Wednesday, January 02, 2008
2007. Happy he's not 2008.
He was happy, somehow. The beating he had taken, how could he be happy? When asked, he laughed, then coughed up some blood, thick and dark. "It could be worse," he spat. "How possibly," I demanded. I reminded him of the continuing conflict in Iraq, the deterioration of Afghanistan. Iran, North Korea. China's utter lack of product safety standards, especially when it comes to children's toys. The implosion of Pakistan. Record wildfires in the U.S., continuing over a decade of wildfire records. Record ice melt globally.
He still smiled. Possibly too punch drunk to understand, it didn't seem to phase him. I pressed on.
Kurt Vonnegut. Merv Griffin. Boris Yeltsin. Richard Jeni. Robert Goulet. Evel Knievel. Don Ho. Barbaro. Mr. Wizard. Mr. Fucking. Wizard. 899 American troops. 150,000+ Iraqi civilians.
"You forgot Jerry Falwell," he said. "And Anna Nicole Smith." I shot back, "Is that why you're smiling? Do you think they somehow balance against the wall of brutality heaped upon you in the last 365 days?" He shook more violently now, clinging to these last minutes. "No," he rasped. "That's not why I'm smiling."
"Then why," I pleaded. "How can you have suffered so many blows, so much injury, and not crumble?"
"Easy." He coughed, then leaned in close. "I ducked the O.J. trial. That's on the next poor bastard."
He laughed hard at that, gurgled up blood, bile. And then he expired, passing the days and their burdens on to the next year. He's right, I thought. The poor fucking bastard.
