Three Poems (2005)

I Saw Johnny Depp in Secret Window

I go to the movies alone on Monday nights

Weariness makes me taut like the screen

Blank and white

Ready to receive the likes of that crazy Johnny Depp

I guess for some it’s the looks

But for me it’s the subtle Chaplin humor

After my ticket is torn I head to a stall

So I’m not pulled out of the best scenes

By those tired demands

As I come out I see the urinals

And realize in a B movie twist I’m in another dimension

The realm of the wrong sex

I plan a daring escape before the aliens return to the ship

Peeking my head out just enough to see

The father and son with popcorn staring at posters

The manager adding up figures on a screen

Then like characters I’ve seen in movies

I walk out slow and deliberate

So as not to attract the wrong kind of attention

I sit in the theater with couples

Their popcorn a loud crunch at the wrong moment

Their candy a rustling that muffles dialogue

The urinals hadn’t seen me

They wouldn’t tell the joke behind my back

To the next guy who stepped up

 But I needed someone to laugh

And I was ashamed to be alone again in that theater

With the couples slurping through their straws

Whispering things not meant for me

In the hollow moments between trailers

After the credits I hurried through a side door

Afraid the manager had seen me after all

Lousy film, great performance and all that

Nowadays everybody goes to see Johnny Depp

They like his brand of comedy

But I am invisible at the movies

The unseen men’s room comedienne

The star that no one is watching

Mowers

The lawnmowers march steadily forward

Over neighboring countries of grass

The push mowers advance from the west

Over the fields razed so many times

They’re cracked and yellow

While the red riding mowers

Sweep around our left flank to distract us

They are loud proclaiming

Their racial supremacy dogma

The superiority of one plant over another

We sit in our garden in the late afternoon

 But we can’t hear the voice of the ghost

The ghost of our venerable old gum tree

Gone all these years

Here is our appeasement:

We are growing native prairie land

We are peaceful here

We don’t need the mechanical troopers

But all over the neighborhood

The blood from the grass spills

The purges go on

And the voice of the ghost is drowned

An Apology to Garrett for the Poems

All those thee’s and thou’s,

Your dark eyes and your soul,

My breath and my inspiration -

What the hell was I thinking?

You only liked it when I called you a beautiful bastard,

A sewage romeo,

The casanova of the mop sink room.

I know because you laughed.

You wanted limericks, not sonnets,

And we were in New York City in 1998,

Not 19th century England. 

You didn’t want to be

The melody that lights my dreaming mind,

Or the music I would still remember. 

You didn’t want autumn’s west wind in your eyes,

And who could blame you?  It would probably sting.

I was convinced I had the soul of a poet 

But that soul was a damned traitor.

She will never be trusted with anything important again.

I think you and I can both be relieved about that. 

July 30th, 1998,

I listened furtively to your music

Ballade No. 1, Opus 23 in G minor

Staring down the front of my filthy overalls

When you caught me in the act

And with one word,

Chopin

Acknowledged everything I’d felt for months.

That was the real poetry wasn’t it?

In that moment all that happened

Is you looked at me and knew I loved you.

As the years go by,

The things I want to say to you

Slip into the same between the lines place

As the word Chopin. 

It’s a place that’s gone mute.

I don’t understand hearing your voice on the phone now.

You want to recommend some CD’s to me.

It’s a strange, late offering from you,

But I’m trying to accept it as though it were divinely ordained.

It would make you laugh to see me.    

Now your music plays in my car.

One CD ends, and I grope to replace it with another.

You have provided the soundtrack for my life after all.

That was the only thing I was right about,

Saying I’d remember the music.

Bea vs. France (2005)

Bea’s problem with France had started when she found out it had ruled the world for a short time. Ruling the world was sexy, so she sat up straighter and took more notice of it.  Next she learned that her favorite actor Andrew Anson lived there. Then her 52-year-old bachelor cousin Jerry vacationed in Europe and brought back a box of caramels he’d bought while laid over at Charles de Gaulle. He gave one to Bea while he sat on her sofa showing her photos of mountains and castles. Bea had never eaten anything brought back directly from Europe. She expected it to taste differently than caramels in America, but she was disappointed. Though it was good, it lacked distinctive identity. She walked over to the trashcan to throw away the crumpled gold wrapper, but then thought better of it and set it aside. Later she stuck it to the wall by her computer with a thumbtack where it gleamed prism-like when the afternoon sun hit it. 

The French Happy Meal was another unpleasant surprise. Bea found out about it by accident while surfing the web. The French apparently called McDonald’s “McDo’s,” and in addition to the old familiar hamburger or Mcnugget standbys of the American Happy Meal, children in France had exotic choices - a ham sandwich or star-shaped fish pieces, apricot-peach juice or black currant flavored water. 

And there was the fact that the French had sex 130 times a year, more than anyone else in Europe. Or America, for that matter. Of course, they would use birth control most of the time, but occasionally they’d conceive French or half-French children, like Andrew Anson’s kids, who would grow up and one day ask for star shaped fish pieces and black currant water from McDo’s.

Bea knew that France had been there all her life. But after the gold wrapper, the McDo’s Happy Meals, and the French sex, France was a new threat. It was after her, was coming at her from everywhere. Bea told herself to stay on guard.

  E-News from the French Government suddenly began arriving in her email unbidden. In the gift shop across the street from Bea’s coffee shop, the owner put up a whimsical three-dimensional map of France - the Eiffel tower protruded from Paris in a rude, phallic way. And France was there in the daily language in words Bea liked, in words she was indifferent to, and in words she hated, such as ointment. France just refused to back down. Each time she encountered it, she smiled a little and nodded as if to say “touché” to her opponent.  But what did it want from her? Was it planning a bigger move? 

#

Bea asked her friend Joey Mullins about France at the coffee shop one morning. 

“Back when I took French in high school I didn’t even notice it had anything to do with France,” she yelled over the sound of the cappuccino maker. “What changed?”

 “I can tell you this much - you can avoid Francophiles, but beyond that you’re stuck with France,” Joey said, taking his cappuccino from her.  “I mean, there’s gonna be the French Open, the Tour de France, the Cannes film festival, the diet books by the skinny French ladies. And politicians are gonna keep hating French politicians because they’re strange and contentious. And there’s no escaping Casablanca.”

“Not true,” Bea said, wiping up some milk she had spilled. “I only saw it once.” 

Joey shrugged. “Why don’t you just save up your tips until you have enough to buy a plane ticket? Meet France head on.” 

Bea set a jar on the windowsill of the coffee shop and began stuffing it with dollars and nickels. She settled in to save for a long, long time. And then it came: the magazine announcing Andrew Anson as the Sexiest Man on the Planet. Beside a big photo of Andrew was a declaration written by his French lover Valentina which had originally appeared in French Elle:

“Andrew Anson, My Lover,” wrote Valentina.   

All that I dreamed of, wanted, need. Our story is love and friendship united. I have the impression that no one could love the way we love. When we talk about work, it’s not too much and never during a romantic dinner.

Bea read it aloud to Joey in the coffee shop. 

“Can you believe that crap?” she said while picking up a particularly puny tip from the couple who had just left. “’When we talk about work it’s not too much and never during a romantic dinner.’ Is that what passes for being clever when you’re gorgeous?”

“Give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it works better in French. Here, add this to your fund,” Joey said, handing her an extra dollar.  

#

Bea closed up for the day and took a cup of coffee to the back patio to contemplate her next move. “Andrew Anson, My Lover” was the most disturbing piece of evidence yet – the implications were terrifying. If Valentina was telling the truth, it meant that something had happened in France that passed beyond the realm of common human experience: love and friendship had united; Andrew and Valentina loved in a way that ”no one” else could. 

Bea tried to think of reasonable, grounded explanations. Maybe France was a mystical place where people could experience this higher state of loving. But if so, the rest of them were shut out as from well-defended medieval fortifications – France belonged only to the French because they were born there, or to the half-French, or to people who at least had a French last name and the money and celebrity to hook up with a French beauty like Valentina and impregnate her twice.

Maybe Valentina and Andrew were the sort of people who were easily satisfied in a relationship. But judging by the nature of Valentina’s declarations, it sounded more like every heretofore impossible romantic dream had come true. Not just that, but Andrew and Valentina had been together for several years and had a couple of kids by the time she had written this. So her words couldn’t be considered a byproduct of the initial flush of falling in love. It sounded like the real deal, and Valentina was confirming what Bea had always suspected – there was a happily ever after, but it wasn’t for her.    

As she sat in the evening calm sipping her coffee, she thought she saw something delicate floating just outside her range of vision. Then she heard the small fluttering noise, and realized it was a hummingbird. She tried not to make any clumsy moves. She knew they had hummingbirds in France – there was a passing reference to them in Madame Bovary. But then she belched, and the hummingbird flitted away. In France, Valentina would never belch and scare away a hummingbird. Bea went back into the shop, took the jar off the windowsill, and threw it in the trash. 

Then she saw it: sitting by the sink on top of yesterday’s mail was a new movie magazine announcing in bold letters “World’s Sexiest Man.” But it wasn’t Andrew Anson this time. The star Matt Gillis reclined lazily on the front, hair disheveled and shirt unbuttoned. Just a few days ago Bea had seen an internet poll on the actor with the dreamiest eyes, and Matt had won by a landslide. She looked at the cover photo. Not bad. Flipping through the article, she noticed that Matt was Irish. Ireland had never ruled the world, but it had always been a rebel out there on the fringes. Being a rebel was sexy.  Bea fished the jar out of the trash, just in case. You never knew when Ireland might make a move. 

The Elisabeth Hegmann Interview (by Midnight Times)

The Elisabeth Hegmann Interview

Author of "Jeremy"

For the Spring 2007 MT Author Interview, JJ and I met online with Elisabeth Hegmann, recipient of the prestigious Chancellor's Scholar Award at IUPUI, as well as several other honors including Outstanding Film Studies Student, being elected to Who's Who Among Students in American Universities and Colleges, and the Rebecca E. Pitts Fiction Award for a recently written story. Elisabeth has a diverse interest in literature and the performing arts, and is looking forward to finishing her English degree so she can spend more time working on a novel which is in the early stages of development. She provided some great insight into her story "Jeremy," as well as the fascinating trio of main characters involved. Time allowing and authors willing, Joseph and I will continue to publish a new author interview in each issue of the Midnight Times. Enjoy! -- Jay Manning, MT Editor

THE INTERVIEW

Joseph Collins ("JJ"): All right, Elisabeth, let's get started. Do you have any nicknames or do you prefer Elisabeth?

Elisabeth Hegmann: Elisabeth is fine. I never got any nicknames like Liz or Beth. I guess I was always really formal, so I'm "Elisabeth."

JJ: Tell us a little bit about yourself. What does your typical week day consist of?

Elisabeth: My typical week day is pretty boring right now--a lot of studying. But I'd say I'm ambitious, constantly learning, and in a state of constant change according to what I've learned. I'm a perfectionist, embarrassingly bent on getting things right. I demand a lot out of myself. Just a few days ago I learned I've been chosen for something called the Chancellor's Scholar Award, meaning (according to the powers that be) that I represent the highest academic achievement in my school's graduating class. But I never would have expected that in a million years!

JJ: That's awesome, what school do you attend and what degree are you working on?

Elisabeth: I'm at IUPUI (Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis), and I'm an English major. I thought they always gave those awards to sociologists or something, not aspiring writers. But I'm honored. Every test I've taken or paper I've written I always figured, "Oh well--I probably flunked!" So I was surprised, to say the least.

JJ: Well, that's awesome. Tell us a bit about your writing. When did you start and what are your long term writing goals?

Elisabeth: Oh gosh. I feel like it chose me more than I chose it. Like it was something people wanted me to do. People started telling me I should write when I was in 2nd grade. Later in high school people I barely knew would walk up and say, "You're a writer, right?" I thought they were crazy because I hated writing as much as most kids do. I guess I just seemed writerly or something. But I definitely have some major long term goals now--novels, graphic novels, operas. You name it!

JJ: You do have a penchant for the written word. Who were some of your writing inspirations? Who do you like?

Elisabeth: You know, my family members are all musicians and were involved with performance, theatre, directing, and those kinds of things. And I've tended to draw inspiration from the performing arts and visual forms--theatre, music, film, photography, and graphic novels. My tastes are so eclectic I stopped trying to make sense of them a long time ago. Lord of the Rings, Clint Eastwood, Vincente Minnelli films, Monty Python, Lawrence of Arabia. Alan Moore and Frank Miller. Kind of an odd mixed group!

JJ: Would you say you draw inspiration more from visual entertainment than things that are written?

Elisabeth: I do. I feel almost sort of guilty about that! I mean, I read of course, and there are many authors I admire. But my inspiration tends to come from other sources. I've always felt a kind of tension between what I most admire and what I'm best at. And yet I think that tension has worked to my advantage. I enjoy being able to cover a large area.

JJ: What is it about the other sources that you like? Just how things look, how they sound, the writing behind it? Some of the television programs I enjoy most are because of the dialogue, which is a credit to the writers, not so much the performers.

Elisabeth: I agree with you that the writing is definitely always an important aspect. For me, I think part of it is that my imagination tends to work visually. I'm not sure I really know, though! Nearly everything I like has an overarching "mythic" element, if you will, or else it looks at the world with a certain kind of whimsy or humor I admire. That's true of books and stories along with all the other forms I admire.

JJ: About your other writing projects, are you in the middle of any novels?

Elisabeth: I am, actually! I'm working on my first novel right now, maybe the first one in a projected series of three. I'm excited, but it's in the very early stages. I'd forgotten how much fun research can be. I'm currently researching Mediterranean islands and some crazy tower-like structures--issues that are crucial to the setting of the novel.

JJ: That sounds interesting. What is the goal behind your novel? What would you like to see happen for either yourself or the audience it's intended for?

Elisabeth: My main goal is always to stay true to the integrity of the material I'm working on, and through that to provide the reader with a valuable experience. And of course to continually increase my proficiency as a writer. In terms of this particular material, I've actually been kicking it around for many years, and I just hope it "works"! I had wanted to write it as a graphic novel for a long time, but I finally decided I would write it as a regular novel. Anyway, so far so good.

JJ: How many short fiction stories would you say you've written in all?

Elisabeth: I'm embarrassed to tell you: not very many! I tend to be really efficient as a writer, but not very prolific. In other words, if I start a story, I will always see it through to a finished "product." But I just don't necessarily crank out that many. That may change when I get out of school.

Jay Manning: "Jeremy" was certainly efficient.

Elisabeth: Thanks! I did work hard to make "Jeremy" as tight as I could!

JJ: How many short stories would you say you average a year?

Elisabeth: In recent years, perhaps four.

JJ: Some authors propose that there's a primary theme that tends to unconsciously flow through a writer's body of work. Do you find there's a theme that runs through your stories, or do you feel all the works are disparate?

Elisabeth: There are definitely some main themes. I've also heard the opinion expressed that it's better for a writer not to think about what the main themes are in their own work. But it's kind of hard not to, you know? Some elements that pop up over and over in my work are isolation, motifs of imprisonment, crucibles that force characters together. Kind of some dark stuff.

JJ: I've noticed that as well. I subscribe to the theory that it's not a conscious decision. I think it says more about what's important to you inside than a conscious effort...though some deliberately put repeated themes in their work.

Elisabeth: I agree that it's not usually conscious. It just "is!" In my own experience, material just presents itself to me to be written, and to say no would be selfish.

Jay: A question about something you mentioned earlier: for the setting of your novel you said you are researching some "crazy tower-like structures" in the Mediterranean. Why is that a critical element?

Elisabeth: You know, this material I'm working on now, it kind of came floating up out of nowhere. I don't even remember how I decided on a tower being the central setting. But, towers have so many things they connote--imprisonment, isolation (two things I already mentioned earlier!), as well as things like forts, defense, and a lot of other meanings. I hope to exploit all of the meanings of towers in this material. But to start off, its main meaning is imprisonment. The working title of the project is "Maker’s Tower."

Jay: Could you provide a brief plot synopsis? Who is the main character?

Elisabeth: I wish I could, but it's in such early stages there's not much more to say. I'm just so excited that I'm getting the opportunity now that school's almost over to get back to some of these other projects that mean so much to me.

JJ: Alright, let's talk about your well-written piece, "Jeremy." First of all, what motivated you to pen it?

Elisabeth: I adapted it from a dream, and there I'm probably revealing more about my twisted psyche than I want to! I always feel like it's cheating to write a story from a dream. But that dream was really vivid and I wanted to capture its feeling. It was also written out of admiration for Romero's zombie films--I love the zombie film genre, including more recent entries like Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later.

JJ: Your story was very short in terms of word count, but in retrospect it seems much longer. You were very efficient with your writing style. You packed a lot of punch into a small space.

Jay: I agree. A lot happens in only 1800 words.

JJ: Jay and I both feel that's the sign of a great writer. So did you have a secondary meaning behind any of the events in the story or was it more what you see is what you get?

Elisabeth: Thanks very much! You know, it's a strange story because it's all narrative summary--all in the narrator's "head." But it was the only way the story worked. When I tried to add other elements, like dialogue, it fell flat. I think the only reason it works is because it's so short. I suppose the story can be read as a metaphor for some of the sadder aspects of relationships. And I suppose you're right--in a short space her thoughts about Jeremy and herself are complex and confused, quite a lot packed in a little space. She thinks all along that she has empathy for Jeremy, but only at the end does she really get it.

Jay: In the story there's a third main character: the "Invisible Man." Why add that aspect?

Elisabeth: Right. The Invisible Man exists only as a character in the narrator's own mind. That aspect was what I struggled with most as I wrote the story--it's what changed the most through the drafts. Earlier drafts had almost a "happy ending," with her ending up with the Invisible Man. But the story only began to work when it became, frankly, darker and more cynical, and she realizes the Invisible Man for the hoax that he is, and Jeremy as . . . well, whatever she realizes about him. That's the reader's business, not mine!

Jay: I felt that the Invisible Man provided a critical balance--the narrator seems to have the idea that somehow this other mystery man is going to help her escape the situation, but he never shows up in reality. There's really a lot of symbolism going on with that whole scenario. So how much of the story came from the dream you had? Can you describe that more precisely? I've written a few stories that came from dreams myself, and I think that's an interesting aspect of "Jeremy," since you mention it.

Elisabeth: As I wrote the story, I hoped that it could be read on a lot of different symbolic levels. It's so "bare" it's nearly allegorical. Well, that dream, like most dreams, was mainly just a feeling and some images. I just dreamed that I was at a series of parties and that this rotting guy kept showing up. I wasn't freaked out or anything. He was some old friend of mine, and I was just slightly annoyed because he was rotting! There was some humor to it.

Jay: One can definitely read the story on different levels. I think it's easy to read it as a funny zombie story, but if you do that, you're missing a lot of the underlying elements. I also think that's pretty cool how the dream evolved into such an exceptional story. What I personally got out of it was not letting go of things. The narrator distances herself from Jeremy when she starts the story--"I don't think it had struck me until that moment that he had been interested in me in life"--but then it evolves into this whole ongoing situation where she can't break free of Jeremy, despite the fact that he's a pathetic, rotting corpse. The situation seems like a very familiar theme in regard to relationships. How much of that was intentional?

Elisabeth: When I get as close as I should be to the characters, they tell me their stories. I'm never aware at first of a lot of what the story is "doing." But once I start revising, I become more aware of those things, and I'm glad to hear that's what you got from the story, because that's definitely what I wanted to be the heart of it! And you know, I think humor helps provide some of that heart.

Jay: Yes. I agree.

JJ: Definitely. Alright, thank you so much for taking time out to meet with us Elisabeth. Do you have any special "plugs" that you'd like mentioned? Any last words to impart?

Elisabeth: I don't have any of my own, but I have some other arts events I'd like to plug. The first is the Indianapolis International Film Festival, April 25-May4 (www.indyfilmfest.org). Also, the 2007 River of Blues Music Festival at Muscatatuck Park in southeastern Indiana, May 12, 2007 (www.riverofblues.com). Tickets: 1-877-725-8849. The festival will feature The Elms, 650 North, The Early Evening, Don Pedigo, and others. I think it's so important to support local/regional arts and festivals, whether it's choirs, bands, filmmakers, poets, whatever.

Jay: Sounds great.

JJ: That's awesome. Well thank you so much for your story and for meeting with us today. We really enjoyed it. It was very nice to meet you.

Jay: Yes. Thanks a lot for submitting such a wonderful story and joining us for the author interview.

Elisabeth: Thanks so much for talking to me! So much appreciated! It was fun. Who knows, maybe soon I'll write something else you might like! Back to my binomial probabilities...

Jeremy

It’s true that after Jeremy died I hadn’t expected to see him again, yet I wasn’t altogether surprised when he showed up at the Woods’ party the day after his family had buried him.  He had always been so cheerfully stubborn, and it was easy to guess that he was just trying to make the best of things.  I stared at him as I sat at the kitchen table finishing off my drink.  He took a beer from the fridge, turned his whole body in my direction since his head wouldn’t move, and then stopped as if unsure whether he should approach me.  I don’t think it had struck me until that moment that he had been interested in me in life. He looked so lost that I waved to him in encouragement. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it seemed the natural thing to do under the circumstances.

“I’m dead,” he told me sadly, and I turned away to hide a laugh.  I mean, was that the best line he could come up with? 

Then he came on.  Little mounds of earth clung to him, and it was evident he had clawed at his coffin – his hands were a bloody mess, the chewed nails now missing completely.

 “Claudia,” he said, reaching out stiff-armed and prodding me in the shoulder, and I think that was all he could manage, because his throat seized up for a while after that. 

As he greeted me, I looked around to see who had spotted him with me.  It wasn’t that people would be rude – on the contrary, they would smile and nod politely.  It was just that an understanding existed about this sort of thing.  An understanding as with old folks who smelled, or people with large warts, or women who grew beards.  

At times, Jeremy could be charming and a little funny, and in the past I had often accepted his company.  Maybe in my clumsy way I had given off a signal that I was more interested than I actually was. In any case, it was clear that he had come back to finish what we’d failed to ever start. 

That first night at the Woods’ he still looked fresh and was not much different than he had ever been. There was something a little strange in the way he moved, but that was all.  I wandered onto the patio, hoping that he wouldn’t come with me, but of course he did.  His throat unfroze, and we talked about nothing of striking interest – some people we had known in high school, what they were doing now.  The dullness of these subjects made me long to be rid of him. I was worried that he would try to follow me home, but near the end of the party I was relieved when instead he lurched through the garden hedge and out into the night.

#

Later I sat in the safety of my house contemplating what to do about Jeremy. At any other time, it wouldn’t have been so bad for him to be hanging around while I waited for him to rot back into the earth, but for the next few weeks I had plans every night. For many years at the start of each summer all of the couples on Longlane Road had hosted parties. Nearly everyone in the neighborhood attended and many people used the opportunity to look for a partner. It was an elaborate masquerade of slowly aging bodies, and I had always scorned such gatherings. But a few days ago I had received a letter from an admirer who called himself The Invisible Man. He instructed me to attend the parties and said he would manifest himself to me at one of them. I was entranced with the thought of him, but I wondered if he could love me now as I was accompanied everywhere by the slowly rotting Jeremy.

I climbed into bed as the sun came up and though I still held the note from the Invisible Man in my hand, I thought not of him but of Jeremy, and I felt ashamed of my suspicions toward him. Of course he’d had no intentions of following me home. He had always been polite, always a gentleman. Why did I suddenly suppose that he would become a lout or a rapist or a flesh eater?

#

The party the next night at the Chaneys’ passed in much the same way as the one at the Woods’ had. So did the party at the Romeros’ and the party at the Prices’. I would arrive and shortly thereafter I’d hear Jeremy at the door, his once sweet voice becoming thick with zombie phlegm. After the host or hostess let him in, there followed a discreet exodus of all guests within several feet of the entrance hall. Often I imagined that some voice I heard might have been the Invisible Man searching for me, but when I turned to look there was only Jeremy.

Night after night I retreated to secluded alcoves to drink cocktails and choke down hors d’oeuvres.  Night after night I waited in vain for the Invisible Man to show himself.  Jeremy was always by my side, droning on and on, a gargling death groan in my ear, and I tried to sink ever deeper into the alcoves so no one saw me with him.

Like anyone with an ounce of common sense and knowledge on the subject, I knew that I could simply blow Jeremy’s head off and that would be the end of it. After the first signs of rotting had appeared, I had almost been able to consider finishing him off. He seemed more revolting and less human, a creature that it might be appropriate to step on and squash. But I also knew he needed time to rot, just as most people in the midst of trying circumstances need time to heal. It was not his fault that his flesh was failing his will, nor could he be blamed for my inability to defeat my personal prejudices toward him.

On the fifth night after his return from the dead, Jeremy arrived at the Rottbergers’ and made an offhand comment about it being cold and sticky outside. I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the weather or if he was making a self-deprecating joke about his own condition; since the previous night he had developed a covering of sticky, rancid film.

  I was becoming impatient with his nightly appearances.  I knew there was no future for us together, and that night at the Rottbergers’ the advanced state of his deterioration had become all too apparent.  A fold of skin hung loose from his arm, he smelled like rotten cat food, and a small section of his cheek was missing.  I felt a wicked urge to ask what kind of worms had eaten his face, what acid had he gargled with to make his voice sound like that, what sort of bacteria was it exactly that had advanced up his legs?  But instead I breathed slowly for a few moments, reminded myself that he meant no harm, and managed to smile.

I found an abandoned part of the garden where I could fantasize about the Invisible Man, Jeremy stalking along behind me. I longed for the companionship of the Invisible Man, the witty exchanges of dialogue I had imagined with him, the deep sharing of intellect and spirit that would take place once we had met. Though I had known from the beginning that I only had to wait until Jeremy decayed, I hadn’t understood how difficult the waiting would be. I told myself that the day couldn’t be too far away when the worms would overtake him completely. In the meantime, all I had to do was try to be kind just a little longer.

#

Several nights later at the Ashers’ house, all the skin sloughed off Jeremy’s right arm and fell to the floor. We looked at each other for a moment and then I pretended not to have noticed. Throughout the evening he had been so cheerful and upbeat, getting me drinks and making jokes. It was as though he thought of his condition as a cancer he might beat. But after the skin had fallen off, he seemed injured, taken aback. He was quiet after that. If there had been enough of him left, he would have cried.

He was like a sick animal with no understanding of what was happening to him, and while I looked forward to the day he would crumble and fall, I also dreaded it.  He was little more than a piece of meat even now, and it tortured me to think about his struggle as the flesh finally failed his will altogether.  After each party, he always told me he’d see me tomorrow. It was clear he would only realize there wouldn’t be a next time of seeing me when his body was so far returned to the earth that it couldn’t move any longer. Yet when I thought of this I had other fears.  Surely whatever was left of him at that point wouldn’t continue to crawl toward me. Would it?  I couldn’t bear to think of arms or fingers chasing after me and gamely trying to carry on conversations, determined to overcome all obstacles including no mouth or vocal apparatus whatsoever.

I tried to be more tolerant of Jeremy at the Ashers’ house because of his dejected mood. I didn’t want him to feel worse than he had to. I listened to his gargling speech, and yet my thoughts turned to my future with the Invisible Man.  I found I had no appetite, and took food off the Ashers’ trays just to be polite, then threw it away when no one was looking except Jeremy. He seemed concerned, and patted my shoulder with a bony, sticky hand.

Four days later at the Dustkills’ party Jeremy’s jaw fell off mid-sentence, and thereafter he was only able to make guttural sounds.  Party guests milled around the Dustkills’ landscaped pool while behind the hedges Jeremy growled and groaned at me lovingly, oblivious that half his face was missing. Still the Invisible Man failed to show himself.

#

When I arrived the next night at the Rippeys’ house Jeremy was not there. I thought perhaps the end had already come, but as I glanced out on the candle-lit terrace, I saw his torso crawling among the sweet peas and petunias.  His head was still attached, but not much else was.   I thought for a moment that I would pretend I hadn’t seen him.  But at least he was real. That was more than I could say for the Invisible Man. I got a drink at the bar and went to him in the chilly night with the forbearance that comes when we know the end is near. There would be no conversation, of course.  I sat there with him as the moon rose.  He seemed so bare. This was his love, laid out naked and rotting for me to see.  I had no jacket or I would have covered him.