THE NONPRODUCTIVE COUGH

I

He was the kind of man who sometimes thought he would choke on the afternoon. If not the afternoon, then perhaps his own phlegm; if not phlegm, perhaps the vapor-crammed air. Whatever the cause, fresh air very seldom seemed fresh enough. It was not the weather per se that triggered this condition. It was more like time. The seconds weighed heavily upon his chest like the rainy fog of a wet spring or the stirred up air of a dusty room. This was his asthmatic life! It was his to live. It was his to lose. It was his. But it wasn’t really. And he knew it.

 

There are those people who drift through this barren world, seeking some claim of authority, however obscure. They claim responsibility for the slightest breeze that moves the tiniest of leaves, all the while knowing that the wind happens regardless of their presence or design. All the while afraid that others know it too.

 

He was one of those people.

 

One day the roman-catholic-earth had become overburdened by her resolve to honor life, her house overrun by noisy children who incessantly scratched at her with dirty fingernails, forcing her to reevaluate her long-lived convictions. She was determined to tear at the next flea that suckled on her blood. “This far and no further!” she declared, etching a line in the whiskey bottle of her life like a reeling Irishman.

The morning that she knew of her pregnancy was the morning she became a protestant, strolling down the back alley with a tarnished hanger.

 

And yet, he was born. More than that he survived. More unlikely still, he grew into manhood, bearing the stigmata of a world which sought to abort him. He and she were never on speaking terms�"she arranged for his adoption soon after his twisted frame slipped from her womb, but he always knew that she was his mother, though she repeatedly denied it.

In spite of her denials, he would never let her go, even though she refused to acknowledge his existence. He seemed to expect that maternal instinct would displace hostility, so he occasionally appeared on her doorstep, screeching with hunger, asking for anything, denied everything.

But this was all long ago . . .

 

 

II

On the green pastured Pennsylvanian campus ground, damp with autumn air, he saw her. She appeared on the horizon, a distinct cloud that caught his attention. He knew of her but he did not know her and he felt the harsh torque of time’s twisted moment when he saw her gliding into his line of vision. He knew that he had to meet her, but he did not know how.

 

Months passed until he saw both her and opportunity side by side. Every weekend there was a dance at the college. Every weekend everyone went�"except for her. She occasionally attended on the rare night when her boyfriend’s band played. This one night, however, he knew she would be there and he made his plans.

 

A guy,Bill, who lived on his hall, knew her well enough to walk up and speak to her. He used this acquaintance to his benefit. Bill’s job was to start a conversation with her and then he would stroll by and be causally introduced to her by Bill. It was foolproof. It would all be quite nonchalant and unstaged. But Bill choked under pressure, throwing him to her like meat to a lion, and he found himself suddenly fact to face with her, expected to say something mildly historic.

 

“You don’t know me,” he finally choked out, “but we knew each other in a previous life.” he couldn’t believe that something so insipid had slipped from his lips, but at least he had her attention, and so he went on. “In fact, I’m sure that we were married; so, if you ever want to renew you vows, just let me know.”

 

Years seemed to pass before she responded. “Really?” she said with an impish grin. “Maybe we should talk about this.”

 

“Well, I’m not doing anything,” he said. They went outside to talk. That’s how it always begins. Whenever he goes somewhere for a “talk” his life is altered. It is thrown out of a speeding car, somehow expected to find safety while bouncing off the concrete curb.

 

But she was already one of many. And, though he believe that she would be “the one,” she proved to be just one of many more.

 

 

III

His youth slipped from his trembling hands�"just like the cheap, dull razorblade he once grasped above an unhygienic sink on a warm summer evening. But nothing came of it except a nasty scar and a string of explanations.

 

There were moments when he felt pitiable and misunderstood. It was a small town after all. What can escape the notice of a small town? Certainly nothing that he ever did. He was a white-trash-celebrity, a trailer-park Mel Gibson. When he sneezed, it was printed in the paper.

 

The people sometimes spoke about it. He could see it in their faces as he walked down the street. A small town is no place to keep a secret, and nothing betrays a secret more than honest blood and conspicuous scars.

 

 

IV

He discovered her one uneventful evening, discarded by the few with whom she arrived. Somehow, he couldn’t remember exactly how, he found himself next to her, and they started to talk. She was not his type and she later told him that she hated him when they first met. But they talked throughout the night into the next day.

 

There is a story in their night together, but they would only whisper it to each other in the silent darkness, just before the sun arose�"like a sacrament.

V

It was a slippery faith. But still he attempted to milk it.

 

 

VI

“What are you reading?” asked the attractive young lady who was no longer a girl but not yet a woman.

 

“Hmm?” he spoke as if awakened from a deep slumber. “Oh,” he finally added after remembering where he was, “I’m just reading a little Greek.” He looked into the blue eyes of the young student. She was attractive in the way that made beauty seem like her younger, insecure sister. She was the type of girl who would fail to see him if her were still in high school.

 

He thought about the situation. His guard never would have lowered to that level when he was young. But as an old man his guard slipped form time to time, and he was not surprised to find himself admitting to taking pleasure in such a diversion as reading something that was written some 2,000 years before he had ever been an extra pound on his mother’s belly.

 

“You can read that?” she asked increduously, looking at the garbled text. “That’s impressive.”

 

“Do you want something?” he asked.

 

“Can I go to my locker?”

 

“What for?”

 

She belched whatever well-rehearsed response to inquiry that she had at her disposal, unaware that he was not listening. He was lost in the memory of a memory of a moment that led him to this inane conversation with this young person before him. He noticed a silence, but not at first. It had been stalking the room for minutes before he became aware of its uncomfortable presence. He looked up to see the young lady looking at him with a confused expression that almost betrayed a sense of concern. He surveyed the room. They were all looking at him. Some in the back were giggling.

 

He reached for a pad that was sitting upon the desk, scribbled something, handed it to her. She took it from him but did not leave. She and the class continued their inspection until he felt as if he would be crushed under the weight of their glances.

 

“Hey,” he said after a moment, “I’m just a substitute. I’m more of a prisoner here than any of you.”

VII

He sipped his middle age like a hot cup of tea. He had always expected more; though, for the life of him, he never knew why.

VIII

He accidentally remembered her one December afternoon.

 

The wind moved like a hyperactive child in need of attention. It blew cold and barren inscriptions upon the gray mausoleum of the dingy day. Somewhere, carried upon its blowing, slept the memory�"the memory of her�"which eventually collided against him like a drunk driver into a telephone pole, punching him into the ground.

 

It had been years since he saw her. And he hated being old enough to know of such a thing. He remembered that morning well, the taste of her lips, the breath from her heavy exhaled kiss. He remembered how they spoke lies to each other one last time, perjuries that were the gold standard that backed the currency of love. She was too beautiful for the truth, and he was too much of a coward to speak it, so they simply hooked each other one last time in a tight embrace. He could smell that it had been at least a day since she showered, but he didn’t mind�"it was her, smells and all!

 

The moment bled deranged and greasy, and they both became too slippery to hold on to any longer. Like Lot’s wife, he couldn’t slink away without one last look. She wore an expression of smoke. He disguised himself with clichés and he was gone . . .

 

Sometimes, when he prays, he asks God for a time machine, or he asks God to let him wake up to find that all the years since that morning were nothing more than the silly lies of a dream�"he asks for anything that will get him back to that last moment together with her. This time he knows that he would stay, even though the same tonnage of commitments and obligations would still weigh heavily upon him. This time he would refuse them, and he would stay in that all-too-small bed, kiss her on the cheek, breathe deep that unwashed, boney body, and fall back to sleep. And even if he gave up everything for her and nothing permanent came of it, it would still be worth more than the choice that he made.

 

And as he lay on the ground, a twisted amalgam of molested memories, writhing in the moments of a long ago, late-August morning, long before he had become a traveling blasphemy, he finally found the courage to say what he could never say to her all those years ago. But there was no one around to hear it.

IX

Then there was this moment of a moment when all the moments of his life bled. And in the course of this bloodletting, he became a slave to alchemy and leech-wielding wizards; his vitality measured in blood cells, while the nameless magi, clothed in pale garments, searched the bumps that littered his head for meaning.

 

Somehow he was a sacrifice!

 

Counting the moments of his life as they dripped, embracing gravity with inhibitions. The only drama was the absence of drama. That blood-soaked, hemorrhage of a moment should have won an Oscar, and he should have been nominated for best supporting actor�"but real life is never so well acted as a movie. And the silent chorus sat amidst this tragedy, singing in unison, “Why does this scene seem so poorly put together?”

 

But they, like most of us, choose to ignore the answer. An answer that we all, sooner or later, receive from the bitter, bee-stinging flashes of truth that taunt our seconds: “This is life, a production so shoddy that it makes Ed Wood look like an inspired genius.”

 

And as he breathed his last, there was nothing but the beeping of machines that he did not understand, and the faint echoes of voices down the hall of people whom he hoped would peek into his room, but never did.

 

The chaplain at least acknowledged the loss. But it was his job to do so. And the only tears that fell that hour were from the eyes of a young child, who learned that “all the ice-cream you can eat” after a tonsillectomy is nothing but a lie.

Reviews

[SM Davis]

This reminds me of Thorn Birds - watching the life of the priest. You've done a very good job with this. Congratulations on a job well done.

[Kara Emily Krantz]

the first few paragraphs are so flippin fantastic. the writing is just flawless. i hardly ever read stories, but i didn't really have a choice with this one because the opening was so damned priceless.

I was a little thrown by the transition to his mother, but after i read the paragraph and went to the next i figured it out - perhaps a but more clarification? or i'm stupid. either is a good answer. i loved the line about becoming protestant once she found out she was pregnant, lmao. priceless
"He and she were never on speaking terms" - love that. as if the baby had a choice :)

jeeze. i keep pausing my reading so that i can write here - perhaps that interupts my flow? ha. but i dont care :P

""In fact, I'm sure that we were married; so, if you ever want to renew you vows, just let me know.""

okay the best pick-up line ever. you win for best pick-up line EVER. lol

"There is a story in their night together, but they would only whisper it to each other in the silent darkness, just before the sun arose�like a sacrament."

jesus, you're killing me. i think i love your writing. :)

"asked the attractive young lady who was no longer a girl but not yet a woman." - so far the only line that's sort of 'trite' within the piece. like borrrring. like you could describe her in a better sentence :P

""Hey," he said after a moment, "I'm just a substitute. I'm more of a prisoner here than any of you.""

I knew well before you said it that the man was a substitute, lol. and i know this because as I type I'm substituting lolol. :) well done

"He sipped his middle age like a hot cup of tea. He had always expected more; though, for the life of him, he never knew why."

amazing. and i love how you make these random lines their own 'chapter' or whatnot. :)

"She was too beautiful for the truth, and he was too much of a coward to speak it, so they simply hooked each other one last time in a tight embrace. "

love that. i'm currently making it my away message, for your silly information lol

"he finally found the courage to say what he could never say to her all those years ago. But there was no one around to hear it."

"why does this scene seem so poorly put together?" - GENIUS. :)

jeeze louis. i apologize for simply copy-pasting so many lines, but i couldn't help myself. and i figured you wouldn't mind knowing which lines 'popped' for me.

love this. favoriting it. i want to read more of you. i'm really really impressed. you have something raw and beautiful.

[J. Hampton]

Asthmatic-life/ the wind happens regardless of their presence or design/The morning that she knew of her pregnancy was the morning she became a protestant, strolling down the back alley with a tarnished hanger./sun arose�like a sacrament./He sipped his middle age like a hot cup of tea/She was too beautiful for the truth, and he was too much of a coward to speak it,/And as he lay on the ground, a twisted amalgam of molested memories, writhing in the moments of a long ago, late-August morning, long before he had become a traveling blasphemy, he finally found the courage to say what he could never say to her all those years ago. But there was no one around to hear it."


~~~ amazing...

"hindsight"...really ( IS ) everything

Blesssssssssssssss

[Phill Oz O'fee]

There are some who say, 'our life passes before us', during that brief moment before relinquishing the earthly host, back to the ashes and dust. If this is so, then your fascinating, metaphoric and intriguing composition, gives the reader an illuminating insight into the both highs and lows of an individual's self-examination and precise of their life and experiences.

A captivating write from start to finish!

God's Blessing
Phillozofee

[TL Boehm]

haunting - resonant - complex and surreal all come to mind as I read this - unable to look away, and hoping for the neat wrap up finish that never comes. This story is gritty and real - like a city sidewalk on a rainy March day. Awesome writing.

[R J Askew]

Great title and a great first line. I was in. My father had a smoker's cough and I could not help recalling it. And the writing rolled along like a slow confessional over a beer. I like the narrative touches like 'But that was long ago' I then found myself noting down bits that caught my eye...

...her and opportunity side by side
...bouncing off the concrete curb
He could smell that it had been at least a day since she showered.
...a travelling blasphemy
The only drama was the absence of drama.
This is life, a production so shoddy...

I thought of Bob Dylan when you were describing the small town, imagined him escaping. And at the end of part VIII I found the story made me wonder 'what the hell would life be like if we weren't forever driven by the need to talk through the night to another, if only life would leave us alone to enjoy the things that really matter, like a decent read.' The story made me feel this VERY strongly. Yet whoever we are whatever we do most of us seem to find ourselves talking through the night at some point. Not having that need would be regarded as odd, but god, life would a lot simpler. I get the feeling you want to be a playwright also! Great story telling voice. And enjoyed the read to the end. Ach, and the end is neat...with the very last word being a real slap. But the shoddiness and the odd slap from life is far more interesting than any movie. Disappointment beats the sugar high of success any day!

[Nicole (Carpe Diem)]

ha ha, i have to agree with Gabe... fantastic ending... i think i would be like that child as well -- if i learned i wouldnt be getting all the ice cream that i could eat after a tonsillectomy...

the writing is great - you pulled me into the story line by line... absolutely wonderful

[The Archangel Gabriel]

"the only tears that fell that hour were from the eyes of a young child, who learned that "all the ice-cream you can eat" after a tonsillectomy is nothing but a lie."

What a great ending! I loved it!

Great write!

-Gabe