I read his words carefully and silently. They were frightening and beautiful at the same time. I know they came from a place of deep pain, because that was how I left him. Even with his tale of mulligan stew and the game he played with my name, I knew he was suffering. That’s why I was worried for him.
Maybe this was it. The last words the world would ever get from the man.
I started to recite the lines out loud. The first run-through I was quiet and slow but then I started over from the beginning. I picked up the volume and the pace and the second reading was much better. The third time was even louder and faster and I tried to put myself in his shoes (I was already wearing his pants and shirt) and feel whatever it was that he’d been feeling at the time.
By the fifth recitation I was screaming, scraping my throat raw, trying to put every ounce of what I was feeling (what he was feeling) into the performance. I was punching and kicking the air for punctuation and it felt like my body was doing these things independent of any commands from my brain. On the last word I kicked the air so hard and so high, I landed flat on my back and my head smashed against the hardwood floor.
* * *
It was dark when I woke up and I didn’t know where I was. My head was throbbing and my back ached. Slowly it all came back to me and I remembered I was in Lou’s empty bedroom. As I got to my feet, the room swayed a little. I didn’t feel well. I wasn’t sure if there was still electricity in the place so I flipped the switch. The bare bulb in the ceiling fixture lit up the room so bright it was brutal.
I felt that it was my duty to transcribe what was on the wall for posterity. I figured that no copy of the piece existed anywhere and it was sure to be whitewashed in a day or so. I searched the apartment again. There had to be something, a book, a menu, a bill, a piece of cardboard, something I could use to preserve what may have been Lou’s last words. The task had fallen upon me; I was to be keeper of those final words.
There was a small cupboard in the kitchen, high above the refrigerator. I had missed it on first inspection. I had to climb on top of the stove to reach it. There was no paper inside, nothing to write on, nothing at all except a half-empty bottle of gin. I reached for it cautiously, climbed off the stove with care, and took the bottle back to the bedroom. I toasted the scripture on the wall, bid Lou farewell, and took a big swig. This I knew was stupid because I needed to go up to my apartment and find some paper. Gin really stinks up the breath and my mother would smell it and get upset and scared for me. And I was already feeling sick and still a little dizzy.
I took an even bigger swig. It burned but it made me happy. I sat on the floor, another big swallow. I thought about the time he took me to the bar and officially dubbed me Tim. I hated the name but accepted it because I felt neither of us had any choice in the matter. I underestimated you. Cheers. One more pull from your bottle.
I started on my left forearm. That would be the most logical place since I’m right-handed. It tickled at first but became more and more pleasurable as my skin got used to the sensations. The first line read: They tied his arms behind his back to teach him how to swim.
I rotated my arm slightly and continued on the soft underside of the arm with the second line.
I remember thinking how beautiful the words looked on my skin. Whorish for sure, a slutty lipstick red, but bold and honest at the same time; unashamed. Artistic and painterly. It was a color I had seen on a canvas at the Met or the Modern or maybe only in a book. Veronica turned me on to it, that I’m sure of. Big slabs of meat hanging at the butcher shop. I don’t remember the artist’s name. He passed away very young from what I can recall. After he died, his wife jumped out the window pregnant with his baby. His red was called vermilion and it had been banned by the dictator so he fled to Paris. Maybe his name was Chaim? I think he was an Italian Jew.
I kept on drinking and writing and at some point took my (his) pants off. I started on my legs and feet. When I had gotten through all twenty or so of the lyrics, I started from the beginning on my chest and stomach. I used big letters at first but when an area would get too crowded I would make the words very small. In some places where there was no room for an entire word, I would only write a letter or two. I covered my skin with as many words as was possible. I went into the bathroom and began to write on my face. I couldn’t tell if the letters were backward or forward.
I stared at my face in the mirror.
I had succeeded beyond all expectations!
I realized it didn’t matter if anyone could read the words because I had become the words. I was the song. The lyrics now incarnate: flesh, bones, and blood. I thought the transformation would have pleased Lou.
Back in the bedroom I took off my underwear and wrote the words mask and stained on and around my private parts. His words,
