now archive signers to the guestbook get personalized 8 X 10s leave me notes, i mean it. stealth d sk8b0 ¤ the §ë¢®Ë†

^ (n a v i g a t e) ^

� today life has become a bit more liveable �


8:57 p.m., 2001-04-16

he looked fine. he could have been walking to work or to the store for some deviled ham or pearl onions. the only reason a note was taken was because this street was a dead end. a terminal grove of trees, no outlet into humanity.

no light at the end of the tunnel.

the irony is that this is not figurative language. i�ve climbed the ladder, opened the can of paint, dipped in the brush, began applying the new-ish looking latex mask to the weathering exterior. here I am, at work. building, altering, destroying or fixing houses.

here i am.

people don't walk down this street. i know. i've been working here a for week painting this house.

today i am alone.

and he looks fine, like he might be looking for his dog who ran off. that would explain the length of rope in his hand.

frayed ends.

not exactly a dead giveaway, but a good indication.

his walking is calm, methodical. i barely glance.

he reaches the grove of trees and looks up.

partly cloudy in the early-afternoon, about 65 degrees. this is about the time that, although he never glanced my way, i notice the pleading in his eyes as he gazes upwards. no squinting, very slow blinking.

i look away.

less than a minute passes.

i look back.

his calves and feet are all i see gently swinging from underneath a low-slung branch.

his toes nearly brush the ground.

i cover the hundred or so yards between us and as i reach him and wrap my arms around his legs in hopes of i'm not sure what. i notice that his arms, as far as i can tell, never went up to clutch at his constricted neck to loosen the prickly, frayed collar.

i mumble something resembling "breathe," although i'm not sure if i'm talking to him or myself.

while falling/climbing from the staging, i knocked over the extension ladder and drew the attention of the homeowner, the elderly mrs. yardumian, who comes plodding down to see what is the matter, and i tell her to call 911 and get a knife with which to cut this gentleman down. she does and he drapes over my shoulder and to the ground. a clammy, lifelessness hangs around the grove of trees. my heart races, which compels me to feel his. for some reason, i feel a sporadic and dull thud under my fingers on his neck. i will not perform a tracheotomy. a small slit between the adams apple and cricoid cartilage and a tube inserted into the blocked airway.

he is not breathing.

at this point, neither am i.

his skin gains in pallor by the moment, as does mine.

CPR.

his cheeks puff out, but his chest does not.

mercifully, at this point, the firemayorpolicegarbagemenpriestneighborsambulance arrive and take over.

slit his throat, breathe for him.

i don't know if he's alive. when they asked who cut him down, i was slinking away. i waited for the street to clear of the authorities... and i went home.

i don't want to know if he lived. he served his purpose for me.

and yes, this really happened.


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