Full Immersion

By:

 Michael S. Pugh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d”

-Alexander Pope

 

 

 

“Blessed are the forgetful for they get the better even of their blunders.”

–Friedrich Nietzsche

 

 

 

            The rain fell strong and cool. Every drop rolled down the valleys of my face caressing it rather softly despite the thunderous sound of the rain striking the top of the aluminum siding propped against our building. Months ago my brother and I fashioned a small lean-to when an unexpected storm rolled over us during one of our typical evening activities. Any that saw us assumed we were trying to keep dry. We were just worried about our cigarettes going out. Eventually we moved a couple chairs in there, a small cooler for beers, and a radio. It became our little sanctuary.

            “Hey Don. Pass me a light.”

            “I ain’t got any more Rick, you smoked ‘em all last night. You know that. And don’t call me Don. It’s Donovan.”

            “Well isn’t that perfect Don. So first you show up half an hour late than usual, have us picking a fight with those skinheads from the school across town, and now you tell me we don’t even have any cigarettes. You know I can’t fight unless I’ve had a good smoke.”

            “Sorry, man. You know I can’t fight unless you shut up.”

            “Why’d you pick a fight with those fascist morons in the first place?”

            “I told you to shut up Rick. And it was because they were threatening that Jewish kid who lives a street down from me. Said they were gonna burn his house and rape his mom or something like that.”

            “Burn his house and rape his mom? It’s sounding to me like you just wanted to pick a fight. They’re a bunch of fascist morons but they ain’t stupid enough to make threats like that.”

            “Hey Rick?”

            “Yeah Don?”

            “Shut up, they’re here.”

A four door pickup rolled into the lot not 50 yards from us. Jet black. At first glance I counted about four or five in the truck but then they made a sharp turn into the lot revealing three more in the bed of the pickup. One in the back held a large American flag where fifty stars had been aborted in exchange for a singular swastika.  Eight Nazis fighting two Anarchists. God help them.

I stepped out from under the lean-to and felt the full weight of the rain on me. It hit my Mohawk first and then I felt that gentle caress once more. It was cold, but strangely reassuring. I took a moment to look up at the sky. A million bits of water fell and hit my face. My heartbeat began to quicken from the exhilaration of the coming violence. I slowly raised my hands to the sky. I felt infinite.

“Put your hands down you Jew-loving, Catholic, Punk. What are you praying? You know there ain’t a single God that’s gonna listen to an Anarchist? God hates Anarchists. God hates Anarchists as much as he loves the white protestant.” The painfully obvious leader stepped off the back of the truck. His head mathematically shaved to a fine point, his skin exposed to show the large swastika imprinted on his chest. I hated him. I hated him more than I hated anyone. I hated the way he walked, the way he thought, the way he spoke, the way his blue eyes and his stubble blond hair reflected the moonlight, I hated his genetically superior blood, I hated him.

“Save it for your propaganda posters little Adolf.” Rick swaggered up behind me slipping a knife into my back pocket and putting a ring in my hand.

“Let’s get this over with.” I spoke softly. I wanted to hurt them so much. I wanted it more than I had ever wanted anything before in my life. I wanted to watch them bleed and cry as their blood would soak into the ground, mixing with the rain. What a fantastic way to settle a political debate.

 I slid the ring on my finger, my heart exploding, my ears rang, my breath thickened, the rain fell, and I clenched my fists. Geronimo.

 

I awake.

A thin, middle aged man stands over me. He informs me that I have been in an accident. He asks me my name. I do not answer. I cannot answer. Such a simple thing, a name, yet the concept escapes me.

I am suddenly terrified. How did I get in this room? Where am I?

“Son, I asked for your name.”

“I-I can’t…I can’t…”

I rip the IV out of my arm. It burns incessantly but I can’t find the mental energy to care. I am searching for something. Another woman standing in this room tries to stop me but I stumble into an adjacent bathroom and stare. I look into the mirror and that is all I see.

A mirror.

A reflection.

 “Son, you’re name? It’s for the records.”

I begin to cry. The tears streak down my face, caressing it rather softly despite the thunderous sound of the medical staff around me. Had it been raining? My stomach spills onto the floor. I slowly turn my head toward this man who I devise must be some kind of doctor.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I don’t have the foggiest idea what it is.”

The man releases a deep breath, “We were afraid this might happen. Our records indicate that you are one Donovan Hammond. You received severe brain trauma, most likely the result of some kind of attack. Can you tell me anything at all about what happened to you?”

I hesitated, “It was raining.”

“I’m just going to ask you a few questions. Feel free not to respond if you are unable or uncomfortable.”

“What is your mother’s name?”

“Mary? Maria? Margret? I don’t know.”
            “Okay. Next question.”

“Why’d you pick a fight with those fascist morons in the first place?”

“What did you say?” I stuttered.

“Date of birth? Mr. Hammond, can you remember anything?”

“Rick. My brother. Where is my brother?”

“I am sorry. Your brother is dead. He received a gunshot wound to the head. We found his body in the back of a pickup truck. The boys who did it have been caught and…”

Everything is black again.

 

I am here. My head emptied and my mind spotless. Sleep is somehow even more fleeting than the past. The doctor’s say the level of trauma I received makes it impossible to regain whatever memories, whatever life, I possessed. I lie awake listening to the music playing gently over the radio.

Louis Theodore Gouvy’s “Symphony No.4 in D minor.”

Such a wonderful piece. I cannot find the words to ask why I can remember the beauties of Louis’s music while the beauties of my old life escape me like pouring sand into a sieve. Perhaps I had no beauties in my old life. Perhaps there are no beauties except the ones we create in music, poetry, the written word. My eyes turn to the first book I have read since I was born again. The Catcher in the Rye.

 I am not so sure that I want my memories returned to me.

Perhaps this is a new chance. Who I was in the previous life has no more effect on who I am now. A whole new world of possibilities. There were no beauties in my old life. Yes, I am sure of that now. I have difficulty standing up from my bed, so Salinger gives me his hand. I take it gladly and humbly.

I make my way up the stairs, each step reaffirming what I already now lies ahead of me. The pain in my head is unbearable, yet I manage to bear it nonetheless. I open the door to the roof.

 

            The rain fell strong and cool. Every drop rolled down the valleys of my face caressing it rather softly despite the thunderous sound of my heart beating. It was cold but strangely reassuring. A million bits of water fall and hit my face. My heartbeat began to quicken from the exhilaration of whatever is coming.  I raise my hands to the sky.

            I am infinite.

 

 

“Man's main task in life is to give birth to himself, to become what he potentially is. The most important product of his effort is his own personality”

-Erich Fromm