chalkboard. I glance at Rita, who is licking the fingernails of her right hand now. Her tongue is red. I wonder if it tastes like Revlon or Estée Lauder.
Helen turns back to us and sits down. On the chalkboard, under WHY ARE WE HERE? she's written the words:
FIND YOUR PURPOSE.
“Tom, you said you thought we were here because we're not supposed to be dead,” says Helen.
Tom nods and looks around, his left hand massaging the empty socket where his right arm used to be.
“Would you like to elaborate on that?” she says.
“Sure,” says Tom. “You see, when I became a vegetarian, it wasn't really a conscious choice.”
“That's not surprising,” says Carl.
“Anyway,” says Tom. “I didn't become vegetarian for any causes or for health reasons. I just stopped craving meat. I didn't ask for it. It just felt like a random thing that happened to me, and so I went with it.”
“So what?” says Jerry. His lips have turned purple from the diet grape soda he's drinking. “We're all, like, not dead because we're supposed to stop eating Big Macs?”
“No. My point is that this feels different for me,” says Tom. “I didn't ask for this, either, but I feel like I survived not because of some random thing, but for a specific reason.”
“A purpose,” says Helen.
Tom nods.
I glance around the room. At Carl, picking at the knifewounds on his face. At Tom, with his empty arm socket and half of his face gone. At Rita, licking her fingernails. At Jerry, grinning like an idiot, his cheeks red and his lips purple. At Naomi, her eye socket a dark, ragged hole.
“No one knows for sure why we survived while others have not,” says Helen. “But I agree with Tom. We're all here for a purpose, and each of us needs to find out what that purpose is.”
“If you ask me,” says Jerry, “my purpose is to introduce all of the ladies to a new definition of
stiffy.
“
Jerry is the only one who laughs at his joke, with a snort and a head bob and all of his teeth showing like medals.
The fact that Jerry's the only one laughing apparently amuses Rita, so she starts laughing. Then Tom joins in, followed by Naomi, and pretty soon everyone's laughing and the moment reminds me of a dream I had the other night.
We're all in a limousine, a super stretch job, like one of those Hummer limos. Jerry has a bottle of his beloved Jack Daniel's, which he pours directly onto his exposed brain so he can get drunk faster. Tom keeps removing his right arm and then popping it back into place like a magic trick, while Helen laughs and lifts up the back of her shirt to show off her exit wounds. Naomi is on a cell phone talking to someone and drinking champagne, a tiny, hand-painted Vacancy sign sticking out of her eyebrow above her empty eye socket. Carl is tending a barbecue grill, the smoke drifting up and out through the limo's sunroof. He cuts into a steak, then reinserts the knife into one of the wounds on his face. Rita is sitting directly across from me, no hoods, no turtlenecks, no scarves, just a black evening dress with spaghetti straps and a knee-length hem. Her exposed flesh is alabaster and covered with scars. And they are magnificent.
I didn't know what to make of this dream, but I came awayfrom it with a good feeling, a definite positive vibe. Maybe it was a false hope, but I couldn't deny the atmosphere inside that limousine.
We were all happy.
For the next half an hour, Helen forgos the regular meeting structure and we all talk about what we'd do if we could do anything we wanted without having to worry about what we were or how we looked or what anyone thought. That is, everyone else talks. I write on the chalkboard and make grunting sounds, with an occasional shriek that gets everyone laughing again. Even Carl joins in and manages to contribute constructively. He's still an ass, but he's the kind of ass you'd like to have around because he knows he's being an ass, not because he thinks his behavior is
Helen turns back to us and sits down. On the chalkboard, under WHY ARE WE HERE? she's written the words:
FIND YOUR PURPOSE.
“Tom, you said you thought we were here because we're not supposed to be dead,” says Helen.
Tom nods and looks around, his left hand massaging the empty socket where his right arm used to be.
“Would you like to elaborate on that?” she says.
“Sure,” says Tom. “You see, when I became a vegetarian, it wasn't really a conscious choice.”
“That's not surprising,” says Carl.
“Anyway,” says Tom. “I didn't become vegetarian for any causes or for health reasons. I just stopped craving meat. I didn't ask for it. It just felt like a random thing that happened to me, and so I went with it.”
“So what?” says Jerry. His lips have turned purple from the diet grape soda he's drinking. “We're all, like, not dead because we're supposed to stop eating Big Macs?”
“No. My point is that this feels different for me,” says Tom. “I didn't ask for this, either, but I feel like I survived not because of some random thing, but for a specific reason.”
“A purpose,” says Helen.
Tom nods.
I glance around the room. At Carl, picking at the knifewounds on his face. At Tom, with his empty arm socket and half of his face gone. At Rita, licking her fingernails. At Jerry, grinning like an idiot, his cheeks red and his lips purple. At Naomi, her eye socket a dark, ragged hole.
“No one knows for sure why we survived while others have not,” says Helen. “But I agree with Tom. We're all here for a purpose, and each of us needs to find out what that purpose is.”
“If you ask me,” says Jerry, “my purpose is to introduce all of the ladies to a new definition of
stiffy.
“
Jerry is the only one who laughs at his joke, with a snort and a head bob and all of his teeth showing like medals.
The fact that Jerry's the only one laughing apparently amuses Rita, so she starts laughing. Then Tom joins in, followed by Naomi, and pretty soon everyone's laughing and the moment reminds me of a dream I had the other night.
We're all in a limousine, a super stretch job, like one of those Hummer limos. Jerry has a bottle of his beloved Jack Daniel's, which he pours directly onto his exposed brain so he can get drunk faster. Tom keeps removing his right arm and then popping it back into place like a magic trick, while Helen laughs and lifts up the back of her shirt to show off her exit wounds. Naomi is on a cell phone talking to someone and drinking champagne, a tiny, hand-painted Vacancy sign sticking out of her eyebrow above her empty eye socket. Carl is tending a barbecue grill, the smoke drifting up and out through the limo's sunroof. He cuts into a steak, then reinserts the knife into one of the wounds on his face. Rita is sitting directly across from me, no hoods, no turtlenecks, no scarves, just a black evening dress with spaghetti straps and a knee-length hem. Her exposed flesh is alabaster and covered with scars. And they are magnificent.
I didn't know what to make of this dream, but I came awayfrom it with a good feeling, a definite positive vibe. Maybe it was a false hope, but I couldn't deny the atmosphere inside that limousine.
We were all happy.
For the next half an hour, Helen forgos the regular meeting structure and we all talk about what we'd do if we could do anything we wanted without having to worry about what we were or how we looked or what anyone thought. That is, everyone else talks. I write on the chalkboard and make grunting sounds, with an occasional shriek that gets everyone laughing again. Even Carl joins in and manages to contribute constructively. He's still an ass, but he's the kind of ass you'd like to have around because he knows he's being an ass, not because he thinks his behavior is
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