UNDERGROUND VOICES MAGAZINE/ALAN GIRLING


	UNDERGROUND VOICES: FICTION

ALAN GIRLING

Exhibit A: Willard Sherman's Journal

--Sunday, April 10, 5:00 p.m.

   Twos. Bodies, our selves, come largely in twos: two eyes, two ears, two arms, even

teeth -- molars two, incisors two. Also breasts, testicles, lungs, kidneys, the brain with

its hemispheres. And legs. They're all natural unions, one half depending on the other,

designed never to part, never to burden, or betray, the other.

   Still I walk with my two legs, one folded neatly beneath me now as I write, going

numb. But the numbness will be gone soon enough, replaced by a new sensation. I’m

sorry, Maureen, to have to do this. I was always faithful in deed if not in mind, but now

you have passed and it’s time. My flesh, I’m afraid, in its weakness, is stronger than

your memory.

   My flesh. Research tells me that my flesh, that is, my predilection -- I hesitate to say

affliction -- is unique. I’m one of a hundred in this world. That’s why it’s important to

get everything down. Maureen won’t know. But it’ll take some forgetting to make

sure.

   That’s it for now, step by step. The real story begins tomorrow when I make the

call.

--Monday, April 11, 8:15 p.m.

   Forty years I cut trees for the city, clearing power lines, avenues. Drove a regular

route with a crane and wood chipper. We cut everything -- hedges, firs, oaks -- in parks

and on the tree-lined streets. The long limbs of those strong trees, so lithe and leafy,

taunted me until I lowered my saw into the bark, the juicy pulp beneath, lopping them

clean at the trunk. My contribution to the cityscape, this liberating of Nature's excess. I

sigh now as I think what a source of relief my work was, how it scratched the itch that

otherwise would have driven me mad. It's doubtful my colleagues ever got the same

thrill. For them, no doubt, it was magazines under the mattress, cabarets after work. Or

a woman in town. A wife would never understand.

   More than a decade I've been retired and pretty much coping, the itch ever-present.

Then last year, Maureen died. She’d had one breast removed, but the cancer returned.

At night, resting my head on the fold of skin where her breast had once been, I never

felt closer to anyone. Her heart pumping, the warm scent of peaches and cream, one

breast remaining, right there, milky-full and giving, even as she aged. Exquisite. Yet

my desire was less to devour it than to become one with the other, the phantom, to

become and replace what she had so painfully lost. She did not deserve the betrayal

wrought by her own flesh, had kept herself for the sake of the children we never had,

had remained faithful to them well beyond her prime. The phantom stays with me,

punishing me. As I punish it.

   Oh yes, she did know about my low sperm count, how a testicle hadn't dropped when

I was a child the way it was supposed to. Not having a child might seem an enormous

regret to some, but for us it wasn’t, or not too much. We did try right from our

honeymoon, enjoying each other night and day in that white-walled, airy room at the

Banff Springs high in the Rockies, bringing in room service, nothing but fruit and dairy --

I gobbled it and her endlessly. Eventually, years gone, it began to feel strangely

appropriate, even right, to be missing something in life. Like if God had given us

everything, our lives would be over.

   I made the call before lunch, to the good doctor, a Dr. Benedict Clement. He took

some years to find. Not dedicated searching, though -- I didn't know if I'd ever really

need him, like if I’d gone before Maureen. At first, all I found was a web-site

describing people like me, and an article in that Hustler magazine. The article’s aim, it

seemed, was to show what freaks some rare souls could be. One reputable medical site,

however, quoted it in full. Eventually, I found a fellow traveler by the name of Lester

Morgan. He even has his own web-site where he tells his story. He's frank about our

predilection, and even refers a physician who is willing to perform the operation. That's

the good doctor. I guess I shouldn’t call him a doctor since he lost his license years ago.

It's fine with me; in fact, it qualifies him for the job.

    On the phone, Dr. Clement quizzed me about how I got his name and how he could

find Mr. Morgan's web-site. He asked some questions to confirm my commitment. We

set up a meeting for Thursday, so I’ll have to get tickets for San Diego today. I can

hardly wait.

--Tuesday, April 12, 9:00 p.m.

   I e-mailed Lester, who was gratified to hear from me. He wrote about his life-long

desire. His every word found a twin in my heart. Like me, he did not ask why. It’s not

a question one can answer. To most, the act is outrageous, beyond incomprehensible.

Just barely do we make it onto the spectrum of human desire. And who is able to

explain anything there, I ask? The only difference between us is he did not have a wife.

He couldn’t, he said. It wouldn’t have been fair to her. To not share is to betray. A

man of integrity. Unlike me, and almost everyone I've ever known.

   He did say he'd contacted Dr. Clement, had arranged an appointment. Still, as the

day got closer, he began to think if he got what he so much wanted, he'd miss the daily

feeling of deprivation in his life. I understood this only too well, this mysterious tug

and stretch between fulfillment and loss, and the fulfillment of loss. For me, I guess

losing Maureen would give me my fulfillment. I'm sorry, Maureen.

    It was clear Lester's decision not to go through with it had nothing to do with the

doctor, whom he'd never met. He kindly gave me his number in New York and wished

me luck. I appreciate his support.

--Thursday, April 14, 11:00 p.m.

   We met in a Mexican restaurant south of San Diego. The good doctor said I'd better

get used to the food because that's where we'd be doing it -- across the border.

It was night, the street deserted. I pulled up in my rental to a place stuck between a

car dealership and a funeral home. Beside the dusty glass door stood a plastic cactus

with graffiti scrawled all over it and a jagged edge where a branch had broken off.

Inside, the lights were low, the stale heat of the day lingering. It was empty like the

street. My doctor sat at the back, a drink on his table. He waved me over.

    As I approached, my body trembled from nerves, as though I was meeting an idol

from the past, Sinatra himself, or Betty Grable -- oh, how I worshipped Betty, those

lovely legs. Maureen didn't know this either, didn't need to, her own pair being just as

lovely her whole life. Ageless Maureen, excised by God and Time.

   A heavy fellow, his face pink with a sweaty sheen, a swollen nose pocked like lava

rock, hair combed over in silvery strands. A black tie, tightly knotted, draped over his

white-shirted belly. He extended a hand, crushing his stomach into the edge of the

table, then fell back in his chair with a wheeze. Here's part of our conversation as I

remember it:

   --When can it happen?

   --Tomorrow, the next day. Soon as we get to Tijuana. You want a nice place, no?

   --Pleasant is enough, clean good. I guess you have equipment.

   --I've done this before, remember.

   --I did have some correspondence with your . . . other prospective client. He--

   --You mean Morgan. Yes, well, you understand how my service works, don't you?

   --Your fee? Of course. I've got the cash with me. Can I give you part now?

   --I'm sorry, but I must insist on the whole ten thousand. If you don't mind, Mr.

Sherman.

   --No, of course not. I understand.

   --It's a matter of trust, and you can certainly trust me.

   --I do, Dr. Clement. Now where can you recommend? Let's make a reservation

right away.

   Naturally, I paid the good doctor. My whole being tells me it's going to be well

worth it. I am positively giddy.

--Friday, April 15, 9:00 p.m.

   I arrived at the El Cid on the outskirts of Tijuana about one this afternoon. The room

is adequate, clean enough, and American style. As soon as I crossed the border, I found

getting gas, eating lunch, checking in -- all had their challenges. I wonder if Customs

will notice anything different about me when I go back. Nothing to declare, officer,

except what I've left behind.

   My reservation is for five days. Long enough to allow healing, the doctor says.

There's been no sign of him yet.

   I've been lying on the bed imagining -- as I've done so many times before -- but now

it's much more intense. The room is garish: pale purple walls, darker shag carpeting, a

dogs-playing-poker painting, a threadbare desert scene for curtains. No air conditioner.

I can almost see in the cracked paint, the curtain weave, the dried sweat of the hundreds

of pairs of illicit lovers who have made use of this room. Am I any different?

    I stretch out on the bed until I detect a tingling from every extremity: each arm, each

finger-tip, each leg, each toe. I bring my left foot up, tuck it snugly beneath my left

thigh. I wait, and all feeling leaves my foot and leg, right to my knee-joint. Then, the

amazing, explosive sensation -- I reach, grip myself and I'm rapidly lifted up and

beyond my body -- it falls away, one limb at a time, left leg first, the right follows, up

through to each arm, my neck, head . . . all gone. And my sweat has soaked the bed-

covers.

   Suffice it to say, inhabiting such a lurid motel in this lawless land, together with the

anticipation of tomorrow's liberation, the final achievement of who I am -- well, it's

hard to imagine a more ecstatic feeling of physical and mental release than what I've

just felt.

   Off to sleep now. Dr. Clement will be here in the morning. I'm sure.

--Saturday, April 16, 10:45 a.m.

   Now is the only time to get an entry in, perhaps for some time. Dr. Clement knocked

about ten-fifteen. He looked more relaxed, as though at home, a loose, bright Mexican

shirt, his face dry and normal in complexion. He carried his black bag and some larger

items under his arm. He was sorry he couldn't join me yesterday, an important business

matter had come up. The Mexican anesthesiologist had changed his mind, he said.

Looking around the room, he chuckled, then nodded as if in approval. He asked about

neighbours, a good lock on the door. I didn't answer, and he evidently saw the concern

on my face. He reassured me and told me he could easily take care of the anesthetic

himself. I said I didn't notice anyone else staying in the rooms nearby. That was

excellent, he said.

   I wanted a drink, but when he suggested we get to work, I readily agreed. Give me

ten, he said, so I am writing this quickly while he gets the room ready. He pulls out a

bedside table and places various instruments on it. He covers the bed with a clear

plastic tarp and then lays out a large tray with a built-in drain and a hose leading from

the drain to a big jar on the floor. He leaves the room briefly, then comes back with a

pair of crutches.

   The anesthetic will be local. My request. I know I won't feel anything, but I

wouldn't miss this for the world. When I first saw Maureen in the hospital after the

operation, her breast gone, I felt deeply the new void in our lives. Had I been allowed

to be present at the surgery itself, to witness the removal of death, I would have

understood instantly how her loss was a true gain, how the empty space was full of

possibility. But I had to learn, with Maureen my teacher. Truly, she gave me the

courage I needed to be here today. I do miss her.

   Well, that's it. The doctor is calling.

--Sunday, April 17, 7:30 p.m.

   It's done! My leg is gone. I want to shout it to the world. The left one, cut off just

above the knee. I thought I would be feeling better right away: my desire for complete

sexual satisfaction through amputation finally fulfilled. But the pain is too much.

Healing has to come. The doctor's gone, too. This morning. The operation was

yesterday. He left snacks, water, a bottle of Darvon on the bedside table. He said if I

needed anything, call room service. I should be out of here tomorrow or the next day.

The leg, it jabs and throbs, yet I feel the tiny pulses of pleasure beginning to course

through my brain. It helps to look at the stump directly. The dressing is clean, the

sutures tight. I couldn't look while he worked. But I knew and sensed: the whirring and

grinding sounds, the vibrations throughout my body, the feeling of both detachment and

intimacy, as though merely thinking of pain made it happen, as though saying goodbye

to a part of myself was an incredible welcoming. Goodbye is slow, however; a

phantom, like Maureen's breast, persists. Created by the pain of desertion, like the

ghost of Maureen so present in my bed for weeks after her passing. And so I look.

Face the loss. A little longer and pleasure will conquer pain -- I sense it will come

spontaneously, a waking wet dream, without touch, time or effort.

   It's awkward writing on this bed. Can't keep it up. I'm getting sleepy. The heat, or

more likely the Darvon.

--Monday, April 18, 6:00 a.m.

   The night was hard. Bolts of pain come straight through to my groin. In and out of

sleep and continuous dreaming, no forgetting. My bedpan is full now, so I have to get

up, use the crutches to get to the bathroom. Maybe Dr. Clement should have shown me

how to use them.

--10:00 a.m.

   I fell with the crutches. It was lucky I could reach a chair and pull myself up. Then,

just at the moment I flopped onto the bed, it happened. I started shaking like I was in

the throes of a seizure. My stump began its rapid bounce on the bedcover, and I arched

my back, my eyes squeezed shut. I gripped the sides of the bed while my body, the

room, my life, and all pain dissolved, and it was done, spent. The pain is back, but I

know now the nirvana I'd been seeking. I'll have to tell Lester, tell him what he's been

missing. Back to sleep.

--8:30 p.m.

   The agony doesn't let up. The pills help only so much. I'm hungry, hot, and all that's

left is tap water. I called the front desk, they say they don't have room service. I'll have

to get going soon. I think something is wrong with my dressing. It's stained. And the

smell. More than just my waste. An acrid sour milk stench. Maybe the sutures opened

a bit in my fall. Here's to a good night's sleep.

--Tuesday, April 19, 8:00 a.m.

   The blood is darker now, like molasses. It seeps slowly. I called Dr. Clement, but

got only an answering machine. I left about twenty messages, then called Lester. Lester

said he'd fly out to get me. He said the doctor called and threatened him. I am

surprised. Ten, maybe twelve hours. He said everything would be okay. I am okay, I

am okay. My leg is gone, so I am okay.

--12:00 noon

   I've cut my last limb of the day, got the boys in the truck to drop me home to

Maureen. She waits, faithful everyday, with dinner. Hearty because I'm famished –

roast beef, baked potato, asparagus spears, wine. Peach cobbler and tea later to

accompany our nightly cards: my jack of diamonds to her queen of spades -- a single

pinochle, a royal marriage meld.

--3:15 pm.

   The doctor came by. He saw my pain. Said I needn't be too concerned and gave me

a sponge bath, stripped the sweat caked over my body and in the wrinkle-folds. I

couldn't speak, nor write. The doctor parted the curtain a quarter-inch to peer outside.

Take more Darvon, he said, and left. The good doctor.

--Wednesday, April 20, 2:00 a.m.

   My stump. The skin grey-green. Black blood oozes, the putrid odor chokes.

Breathing like I'm climbing a mountain. Lester is late. I can't bear it. Maybe he's

picking up Maureen. It must be so; she's coming to get me. Maybe they're stuck,

passport problems. She'll get here. I'm waiting for her now. She can hold me, kiss my

leg better, and I'll rest my head on her phantom, that lovely fold of skin. No, how can I

expect such understanding? I do apologize, Maureen. I shouldn't have brought you

here, shown you my pathetic leg. You deserve better. I've always given you better.

Can you forgive my transgression?

   Is it even possible for it to be good? Could it be, ever? For now you see me, the real

me, as I am. You know me like I know you. Is that too much to ask? We both want

life, we are both getting it, and much more. We are complete in what we lack. What's

missing, really? We have everything, and now life is over. Here. Come, Maureen.

Come lie with me. Yes, over here. Welcome. And now it comes again, the moment I

touch my cheek there, the moment the phantom enters and fills me, replaces, dissolves

me. Welcome . . . come . . . come well. I came well. It's done, spent.

   There's a knocking on the wall. Do not disturb. On the door. Pounding, pounding.

My name, I hear my name, screaming my name. Our many times filled, emptied, fused --

our honeymoon. It's room service, breakfast -- peaches and cream, Maureen,

peaches and cream.

   Time to finish it now, this record of my big decision, this letter from me to . . . to

whom? Who is it? Who's there? There. No more pounding. It's done, spent.

   Yours truly, sincerely . . . faithfully,

   Will . . .

   Willard

   Mr. and Mrs. Sherman.

   Willard and Maureen and Willard . . . a pair in bliss again.

   The door, it opens . . .

Alan Girling lives in Richmond, British Columbia. His efforts have appeared in such
venues as Pagitica, lichen, Snow Monkey, Southern Ocean Review, Artella, Open Wide,
Gobshite, Hobart and on CBC radio. When he's not writing, he's likely working as a
teacher of academic English or spending time with his family.