Johnny Wraith Stories

Insanity

Keeping a calendar or wearing a watch didn't make sense anymore.  There was no one alive to share the time with in my neck of the woods - I'd searched the streets in every direction for at least 30 miles. Clocks and date books helped you show up at a place and meet other people, get a haircut, start work, make it to class, eat at a restaurant, see a movie, walk home together holding hands, start kissing, hopefully opening a bottle of wine and downing a few glasses before fucking - all that kind of shit. Because I hadn't seen a live person for so long, I started wondering if I'd know one when I saw one. Looking at me in the mirror didn't help. Even though I kept a close shave and cropped-short hair, I saw an animal glaring back, not a man, in my reflection. I had two eyes, two nostrils, two ears, teeth, lips, and my blood was still warm. I could hang out my pink tongue and shake it around, but animals could do the same. Animals had all the same features. And humans were animals. So what was the difference? Man, animal... I was both, or at least one of them.

I was so lonely. I was so lonely, I started feeling my sanity was slipping farther and farther into a very dark place, one to which I might never be able to return. I was standing on the edge of a cliff with no bottom, ready to make the leap. I was hanging by a thread. I started speaking my thoughts aloud, whatever came to mind, or singing repetitive lyrics and stanzas that I made up on the spot:

 
"The goose fucked the elves,
And the elves built the shelves,
And the shelves held the wine,
That was swilled by the swine,
And the swine fucked the goose in the ass!

OOOOOHHHHHHH!!!

Ham and eggs!!!
Ham and eggs!!!
Ham and eggs!!!
Ham and eggs!!!

OOOOOHHHHHHH!!!

SOOOOOOO!!!!

The goose fucked the elves,
And the elves built the shelves..."


The sound of my voice, I think, reminded me I still existed. And I thought of Grace a lot. Grace, that poor thing. She often entered my mind. Grace. Grace, the poor little tart I'd buried next to Digger in the backyard. To have her back, naked and dirty, cowering and shaking on the couch with her scabbed knees hugged tightly to her tiny breasts. How she refused to speak, grew weaker by the day, how she starved to death in her despondency. The thought of her, even at the worst, was a pleasant, warming thought, so out of human touch I'd become.

Goddess Vina? Wulf? Had any of that fucking shit really happened? I started to wonder. My skepticism grew, but I didn't lose all faith. I couldn't think straight. Perhaps it was all illusions - the confusion - of insanity. But who could blame me? I'd heard that even hardened, well-trained astronauts started breaking at about the 30th day of isolation, and I'd gone way past the 30-day mark. I wasn't even trained for space travel. And let me tell you, if you are ever alone for long enough, you will start running around with your pants off, grunting ape sounds, picking and eating your boogers, scratching like a dog, knocking your head against walls until you're bleeding, and masturbating 15 times a day.

At one point - I am ashamed to admit it - I went as far as gathering up a few of the decaying bodies lying about the neighborhood (yeah, the odor was bad, and ants were all over the place, but corpses don't weigh much after basking in the Arizona heat for several months), sitting them around the large dining room table of a big two-story house down the street, and putting on an opera for them. I got really drunk on wine to muster the courage to sing forth, in bellowing baritone, the lyrics of Carmina Burana, translated to English of course, before my audience. I'd memorized every word because I'd had the time:

"...When we are in the tavern,
we do not think how we will go to dust,
but we hurry to gamble,
which always makes us sweat.
What happens in the tavern,
where money is host,
you may well ask,
and hear what I say.

Some gamble, some drink,
some behave loosely.
But of those who gamble,
some are stripped bare,
some win their clothes here,
some are dressed in sacks.
Here no-one fears death,
but they throw the dice in the name of Bacchus.

First of all it is to the wine-merchant
the the libertines drink,
one for the prisoners,
three for the living,
four for all Christians,
five for the faithful dead,
six for the loose sisters,
seven for the footpads in the wood,

Eight for the errant brethren,
nine for the dispersed monks,
ten for the seamen,
eleven for the squabblers,
twelve for the penitent,
thirteen for the wayfarers.
To the Pope as to the king
they all drink without restraint..."

(English translation by Johanna Hansdotter Sundberg, based on a translation to Swedish by Claes Wirsén, and otherwise lifted, in part, from a web site here.)

Even though I sang my best while wearing only pink high heels, a bra, and g-string panties, no one applauded or whistled. The dead are often too occupied with their situation to show any signs of life. Besides, it was a bad performance. Even my prejudice ear detected the truth. But hell, the only voice training I'd ever had was in the 4th grade choir, when I was 9 years old. Shit, those were the days, when I was really young. I'd started out right, as a winner, as a young kid. I was a cub scout with a shit-load of badges and medals pinned to my shirt, I swam on the swim team and never failed to come in third. I was an actor in training. In sixth grade I was the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz. Those were the mother-fucking days! I was somebody. Important shit was going to happen in my life. I was going to be somebody. I could sing, act, swim, and earn merit badges. Somehow, I took a bad turn around the start of 7th grade, when I first discovered I could lube up my cock, turn my hand into a pussy, and whack away. The multiple character-building activities of my youth came to a standstill. Granted, I made it through law school and passed the bar many years later, but anybody can do that, even professional masturbators like me. I sometimes wonder if anyone out there has jacked off as much as I have. How many gallons have I spewed in my lifetime? My balls just might have pumped as much oil as the Alaskan Pipeline has. Fuck. Life never turns out the way we hope it will. Sometimes, surviving is the best we can do, even if it is limited to entertaining deaf ears with our pitiful singing and dancing. 

But Wulf had told me there were others out there. I knew it was my job to give up my ridiculous skits, stop stroking my cock for at least 10 minutes, and go out and find them. Staying in Tucson wasn't an option. I had to venture out. I had to search for life. I'd gone too long alone, without seeing another human being... I had to prove I wasn't the only one left...

So, on a whim, I boarded up the house and set a bunch of tripwires tied to sawed-off shotgun triggers, the double barrels aimed to blow the balls off any intruders (my massive stockpile of Hormel Chili with Meat Sauce and 5 liter boxes of Franzia Merlot was a precious treasury). Then I loaded up my white 1994 Nissan Sentra with provisions, weapons, and ammo, until I could barely see out the windows, turned the key, started the engine, and hit the open road.

The entire drive on I-10 East, from Tucson to the outskirts of Las Cruces, New Mexico was filled will death. Every mile or two, I'd run into an idle car with a corpse at the wheel, and sometimes a car filled with corpse drivers, rotting passengers, and dead babies in car seats. Though these idle cars didn't offer any living flesh, they did offer free gas. That was one benefit. I didn't have to stop and pay for gas anymore. Just find a car, pop open the gas cap, stick the end of a cut-off garden hose in the tank, suck on the end, and there it is! A full tank of gas! Living off the land was the way to go. No punching in debit card numbers, waiting in line, or worrying about speeding tickets. Getting to stop and take a piss at a whim was awesome. Just pull over and make sure the wind is at your back.

Why did I head into New Mexico? Who knows? Why did I continue driving my old 1994 Nissan Sentra? I could drive any other car I stumbled into. Most had keys in the ignition, or in the pockets of a nearby cadaver. A Hummer perhaps? A BMW? A Mercedes? Maybe a Lexus?  I have an answer for that. She was mine and I was hers. Bessie, I called her. My very own 1994 Nissan Sentra. She wasn't loaded with all the bullshit. The airbags, the power locks and windows, the beeps, buzzers, and computers. Bessie was simple and to the point. Want the window down? Roll it. Need to lock the door? Just press the lock down and be sure to hold the handle up when you shut it. She wasn't a car with a million confusing buttons, beeps, sirens, alarms, and skiddly bops. Just get in and start her up with a key, and she'll get you there. Bessie. It was a name Midwest farmers had often called their oldest milk-bearing cows. Loyal to the end, offering good milk way past her prime. Bessie was the only car I'd ever owned. Sitting in her driver's seat just felt right. We'd been so many places together. How many times had she got me home when I was so drunk I couldn't see the road? How much pussy had I had in her back seat during my unnaturally long college career? She'd always been there for me, and I was going to be there for her. It didn't matter that her paint was peeling off, that her engine didn't have much torque, or that I never knew when she'd give up the ghost. But one thing was certain: she was still humming down the road at 95 without missing a beat. I'd always kept her oil changed and her working parts maintained. Back before The Disease came, my friends, family, and coworkers often criticized me for continuing to drive the old girl. "How can an attorney drive something like that?" "How can you be so cheap?" I always loved to give the same answer: "Bessie may be old and ugly, but she's always given me a ride when I needed it." It was a perfect marriage between man and machine.

And so Bessie carried me to the outskirts of Las Cruces, New Mexico, without a hitch.  But on the outskirts of Las Cruces, New Mexico, I finally put on the brakes and came to a stop. I had to - to avoid running straight into a large mound of dirt piled up over I-10E. It was 1:06 am according to Bessie's console clock. From all directions, shouting men carrying torches and firearms came running my way. My search was over, but did it mean doom or an end to my loneliness?