I’m only halfway through all the Denis Johnson, I’m done with Seek and the Veil, leaving two to go, breaking to read Edward Wood’s Worshipping the Myths of World War II. It would be easy to dismiss his ideas if his impressive range of knowledge and research – not to mention his personal experiences – didn’t give him more credibility than anyone else I’ve read on the subject.
My first bike ride since high school happens like this: Sam and I are smoking outside the LoDo store, which I just closed. And he’s saying can’t I just take the bus and meet him at the bar? He doesn’t want to walk, he wants to ride. And I’m giving in, and some kid says, hey, do you want this bike? It’s been here for like 3 days. No lock, no rear brake, no helmet, no back reflector. A little too much slack on the chain when I downshift.
I’d forgotten how good it feels.
So there’s this book by Yann Martel. Four of his early stories. Named for the first one, The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios. It’s about a 19-year-old boy, in the mid-80s, dying of the random AIDS he got from a Mexican blood transfusion. From the point of view of his college friend, who visits in the hospital and they make up stories to pass the time. And the friend holds it together pretty well while the kid’s getting worse and worse, until one day he comes to visit and the kid’s gone blind. And the friend, whose life is not ending, loses it.
And later I almost say it. If I were you I’d leave him to rot. I have every right and no right. Instead, we tell each other stories, to pass the time until forever.
