Thin Yellow Line
_________________________________________________
–
Introduction
(In the novel, each chapter
begins with a section taken from one of the many writings tucked inside a trunk
that doubles as Kerry’s coffee table. The passage below is one of the
last stories entered into Kerry’s black notebook.)
It was Tuesday night and I was home
alone. It was too cold outside and too
warm inside. Charlie Parker was playing
the saxophone and I was playing with the various forms of hair I could find on
my body. I had dreadlocked the hair on
my toes, a few patches on my legs, and my big pubic mop, and had begun focusing
on my nipple hairs. They stood coiled
black, and obscenely proud, strewn across the death pale backdrop of my Irish
potato skin. It was an embarrassing
scene. I felt like reaching for a shirt
though nobody was inside my apartment, and I thought about my days of
cigarettes, and watching clocks, and T.V., and masturbating to early morning
workout shows, and how I ever even managed to hold back conversations with
people, and how sad it all really was.
And then I lit my nipple hair on fire.
I started on the right side lighting individually at the ends, watching
them flam and fizzle out in an orderly fashion.
I was brushing the ash into my belly button, and everything was going
fine until about midway through the left nipple when one hair got rebellious
and decided to spread across the remaining forest. That mother-fucker took a good chunk of my
nipple (long pause) which made me fall backwards, hitting my head on the table
behind me, which knocked me out and caused a loud sound which made my landlady
call the police, who called the paramedics who, upon finding me on the floor,
brought me here to this hospital, with doctors and nurses that proceeded to
laugh uncontrollably, while calling every psychiatrist in the city down to see
me.
-
Kerry Ryan Magann
–
Chapter One
A
pounding fist, followed by the sound of metal thrusting, jabbing, inserting and
twisting the diminutive tear that unbolts the door incites me; demanding my
full attention. In a frantic, shameful
stance I challenge her; thrusting myself against the barricade that shrouds the
self-destructed wreckage seething here, just outside her reach. “Don’t
come in,” I shout, “There’s nothing
for you here. You cannot help me
anymore!”
She stands alone; a desperate, blindly determined mother. Her mind does not record my screams, and yet
impulsively senses the urgency; as she aims her pitch at the horrific
devastation that lies behind this door.
Leave now, turn, walk, run back; everybody go back, back to a place
where life was livable, breathable, back to a time when I was tolerant of my
inner ache. A lifetime of living and all
is changed in one swift, thoughtless act.
Surely this can be revised. It
was too explosive, too compulsive to count.
I do not know much at this stage but I know I cannot stop her. It’s not just my lack of physical power, her
sheer determination overpowers me. If I
could somehow will the key to break she’d find another, and then another. And if there were none, she’d wildly whack
away at any and all resistance, forcefully creating a sizeable gap for her to
enter. But she has no idea what is on
the other side. It is unimaginable to
her. I am the last remaining obstacle
keeping her from the pain of this tumultuous, distorted world.
Who could have guessed it would have turned out this way, certainly not
me; death by my own hand at the age of twenty-three. Somehow I went from alive to lifeless in one,
fucked up flash.
I never understood what was going on inside of my head. I knew I was insecure. I hated the fact that I was short. What I
lacked in size, I made up for in determination.
But determination only gets you so far.
Things would have been so different if only I’d grown six more
inches. At five feet six, no one took me
seriously. I hated my hair, my stringy
flat hair. I hated my face. It always made me look fat, even when my
extended ribs told me something different.
I never liked being anywhere new or going to parties where there were
people I didn’t know. And I hated being
alone, especially at night. Sometimes I
couldn’t eat. The smell of food repulsed me.
There were times when all I wanted to do was sleep, then wake exhausted
with no ambition or energy to take care of even the simplest task.
But there were good days too, days when I knew I could achieve
anything. It was those days that I would
rewrite my goals, promising to push myself harder than I ever had before. I’d be so charged that I’d spend my nights
writing feverishly, and reading everything from Nietzsche to
Tolstoy. It was hard to get to sleep on
those nights. That’s when smoking
helped. Pot, cigarettes, mushrooms; I
loved to smoke. It must have been some sort
of oral fixation. I was never much of a
drinker; my fathers’ excessive, self destructive alcohol abuse was enough to
turn me away. Oh sure, I knew he loved
me but he loved his booze too. He never
considered how scared I was driving home together from some seedy bar that he
would call a restaurant. I’d stair at
the double yellow line hoping he wouldn’t cross it, praying we’d make it home
in one piece.
I didn’t mind visiting my father in rehab, never felt ashamed or
embarrassed, but I knew nothing would ever make him stop. He never believed he had a problem. His father died when he was two. His best
friend accidentally shot him in the arm.
It was superficial, but both were too drunk to deal with it and so he
bled to death, leaving his wife to raise five boys on her own. No one blamed her when her nervous breakdown
hit. Who could put up with that much bullshit. But my
father never saw the parallels between him and his father, never took an honest
look in the mirror.
I was eight years old when Dad and I set out on a two day drive to
count was three times higher than the legal limit.
Dad spent his vacation behind bars and I spend mine holding my senile
grandmother hostage, double bolted inside our room, too terrified to
leave.
I remember thinking, what if he
crossed that yellow line? We never
made it to the reunion; Dad was too embarrassed to tell them what had
happened. Instead he told them our car
had broken down just outside of
Secretly, I feared I would let them all down. My parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches
and teammates; everyone was counting on me.
They counted on me to excel both academically and athletically. I was multi-gifted, or so they said. I never felt it. Somewhere along the ride the roller coaster
stopped. I dropped out of school,
twisted my lily white-boy hair into dreadlocks and hitched cross country. I began medicating heavily, hoping it would
ease the ache their disappointing thoughts caused me. Years later, when life got too dark to deal
with, I put my tail between my legs and headed home. It was hard coming home knowing I’d
accomplished nothing. I was a far cry
from the screenwriter/entrepreneur I’d set out to be. At twenty-one I was
washed out, but I was not mad. Not
psychotic or delusional, and I would never think of harming anyone, not even
myself. I had moments of hopelessness
just like anyone else, but I never took myself seriously.
Okay, I had some oddities, some eccentricities that set me apart from
the norm. For one, I collected anything
that related to the number 27. New York
Times articles from the 27th of any given month were especially
important to me. Vigilantly, I cataloged
them in a green duffel bag that once belonged to Mary, which I kept on the
backseat of my car. There were more articles
under my bed, inside unlabeled boxes in my basement, and scattered throughout
my attic. I also collected music from
artists whose life ended tragically at the age of 27; Cobain, Morrison, Joplin,
Hendrix. For pure pleasure, I would write poetry that consisted of 27
words.
- Page 1 of the Rosin Erection -
Way down from the gullies goes the ladder
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
From the fallen to the rising rosin erection
9 10
11 12 13
14 15 16
A cool moon laid on
cornflakes,
17 18 19 20
21 22
Caulked blue bottles of gin
23 24 25 26
27
And strong goes the way of their vagabond
bellies
1 2 3 4
5 6 7 8 9
Hungered, driving weightless and mad
10 11 12 13 14
Over cotton streets in dreams like children
hunting morphine,
15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23
The blur that binds
24
25 26 27
-
Page 2
-
You remember the blur, the way it hung from
the grass in little beads
1 2 3 4 5 6
7 8 9 10
11 12 13
14
And the sound it made when you rubbed its
juice on your lips
15 16
17 18 19 20 21 22 23
24 25 26
27
In the morning it seemed to shine on the sun
drops
1 2
3 4 5 6 7 8
9 10 11
Coming out through her pink breasts, strung
out on
12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19
20
A gypsy web of dawn’s soft slaughtering
21 22 23
24 25 26 27
I met Mary on the 27th, my high school baseball uniform
number was 27, it was May 27th when I ended
my life.
Shortly after returning home, I decided to take an active roll in the
family businesses. I would breathe new,
untarnished air into it. God knows my
mother couldn’t handle it on her own.
Grandpa’s health had deteriorated considerably since I left. He was now
more of a hindrance then a help. I’d
turn this business around, that’s for sure.
That was my plan.
For the first time in my life, I was productive. By the end of my first year the company went
from red to green, showing an $81,000 profit.
Now that’s what I call kicking ass!
I was expecting one third of that as my bonus ($27,000) and I knew just
what I was going to do with it. First,
Mary and I would take a well deserved two week vacation to
Mercedes CLK AMG (Kerry) $65k
Land Rover Discovery (Mary) $45k
Cartier custom diamond ring (Mary) $48k
Town House – 1 year $50k
Furnishings for Townhouse $40k
This would be the beginning of
better days; a rich, successful life.
Mary and I would marry and everything would be as I had planned. Once we’re official, and the moneys rolling
in, we would expand on our family; give
Had I known I was capable of taking my life, I would have had myself
committed. I knew I had an explosive
temper. A rage would build inside of me;
sometimes lasting for hours or even days, and then it would implode. I’d run,
drive away, verbally ripping myself apart.
Then I’d get stoned. It was then
that things made sense.
I’d write everything out in my journals. Not about the incident itself, which was way
too fucking depressing, but skewed fables of folk’s twisted debaucheries. I have hundreds of these dysfunctional,
grossly disturbing, half-finished stories stored in the trunk that was meant to
accompany me to college, had I managed to fill out my paperwork and followed
through as I had intended. Now this
trunk doubles as my living room coffee table.
I used this very same table the
night I ingested the pills that ended my life. I
laid them all out, took my pocket knife and crushed them, mixed them in my half
gallon plastic ice tea container, and chugged away. No one questioned me when I bought the
sleeping pills, no one wondered why a twenty-three year old, seemingly normal
guy, would want to purchase three packs of Nyquil. I even called out to the overweight, acne
ridden cashier, “keep the change” as
I turned and slowly walked out the door.
Driving away I focused on my rearview mirror, thinking for sure someone
would follow me. Acne girl would call the
cops and they’d come roaring up behind me, pull me over and question me on the
purpose of possessing ninety sleeping pills.
They would know I was up to no good.
If only someone could have stopped me.
I know my mother will blame herself.
She will remember the last words she said to me, “Get your act together,” convinced it was the diminutive straw that
broke my spirit. Her clouded, perfect
image of me distorts the truth of my pain; but I too played a major part in
this ruse. I’ve always known what to say
to make her, and everyone else, to convince them I was genuinely happy. I use to think it was one of my many so
called ‘gifts’ but the truth is, it was a curse.
She does not remember our deal.
It was always understood that, should she get to a point in her life
where she became a royal pain in the ass, if she somehow lost her mind or her
lust for life; then we would once again go skydiving, only this time I’d make
sure her shoot did not engage. Just as
the Eskimos set their elders on a one way sail, I would put her out of her
misery; help her cross the thin yellow line that sets her free. It’s just like we talked about Ma, only the
roles have changed. Your disappointing eyes launched me from that plane, gave
me the strength to end my life. But you
did not cause my pain.
My Death will hit her harder than anything she could possibly imagine
and I know now, now that I am separated from earthy living, that she had spent
many lifeless days imagining the most horrible outcome of any given circumstance. From her teens to her forty’s, she lives in a
constant state of “what ifs?” Bracing herself for the
worst possible crisis. It was the only
way she knew to survive. None of the
death she has touched in the past will prepare her for what lies ahead The death of her
beloved child.
I understand that she needs to be the one who finds me. She will pass and bare the burden of telling
the world I am gone, that I am dead, cold gray dead. My skin’s lack of luminosity is the first
thing she sees. The first thing that
hits her, haunts her, forever.
Despite all my efforts, my hopelessly inadequate efforts, she has
crossed the threshold. Death darkens
her, forcing her to breathe it in. I am
a gravedigger. Shallowly I dug my
grave.
You came too late. Stretched out
for the entire world to witness is a force much greater than me. A long yellow strip of caution frames the now
overcrowded crime scene, preventing the unauthorized world from getting near;
robbing them of their final glance, their last chance at a kiss, a hug, a
stroke of my hair.
Her raw, devastating screams pound me, puncturing my heart. I too am screaming, but my cry has no
sound. Gasping for air, I am unable to
fill my lungs. A pulsating, balmy glow fills the air, blinding me and I buckle
in the breadth of emptiness.
I remain in a slumbered state for the next few days, recoiled from the
slinging sorrow that unfolds. I can not
bear to watch Mary as she discovers that her life no longer includes me. I have selfishly transformed her into a
mother of a fatherless child. Mary my
love, my faith, I promised to love and protect you all the days of your
life. And my son, my beautiful son, you
will not remember me and yet, you will know there is something missing; a
scruffy late afternoon beard, two masculine arms tossing you in the air,
twirling you like a child’s hand propelled top, spinning out of control. He will look for male guidance in the years
to come and although I know I will always be near, I can not help him, teach him
the difference between good and evil, right or wrong.
I awake to find that Death has not distanced me. There are no long, slippery tunnels to
travel, no fluffy white clouds to ride; and to my relief, I am not forever
damned to some hellacious cavern or fiery pit.
I am here with all of you but I am no longer focused in my physical
self. There is a sense of familiarity
and naturalness in this state; as though I had known Death all along, in my
dreams, but my wakened senses hid it from me.
Death has not transformed me. I
have not sprouted wings or changed species; I see no glowing aura, no halo; and
I am NOT by any stretch of the imagination, spiritually pure or wise. My fears, my distastes, my naïveté
remains. I must continue to stumble and
grow just as I did on earth.
Death has not detained me. No
longer am I bound by my physical body, I come and go as I please. Death is that ‘happy place’ you visited in
life when things become too extreme; a practiced, deliberate, internal trip you
take. Eyes closed you turn your focus
inward, taking deep long breaths and imagine the sight, sound and touch of a
calm soothing moment. It is that
mindful, minds eye, meditative state that I reach only now, it is, for me,
real. All my thoughts and ideas are real;
tangible, transformed images that I experience by way of my will and
desire.
The light is so clean here, its pure iridescence surrounds me,
penetrates me. Everything I see and
touch is bathed and seeded in this light.
It’s delicate, radiant rhythm excites me; forcing me to feel more alive
than I ever had before.
This new world is full of color, some I have never seen and cannot
describe or reference. This starry world
overflows with radiant hues that pop and dance with the wildest
expression. Colors so dazzling that when
touched, tasted or simply adored, compel me to experience profound
emotions. Their shades communicate
truthful qualities and these qualities are expressed perfectly in color. Mother, you would be thrilled to create from
such a superior pallet; your astonished eyes witness to brush strokes bursting
with high spirited freedom. The
opportunities here are endless. I can
see all things from all sides, simultaneously.
Distance no longer reduces objects or makes them appear as though they
are moving at a slower speed. This is a
phenomenon known in Death as parallax.
It is a lot to absorb and I am overwhelmed and mystified by its
freshness, but there is much to learn in death and I have just begun my
journey.
I lay in fresh shade from tall, golden stocks of smooth flowing wheat;
their sway quickened by the afternoon breeze. The sky is a crisp, searing blue
and from a distance I can smell my childhood favorite, butter sweet
cookies. The aroma comforts me and I
allow myself to breath in the simplicity of the moment. Deep, open mouth inhalations bring the flavor
of lightly sprinkled, virgin white sugar to the tip of my salivating
tongue. Clutching my teeth, I am
delighted by the familiar crunch of a thinly rolled Santa shaped cookie; the
edges burnt a velvety, subtle brown.
I awake to my mothers’ desperate call, channeling me from death as she
did from birth. There she sits, my open
urn resting on her lap. Her prayer and
pain is intense, her tears are heavy, spewing from her cheeks into my ash. Without warning, she picks a small gray bone
from my remains, and impulsively puts it inside her mouth. Not only do I see this, but Mark, her
husband, is also witness. With a look
that longs for approval, she swallows hard.
“I need a piece of him inside me,” she cries. He understands, we both understand.
I am grateful to learn that the bond shared between mother and child is
truly eternal. She will tell the world
that I have lived, remind them all of the good I had inside. She will read my stories, my poems, and my
scatterings of notes; out loud. She will
find a way to make them listen. She will
defend me, and continue to remember me, tenderly, all the days of her
life. And for this I have hope.
–
Written by Shannon Kennedy
In
loving memory of her son
Kerry Ryan Magann
“So they will know that you lived”