Tamberlin's Account (12 page)

Jan 4 10:10am

I dreamt I was dead and God asked me, “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

How would you feel if you made a wish that destroyed the human race? What would you do if they came back for revenge?

I just feel sick.

Jan 5 3:04pm

I think people writing their will, their last wishes, their final farewells had felt like this. I don’t want to be like that woman.

Trying to capture whatever matters about me and record what is happening makes me feel like a person who knows they’re dying and needs to get their life down so their grandkids will know how they lived—who they were and in that way, more about who they are.

Am I writing to someone who will turn out to be no one? It makes me feel like I’ve been “Catfished” by God. Why would I have felt such a strong compulsion to write if God knew that these would be the only eyes to ever see it?

Statistically speaking, the number of lives left for God to monitor has dropped exponentially. I may be the only living tenant in His supervision.

Wow. That’s actually a little intimidating. I almost felt like the air pressure changed.

There was definitely a sense of being lost to God before—most of us spend so much time trying to find Him.

And all our little or great moral indiscretions were comparable to the acts of millions of other people. Then a person can tell themselves they’re a better person than they are.

We are not being graded on a curve. And the teachers eyes are on me. Like the only person in detention.

I suddenly have this feeling, in almost absolute certainty, that the NEED to start writing this down is like God taking a paper and pen and saying, “I need a written confession.”

Only
almost
absolutely certain—because I believe that you are out there—or will someday be.

Maybe I’ll try to write a confession. It might be good for me. Even so there are things I’ve felt and done and known that I have to deny that even God knows.

The unspeakable.

The things too ugly for the light of day.

I’ve always been gullible—but now it seems I can talk myself into anything too.

Mr. Ages is
watching
me.

Is he watching me?

I’m probably projecting again—but his eyes look so smart. They look like he knows what I’m feeling and thinking. Even what I’m writing.

I have a sense that I’ve known him for a lot longer than I have.

He looks at me like he knows me. As if he always has.
It reminds me of the way my boyfrie

I’m giving myself goosebumps—I’m just projecting on him whatever way my mind needs to feel less lonely—whatever it needs to keep a firm hold in there—while I am sometimes so afraid my mind is getting lost—I hope I never write to you when I’m like that.

I hallucinate. I sometimes can’t tell what’s dream.

And when my thoughts start going place—looking for people.

I’m freaking myself out for nothing.

I just asked Mr. Ages if he was a dog or if, for authenticity, God would ask an Apocalyptic spy to eat so much shit?

4:16pm

I’ve been thinking that I don’t think I can write a confession. So I’ll just start by listing some regrets.

4:52pm

Just thinking about regrets. Why did I think that would do me any good?

Jan 6 9:01am

I'm wearing out my pictures.

I'm guessing it’s a combination of climate and dirty hands, but they're really beat up.

I'm afraid of losing the faces and the moments.

Is there anyone left to remember?

I feel as if their images keep them around somehow. That they're really just someplace else right now, but if the pictures are gone—it's like they are erased and yet I can't help looking.

Who else will remember their faces?

And I need to remember...

I don't want to think of anybody as winking out like the woman that was eaten by Neighborhood Watch back in Rhinelander.

I dream of dying like she did—not how I've seen anyone else die. It's always like her.

I can hardly remember what her face looked like when it wasn't screaming. I didn't see it that way many times.

There was the first time, when I realized there was someone at that house. She'd thrown out a mixing bowl of what I assumed to be piss.

She reminded me of Joan's sister in
Romancing the Stone
. The hair and build and now outdated clothes were right.

But I can hardly remember her face.

Jan 7 4:13pm

I wanted to find a library, but thank God I won't have to take any chances in a town, not for a book—because I found the book I needed here.

A book about climate and stuff in the US.

I have thought Kentucky, Tennessee, Missouri, maybe Kansas would suit me.

I guess when I find the place I'll know.

I'm deep in the stomach of winter. I'll get a chance to see the climate I fear the most.

It does slow them down, the winter. The cold.

It slows us all down.

Jan 8 9:40am

Am staying another day here. A winter storm came up last night—howling and blowing snow. To be out in it would be suicide.

The wind-chill must be merciless.

I have to kind of laugh at that when I think of winters in Rhinelander—which were better than the winters I knew in northern Michigan, where I lived until I was seventeen.

The wind is making Mr. Ages make the weirdest sounds. The last blast made the whole building rattle and groan.

Mr. Ages made a sound like "Row" or "Whoa".

His mouth looks short and puffy. I don't understand where all the mouth goes when dogs to that. Like how the bones in their face appear to be able to slide into their skulls when they bare their teeth.

I said, "Oh?" back at him and he kinda rolled his head at me while cocking it.

A series of almost verbal sounds followed. He looked like he was pleading his case.

I'm trying to be in a relaxed state of mind because every sound sounds like
something
and I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight.

I suppose it’s just as well, because I haven't been sleeping that good anyhow.

It's always too cold, even with a sleeping bag. And my arms and shoulder aren't healing right. They are definitely infected.

I took three aspirin and was able to put medicine on them. There was about 1/2 a tube of Polysporin in the medicine cabinet, in addition to a lot of things I had no use for—dentures, estrogen, hot oil, those nasty floss sticks and several prescriptions that I didn't understand.

But I did understand one of them.

Valium.

I stared at it for probably a minute and a half.

I didn't mean to, but when I closed the cabinet I did it hard enough that the sound startled me and everything fell over inside.

All those pills represented to me the Out of a quitter.

Who the fuck could waste their life so ungratefully when so many people didn't have any fucking choice what their last hour would be???

Lots of people. If you don’t already know it.
Lots
of fucking people.

Nobody
wants to go through this.

Well, that's probably not true.

Jan 9 5:39am

The weather's not letting up at all.

I just took Mr. Ages out to go. The wind just ripped my breath away.

The snow and wind have scattered dead branches across the yard.

Trees make sounds like firecrackers when they fall. A big old tree in the next yard fell when we were out there. It made my heart jump and Mr. Ages ran to get back inside.

I have a winter coat now and boots. They're a little tight, but they don't let snow in.

I'll live.

I'll live.

I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live. I'll live.

I'll run and hide.

Jan 10 NOON

It sucks outside.

None of the food here is edible.

Even though I have supplies left, I can’t stay. Not unless I'd
gained
supplies.

I don't want to be trapped.

Mr. Ages just trusts all my choices. I wonder if he ever doubts me.

Tomorrow we head out, no matter what.

Jan 16 2:49pm

I woke up to voices. They weren’t just in my head.

Someone said, “I think she’s coming around.”

“Just be ready for anything,” they were saying.

My vision was blurry at first, but my sense of smell was working fine. I smelled campfire—no, it was charcoal. I could hear something sizzling.

I tried to sit up and two large hands closed on my shoulders, both helping me and slowing me down. He smiled hugely and hollered over his shoulder—“Yah, she’s awake.”

He asked if I was hurt. I shook my head. I didn’t think so.

“Think you can eat something?”

I asked for something to drink first.

There were three males and four females of different ages.

There was an improvised clothes line.

A lot of camping gear—some of it I thought was mine. I am sure was.

A young man squatted in front of a little Weber grill. He said, “You can have a beer if you don’t mind it warm.”

Beer?

“Yeah,” I agreed.

It was colder than he gave it credit for, but did nothing for my thirst.

“This might seem quick, but we are mostly on the go, so it might be blunt, but if you feel like it you could probably come with us in the morning,” said the cook. He turned over a hunk of red meat, revealing beautiful grill marks.

“With you?”

The cook forgot the cooking for a second and turned mostly toward me—his eyes were deep and penetrating dark blue. Like a night without stars. Eternally deep—easily drowned in.

“You’re gonna be okay—I promise. You’ll be with us.”

Promise?

“Promise?”

“Yeah—as long as you promise not to hurt anyone.”

“Okay,” I said dumbly—90% of my attention was on the beer.

The guy had let go of my shoulders and went to retie the clothes line higher.

The woman there leaned in—I couldn’t hear her, but her lips asked, “Is she okay?”

The man shrugged, but said, “Sure.”

I heard heat bugs, cicadas whirring. It seemed like it would be warm, but wasn’t. It was cold, in fact.

A woman my age cast me an earnest, reassuring smile.

“What is that?” I asked the cook. I didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth—but I worried that was exactly what it could be.

“Beef,” he said nonchalantly, jabbing his tong at a “somewhere” over his shoulder. “There’s a pasture over there.

“Would you like some coffee?” a lady asked—it was suddenly later.

“Man in the bathroom?” I said absently.

“That’s right,” she laughed. It was contagious. I kinda knew it would be. The group laughed with all the flat emotionlessness of cardboard. I opened my mouth and all the motion and expression of laughing came out without sound.

It was nightfall, I had eaten and felt truly welcome—they talked to me like we were old friends.

It finally registered that it was summer. It was summer again. My watch was dead. I’d lost months! I asked what happened to me, if they knew. They looked confused. The cook answered:

“What happened to all of us.”

That’s when I heard the screams. My heart shot up my throat like vomit and I shook too hard to hold my hammer without dropping it.

They were staring at me.

I
was screaming.

I
was
screaming. I sat up fast and slammed my head into the roof of the truck—I didn’t  realize I’d done that until later when my head hurt and I found the bump.

 I was drenched in a cold sweat. I felt flu-ish and frightened—and threatened. And I was crying and I clamped both hands over my open mouth.

My left hand fell away and I bit hard on the flesh between my thumb and first finger.

They were all people I know are dead.

Jan 17 11:01am

I am in love with the smell of oil that has nurtured the flavor of divine sticks of potato.

I remember stepping outside and that smell hitting me—the "fair food" smell. It goes beyond nostalgic.

Food for the gods—I definitely associate it with a multifaceted desire of my childhood. Less than once a year I would get to have something from one of those glass-faced food castles. I felt like everyone I knew went there every week.

It lost a lot of the mysticism when I grew up and learned some people went more and some people never knew the inside of
any
fast food place.

I was a prisoner of the word "normal"—which never means the same thing twice.

The diner's dingy. I'm sitting on the reddish orange tile behind the counter. I'm in my sleeping bag.

It's never zipped up.

We’re not taking stupid chances.

I got a sweater on Mr. Ages from the last place we stayed and I got a long john shirt on him for pants. I'll spare the description of how I mutilated it to make it work in that capacity, but trust me, it does. It doesn't seem to bother him too much.

I found a car with almost a full tank of gas, but I couldn't get it to turn over.

"Fuck you" didn't cover that one.

I feel, now, that I've been cold all my life. I looked forward to the heated car—and making some time.

I feel like my time wasted and miles lost are like the National Debt.

So tonight I'm thinking through movies I wish I could watch for real.

I have some videos on my iPod, but I can't use earbuds in this environment and I don't want to run down my battery.

Yesterday, I was thinking of men—first celebrities, then people I thought were
so hot
when I was growing up, then people who I regularly saw in the life I had.

One was this guy who was a fireman or EMT or something, by the uniform he sometimes wore. He struck me as polite, at first. The longer I knew him as nice, the more handsome he became.

I saw him at work pretty regularly—but he'd only been there twice and he bothered to remember my name. When you're used to indifference or rudeness that means a lot.