it's: final feet
by: bj
in sum: you forgot to tell me how.
label: pembleton. post-ep.
rating: g.
sissies: "subway."
legalities: don't own, don't sue.
i say: as yet untitled. title/summary by cowboy junkies. we the few and the brave.
archive: ask and it (probably) shall be given.
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.
Final Feet
"You okay?" he asks. It's cursory, routine. If the answer were different than what he expected, he would care. Otherwise, he's not even listening.
"Yeah," you say.
You want to relate death to him, make him a part of it. You think he's probably the only person who would appreciate the magnitude of what you have seen today. All you have are recycled words and he can't see how much pain you're in.
Once in motion, he tells you the story of Larry Biedron, reveals a flawed irony of falling through cracks and between subway cars. You nod, saying with typical bitterness, "That's a good one." He's dead, and Tim can be literary about it.
He smiles, looks out the window. The car passes a clump of people waiting to cross a street, a young woman in blue jogging around them and through traffic.
After two red lights and silence: "The doctors told him he wouldn't ever be right."
You think about how if they'd told Lang he was dying he maybe would have been better off than figuring it out for himself and confronting them with lies, maybe he'd have gone with some trust in the world instead of just feeling okay. Free of cynicism. Humanity redeemed. No donut jokes.
Tim keeps talking. He always vocalises his process; he has a need to share. "And they let him out anyway. They knew he couldn't be cured, that he was dangerous. They knew it because he'd tried to push somebody under a subway car. They knew they hadn't cured him of doing that. And they let him out."
The conclusion he is building is not news to you. You've been there, and you nod, listening but not really involved. He'd probably be talking if he was driving and there was no one else in the car. You wonder why you've never told him to shut up.
"So really, it's their responsibility." He pauses, looks to you, you meet his eyes in confirmation and then go back to the road. You're with him. "They declared him not competent, not responsible. So who's responsible now that somebody's dead?" Another pause. It's more for drama than anything. "They are, Frank," he tells you, as if you hadn't figured it out already. "They are."
And you'd like to see him prove it in court. You bare your teeth, sort of like a smile, and shake your head. He didn't even know his name at the end. You wonder who he thought he was. If he thought he was new.
You pull into the parking lot and turn the car off. Tim has his seatbelt done with and the door open before he looks at you. All you can see is Lang's face between his last words and the crowd of uniforms swarming his body. The change, eyes closing. Radiance, laxity. Your fingers, knuckles, slight construction of the body, on the steering wheel.
"Frank?"
Your focus is through the odometer and his hand is on your shoulder.
He's so close to panic these days. You feel him getting cold, shutting off, shutting out, but he's so close to panic. It's mostly in his voice, and mostly when he calls people by their names.
Lang's hand, breathing with him, you knew how to do that, but birth is not the same as death. You couldn't cry. You can't.
You know Tim's going to call you again, so you shake him off. You get out of the car.
He sits there, twisted a little bit, staring at you out the door. Without being asked, you say, "I'm okay." Your jacket off the back seat, slammed doors.
Slowly he gets out and his door makes very little sound as he closes it. "You're okay," he accuses.
Walking away. You throw over your shoulder, "Yeah. I'm. Okay."
End.
by: bj
in sum: you forgot to tell me how.
label: pembleton. post-ep.
rating: g.
sissies: "subway."
legalities: don't own, don't sue.
i say: as yet untitled. title/summary by cowboy junkies. we the few and the brave.
archive: ask and it (probably) shall be given.
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.
Final Feet
"You okay?" he asks. It's cursory, routine. If the answer were different than what he expected, he would care. Otherwise, he's not even listening.
"Yeah," you say.
You want to relate death to him, make him a part of it. You think he's probably the only person who would appreciate the magnitude of what you have seen today. All you have are recycled words and he can't see how much pain you're in.
Once in motion, he tells you the story of Larry Biedron, reveals a flawed irony of falling through cracks and between subway cars. You nod, saying with typical bitterness, "That's a good one." He's dead, and Tim can be literary about it.
He smiles, looks out the window. The car passes a clump of people waiting to cross a street, a young woman in blue jogging around them and through traffic.
After two red lights and silence: "The doctors told him he wouldn't ever be right."
You think about how if they'd told Lang he was dying he maybe would have been better off than figuring it out for himself and confronting them with lies, maybe he'd have gone with some trust in the world instead of just feeling okay. Free of cynicism. Humanity redeemed. No donut jokes.
Tim keeps talking. He always vocalises his process; he has a need to share. "And they let him out anyway. They knew he couldn't be cured, that he was dangerous. They knew it because he'd tried to push somebody under a subway car. They knew they hadn't cured him of doing that. And they let him out."
The conclusion he is building is not news to you. You've been there, and you nod, listening but not really involved. He'd probably be talking if he was driving and there was no one else in the car. You wonder why you've never told him to shut up.
"So really, it's their responsibility." He pauses, looks to you, you meet his eyes in confirmation and then go back to the road. You're with him. "They declared him not competent, not responsible. So who's responsible now that somebody's dead?" Another pause. It's more for drama than anything. "They are, Frank," he tells you, as if you hadn't figured it out already. "They are."
And you'd like to see him prove it in court. You bare your teeth, sort of like a smile, and shake your head. He didn't even know his name at the end. You wonder who he thought he was. If he thought he was new.
You pull into the parking lot and turn the car off. Tim has his seatbelt done with and the door open before he looks at you. All you can see is Lang's face between his last words and the crowd of uniforms swarming his body. The change, eyes closing. Radiance, laxity. Your fingers, knuckles, slight construction of the body, on the steering wheel.
"Frank?"
Your focus is through the odometer and his hand is on your shoulder.
He's so close to panic these days. You feel him getting cold, shutting off, shutting out, but he's so close to panic. It's mostly in his voice, and mostly when he calls people by their names.
Lang's hand, breathing with him, you knew how to do that, but birth is not the same as death. You couldn't cry. You can't.
You know Tim's going to call you again, so you shake him off. You get out of the car.
He sits there, twisted a little bit, staring at you out the door. Without being asked, you say, "I'm okay." Your jacket off the back seat, slammed doors.
Slowly he gets out and his door makes very little sound as he closes it. "You're okay," he accuses.
Walking away. You throw over your shoulder, "Yeah. I'm. Okay."
End.