money I had, including the cash I hid under my mattress, wouldn’t cover half a month’s rent. So, I kept working. 

I was the janitor working the night shift on the night of the high school prom, Friday, June 25, 2004, an unseasonably cool evening. I was wearing a barn jacket, a gift from old McDonald, no, not the one you’re thinking of, when, as I approached, a mop fell out of the broom closet, or was it a dead high schooler, or a drunk one? Under normal circumstances, it would not have been hard to tell, but given my prognosis and my not sleeping well, I wasn’t thinking straight. Booze may also have been a factor.    

The students at Jefferson High were known more for their pranks than their smarts, and the broom closet caper might have been one of them. Legend has it that their reputation for mischief began the day the school opened in ’93. The student body president broke into the library. Stole the book there. The student body was a girl named Jen. Very pretty. During her fifth, sixth, and seventh years of high school, she was voted prom queen. As for the purloined book, no one noticed but me.     

I’ve never so much as hurt a fly, fly paper excluded, but that night I was overcome by an impulse to do harm.  

Whatever fell from the closet, I shoved it headfirst into a steel bucket of soapy water, sloshing some of it on the gray linoleum floor- and on my new Tims. Don’t know why I wore them. I lifted it as easily as if it were made of papier-mâché. Turned it over as if it were a baton; held it down until I was sure it was dead, or if not sure, this was my first try, until I had the feeling it was. Whatever it was wasn’t moving. Of course, it wasn’t moving to begin with; it just fell, but I didn’t think about that until later.  

Satisfied, I turned and ran. 

I wasn’t in the best of spirits that evening. I didn’t know how I would take the news of dying until I got it. It seemed like bad news to me;  my bad news- no one to blame. But have you ever been in an argument with your significant other, one that starts off calm, but as it goes on, the injustice of it all becomes apparent, even if they’re right? 

You don’t want to hear it, you don’t want to be there, you’re sorry you met, and then it creeps up on you. How it happens is how it happens, but you’re getting angrier and angrier. That might have happened to me. I’m not going to live, so why should you? Of course, I might have drowned a mop. 

I left the floor dirty, a salary-docking offense, in a spotless career. Get it—a janitor with a spotless career. That night, I hitched a ride to New York City. Eventually, I got picked up by a man who might have been legally blind, judging by the way he leaned over the steering wheel, and drove slow. His wife just died, said he was going to the Statue of Liberty, gave me a fiver when I left.

“Have one on me,” he said.

I used the bill to buy my first meal of the day. 

Most nights, I slept on the street, in the subway, or in a hospital emergency room, but almost always in the loving arms of my own body. Some nights they’d say, “not tonight, dear,” but only on the nights I’ve been drinking.

Once, I spent a rainy-day panhandling, and at the end of fifteen hours, I had enough for a cheeseburger and fries, and then along came this cat. I don’t know where she came from, but I sensed she was hungry, so I shared my burger with her. I kept the fries. When she was through, she got up and left. 

I suppose some somebody, somewhere sometimes finds doing good its own reward. Not me. I fed the cat. My reward? I got to even things out. Even Stephen. 

The next day, I thought about it. 

Who was I kidding? 

Didn’t take long for me to realize that panhandling wasn’t my talent, so I did odd jobs. I wasn’t looking for steady work; I wanted to keep on the move. The oddest? I shaved the bearded lady. She was retired at the time. We met at a bar in Greenwich Village. I was the handyman. At closing time, with breasts that loosely resembled bananas in a supermarket package, she made it clear she wanted more than a shave, but I kept it zipped until she met my price. 

“And 98 cents,” I said. 

Don’t judge unless you’ve been there.     

Shave cost extra. 

The thing is, I’m pretty sure it was just a mop, but I’ve been on the run since then. Been two years now. I wonder if I’m missed. By who? No wife. No kids. I might have married, but I had the misfortune of dating sensible women, so I never got the chance. They must have sensed I did not have the personality to acquire a prize that takes a lifetime of nurturing to keep. As far as upkeep is concerned, it’s enough I had to put gas in the car I used to have. I don’t know why they repossessed it. Didn’t they check on the people they gave loans to? And the doctor. I guess she was wrong about my dying, or not wrong about my dying, I’m sure I am, that’s the downside of being born, but wrong about when.    

I’ve been troubled since I drowned the mop, or the possibly drunk, high schooler, or the dead person I happened to come upon.  There were days when I replayed the evening, the image appearing uninvited. What I remember most is the bucket of water. I imagined the worst, and I couldn’t shake it off. The feeling was guilt, guilty guilt, the take-me-away kind. If I knew how, I would have removed my conscience; it’s nothing but a troublemaker. It’s like having a sister who tells on you. I’m sure parents know they will be tought to marry off. Maybe that’s where the expression give away the bride came from. Still, there was nothing I could do about it if I did it, and if I did, punishing me wouldn’t help her. Besides, let’s be fair about it, who has the right to get even other than the person wronged?

I wish I knew for sure what happened. At least I think I do. I’ve heard it said to be careful what you wish for. Well, not heard it said, I heard that it was said. 

The bad part was that I had no one to talk to. I kept it inside. That was difficult, as close to impossible as Adam was romantically close to Eve. I was not going to walk up to a stranger, friendly-looking or not, and tell them I committed a murder, or maybe I did. There could be repercussions. Could be an undercover cop. Could be one of the conscious ones.

The worst part was that my body was fighting with itself. We are part of the same, yet I felt uneasy because my conscience was bothering me. Well, sport, what if I ended it? Then where would you be? Six feet under. Would you like that?   

Whatever happened, I can tell you it wasn’t easy living in doubt, 

but then I had a realization as profound as one I ever made. Might have saved my life.    

I’m not sure how I figured it out; maybe I didn’t figure it out. Maybe it just came to me. Anyway, one night I’m sitting on this park bench passing the time, (I was thinking killing time, but I’m living with enough guilt), when I see this couple walking hand in hand, new love, I suppose, and I get to thinking about the women I knew and how they left me. 

“Bye, Albert.”

Some said that much, some just left. 

Eventually, I got over them. The leaving part hurt. Always did. No matter how many times it happened, I always felt like I was jumbled inside. Doing fine before we met, she left, and I got jumbled inside. There ought to be a law.   

I guess it was meant to be, the anxiety of living life as if on an elevator with frayed cables was gone. If that wasn’t the exact feeling, it seemed close enough. Whatever it was, the Lord, why me, the feeling sorry for myself, the did I do it or not.   

Like the leaves of autumn, they just went away.