Perforated Heart

by Eric Bogosian

  Over the organic lunch of bean paste slathered onto thick slices of homemade bread (topped with alfalfa sprouts), I picked up more information regarding John’s absence. He had gone in for observation because he had become forgetful and now the stay had been extended. I inquired whether a visit would make sense, trying to get a bead on whether John was still angry at me. ’Gitte said that she was sure John would love a visit from me. Her blue eyes twinkled. I resisted the urge to reach out and stroke her cheek. I wanted simply to take her hand, just hold it for a while.

  We ran out of things to talk about. It became clear that the only way to get closer to ’Gitte was to go spend some time with her spouse and then report back. ’Gitte wrote the address on the back of an envelope in a perfect cursive. I appraised this woman one more time. Her hair was now a whitish blond. There was a slight darkness under the eyes and her smile was more weary than bright. But she was in good shape, thin, lively. Her eyes sparkled with life. She was who she was and would ever be.

  We hugged goodbye and I harvested her warmth. Beautiful ’Gitte. In the car as I drove off, I realized that I had not mentioned my heart surgery. Then another thought struck me, is ’Gitte the woman I am meant to be with? Crazy.

  February 18, 1978

  No money. No friends. Haven’t heard from Katie for over a month. I try to write, then throw it all away. Drinking too much.

  October 15, 2006

  I have been to see John. An hour’s drive to a town near Williamstown. After receiving directions three times in the small hospital, I entered a room and found a man seated by a window. John had lost weight and his skin was pale, no longer cherubic. When he turned his numinous gaze my way, I saw that despite the changes, it was him. Later when he relaxed, he laughed and his eyes crinkled and he was the old John.

  What did I expect? Thirty years. But in actual years, how old could he be? Sixty-something? He appeared much older than that. He immediately launched into a discussion of his situation. As he did, he deftly opened the can of fancy butter cookies I had brought along, then absentmindedly munched them as he talked. By the time I left, he had eaten the entire tin.

  John: “I try to remember things and the information is not there. Can’t remember the names of my children. Or even whether or not I have kids at all. People come to see me. I don’t know who these people are! People. From long ago? Who knows? My kids? Relatives? To me they’re just strangers.

  “Don’t know where I am. Don’t know why I’m here. Don’t know what year it is. Couldn’t tell you many things. Many many things have slipped away.

  “For example, I’ve completely forgotten major historical events. Presidents! Who was the President between Carter and Reagan? Have no fucking idea. I kind of remember some wars, there was a war in Vietnam, right? And I remember some space exploration, the moon. But not Mars. Did we put men on Mars? See I know we did, but the details are just outside my reach. Can’t tell you the names of the tallest mountains. And you know what? When you can’t remember shit, it’s scary.

  “I know you, buddy, know your face, but I don’t know you. There’s so much about you I’ve forgotten. Emptiness instead of stuff.”

  I began with the obvious and said it was nice seeing ’Gitte again. John replied, “Don’t know her either. Don’t want to know her! Who is she? Some bitch?”

  Patiently, I said, “No, not some bitch. Your wife.”

  “My wife? Right. Tell me another one. Who the fuck are you again? My doctor? Where did you get your degree? And don’t tell me Harvard, that’s what they all say.” I noticed that John’s hair had been unevenly sheared to the scalp, allowing tufts to spring up between what appeared to be fresh scars.

  I said I was not a doctor, but an old friend. I purposely left out the part about being a writer but reminded him of all the nights we had spent together passing the pipe. His response was: “I hate drugs. Fuck drugs. Don’t gimme any more drugs.” But when I brought up facts I’d gleaned from his encyclopedic monologues, he brightened up. “Yes, Farinelli! One of the greatest, if not the greatest, stars of his time. Like a Caruso. Everyone knew him. But what was his brother’s name? See, I can’t remember that. Farinelli’s brother’s name. I knew it once. Fuckin’ Farinelli! Say, did you know that Caruso was in San Franscisco during the earthquake? Walked through the rubble in his bathrobe.”

  As far as I could tell, John bore me no ill will, whether he recognized me or not. All of his venom was saved for his “imprisoner,” the doctor. John said there were details of his former life that he did remember but could not divulge and that because of “my other life” as he called it, there had been an ongoing conspiracy (which involved his doctor), to keep him locked up. I vaguely remembered Jack telling me of rumors that John had had an “other life.” Could it be possible that John was being kept here against his will? Maybe he had been a spy?

  I stayed for about forty-five minutes. John grew restless, migrated toward the window, as if on the lookout. I left him at the window.

  I sought out John’s physician and baldly asked, “Why is John locked up like this?”

  “And you are…?”

  “An old friend. Richard Morris.”

  “The Richard Morris? The writer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow! I read your short stories in college. John said you two were friends. But with John you can never be sure.” I didn’t have time for this, though it was significant that John had admitted knowing me. “You didn’t answer my question.” “Mr. Morris, you saw him. It’s pretty obvious.” The doctor’s mild face matched his voice. “He’s in a very excited state of mind, I’d be too if I were locked up.” “John runs the risk of hurting himself. Or others. Obviously Brigitte took part in the decision to place him here.” “He says he doesn’t know ’Gitte. Brigitte.” “He says a lot of things.” “But can’t Alzheimer’s be treated? Or slowed down or something?” “Alzheimer’s?” “John has early onset Alzheimer’s.” “John doesn’t have Alzheimer’s any more than you or I.” “Then why is he in an Alzheimer’s ward?” “He isn’t in an Alzheimer’s ward.” “But he has trouble remembering things.” “Mr. Morris, let’s back up a sec. Where do you think you are?” “A nursing home. Assisted living, whatever they call it these days.” “Mr. Morris, your friend was brought to us five years ago in an agitated state. Under observation it became clear that psychosis had rendered him incapable of handling his own affairs. We tried medication, we tried counseling, even electroshock therapy. Occasionally there would be a slight improvement, but eventually he would return to this delusionary state in which he insisted he had forgotten essential aspects of his own life. Often this was accompanied by a form of catatonia. We eventually made the diagnosis that John suffers from a perpetually mutating form of shizophrenia, shifting from hebephrenic to catatonic to paranoid manifestation. He is totally detached from reality and obsessed with ‘remembering’ things that don’t exist. He does this to a point of distraction. The bottom line is, he can no longer take care of himself.”

  “Electroshock therapy? They still do that?”

  “It can be very effective. For a while we considered his state to be a manifestation of bipolarity, and if that were the case, then EST would be a proper therapy. But we’ve abandoned that idea. The EST did provide some relief. But it had no effect on the central problem.”

  “But maybe he really can’t remember things and this bothers him.”

  “We considered that too. We even considered the possibility that the problem lay with Brigitte and not John. Sort of a Gaslight situation. But I have thoroughly fact-checked his personal biography. In most cases, the events or people he can’t remember either didn’t occur or don’t exist. The same is true of places. Historical events.”

  “Places?”

  “The most terrible of his delusions. He will fixate on returning to a place he claims to be very familiar with, then is tortured by the fact that he can’t remember where this place is. Two of his favorites are an abandoned harness h
orse track somewhere in the middle of a forest and a tenement on the South Side of Chicago. He’s never, as far as I can discover, ever lived in Chicago. But the obsession is not frivolous. Once John gets it in his head that he must find a place, if left on his own he will pursue this objective to the point of, well there’s no other word for it, psychosis. They’ve had to call in air marshals to remove him from airplanes five or six times. In a straitjacket.”

  “He might have visited Chicago once.”

  “It’s possible. But I don’t think so. The street names are bogus. Furthermore, on the two occasions when he actually got as far as Chicago, he had no familiarity whatsoever with the layout of the city. He has never been to Chicago, except for these wild, manic goose chases.”

  “Maybe it is Alzheimer’s?”

  “None of the major indicators of the disease present themselves. He can carry out tasks, he can drive a car, he can complete crossword puzzles. He can watch the evening news and give you a full report the next day. He knows what’s going on. His problem is that he is completely obsessed with the idea that he is senile and this in turn paralyzes him.”

  This was not a hospital. This was a nut house. I repeated the word, “Paralyzes?”

  “John becomes so stricken with fear, he can’t move a muscle. In that state, he can’t do anything but spend the day obsessing about his memory loss. Which as I said, is nonexistent. He drives himself into a fury attempting to remember information that doesn’t exist. He honestly believes that a world war took place in 1994. He insists atomic weapons were used. But beyond that, he can’t remember the details. When we seek to reassure him that no such war ever happened, he says we are humoring him. He honestly thinks that everything we say or do is part of an elaborate scheme to shield him from the pain of loss. When he enters this frame of mind, he can become completely inert, frozen and catatonic for days at a time. This is an indicator of mental illness on the order of schizophrenia as opposed to an organic illness such as Alzheimer’s or vascular dementia.”

  I said, “He doesn’t stutter anymore.”

  The doctor replied, “When did John stutter?”

  I left the hospital. As I drove away, I thought, John is nuts.

  October 16, 2006

  Well, there is some justice in the world. The nominations for the National Book Award were announced. A Gentle Death is on the list. Leon called me and breathlessly confided he’d known the news for a week but hadn’t been allowed to leak it to anyone. Right. No matter. It’s not that I care about the prize itself. But it will boost sales.

  I’m still at the hunting lodge. I feel inspired to use this time to write, to collect my thoughts. Find myself thinking about ’Gitte. How is it that beauty can endure for so long? I haven’t seen her in what, thirty years, and yet she has the same hold on me she had when I was just a kid. What makes beauty so powerful? How far from symmetry does beauty have to stray for it to be less than beauty? Isn’t that how art is judged? The elements must fit together harmoniously to create the whole. ’Gitte is like that. I can’t get her out of my mind. Crazy. If I could only touch her, for just a moment.

  March 19, 1978

  The unexpected becomes the norm. It’s all happening now. I can feel it, like surfing a tidal wave. And it’s up to me to take it all. Blake knows a movie producer who wants to buy one of my stories. For twenty-five thousand dollars!

  I hang out down at Max’s every night. Sometimes I have nosebleeds in the morning from all the blow. Makes no difference. The hand of God, the hand of God, nothing can stop the hand of God. My spit is golden, my jism is golden. I’m like some ancient king, even my hair and fingernails are holy.

  It’s important to get really fucking drunk at least once a week. To clean the slate. Renew the spirit by obliterating the spirit. I am the Phoenix! To catch the pulse of the universe in my alcohol-saturated veins. To scream and laugh and dance like a lunatic. Like a religious experience. Except my church is a shithole bar on Spring Street. My holy sacraments are speed runs and drunken fights and quick sex with strangers. Fighting and fucking is what God made me for. And writing. And writing.

  Got eight stitches in Roosevelt Hospital last night because Zim and I decided to hang out in Times Square. We were walking along 44th Street and this sleazoid emerges from the shadow of a doorway and wanted to know if Zim and I “like girls.” The guy said he “has girls.” All we had to do is follow him! Zim and I did the sideways glance bit knowing full well that there were no “girls.” But what the fuck, why not? Nice night for something, whatever came down. We followed this asshole out of Times Square down Eighth Avenue past the darkened post office to an abandoned building. While we were trotting along, the hustler’s like, “You guys visiting the city?” Zim’s like, “Yeah.” And the creep was like, “What do you guys do for a living?” Zim said, “Computer sales.” The guy was like, “Yeah? A lot of money in that?” Zim said, “You better believe it.”

  My face was hurting from trying not to laugh. The character focused on me, “You like girls? I got a great place with girls.” Zim said, “Are they virgins?” Guy was like, “Some, yeah.” Then out of the blue, the character asked, “You guys don’t have any weapons on you, knives or anything?” Zim and I got all blank-faced. So this was what was going down. No girls. Something else.

  We entered this apparently empty building, and followed the guy up a short stairway. At the landing, we encountered two thugs waiting in the shadows to pounce. Zim didn’t hestitate, he just lowered his head, butted the chest of the first one, grabbed him around and flipped him. Punches flew. I fell backwards down the stairs, which must have been when I cut my forehead. A lot of shouting and cursing, like we were the ones who had done something wrong. Zim grabbed me by the collar and dragged me out the door. Probably saved my life. We tried to flag a police cruiser, but the cops had no interest in two knuckleheads on a dark street. We had to hike all the way up to the Roosevelt ER. Since I was bleeding all over the floor, they took me right in.

  We spent the rest of the night hoisting free drinks while recounting the story of our battle and my wound. I woke up at six a.m. on the floor of my bathroom, my house keys in my hand.

  Five messages from Katie on the answering machine. I guess we’re back together.

  October 18, 2006

  Found John in the day room parked in his wheelchair. Another six people were scattered around the room, also in wheelchairs, oriented toward a widescreen TV upon which a chattering fat lady baked a batch of Christmas cookies. A pumpkin sat on the windowsill. A festive touch, like a bouquet thrown on a grave.

  I wheeled John into a corner. He squinted at me, I said, “John, it’s me, Richard.”

  He said, “Big deal. You wanna medal?” He looked away.

  I said, “You know who I am.”

  John replied, “I know you’re someone. Right? You’re someone? That I know. And I know that you’re someone I don’t know. I know that I don’t know. I don’t think, therefore I am.”

  “Richard. I’m Richard. From the old days in Brooklyn. You told the doctor you knew me.” John smiled benignly. Was this an act? I continued: “The loft. Smoking weed. Talking about life. Knights of the Templar? Flesh-eating bacteria? Pentacostal miracles?”

  “Richard. Okay. I get it. Get me the fuck outta this place, ‘Richard.’”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have any idea what I’m going through? I’m using my mind and then, boom, like a pothole in a road, a bump and I’m lost. I used to be a sharp guy.”

  “I remember.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. I loved listening to you.”

  “Those were the days. Exactly when were those days?”

  “In Brooklyn.”

  “Yeah but exactly when were they?”

  “The seventies. Thirty years ago. That’s when I knew you.”

  “Thirty years ago? That’s a long time. So how old am I now?”

  “I don’t know. Sixty-five?”

  “
Old man. See that’s the problem. Time won’t stop. And if it won’t stop, then where the fuck are you? Or when the fuck are you? Good as dead. Everything dies. So why not now?” “Not that old. You remember Jack?” “Don’t remember anyone.” “No one?” “I remember Nixon. Bob Dylan. Lyndon Johnson.” “The Vietnam War.” “All the wars. I remember all the wars. Except one.” A young attendant entered the room and loitered by the window, as if waiting for me to leave. I said, “You need John?” The young man replied, “You’re Richard Morris, aren’t you?” “Yes.” I assumed my poker face. You never know what’s coming from people who recognize you. “I’m Theo. Very happy to meet you.” He extended a hand. We shook. “You know John, of course.” With a wave of my hand, I indicated John in his wheelchair. “Oh sure. But John says he doesn’t know me. Right, John?” John kept his eyes lowered and grumbled, “Never met you in my life.” “Okay, okay, don’t get all riled up, big guy. I’m only stopping by for a minute.” The attendant glanced at me.

  John glowered. “All the guessing games. Okay, I give up. Who are you?”

  “You know who I am, John, and if you don’t, I’m not going to make it easy for you, you fucking asshole.” The young man delivered this statement evenly with no anger, then turned to me. “Can you step out with me for a sec, Mr. Morris?” Theo gave me a confiding glance.

  John growled, “No smoking.”

  Theo said, “I know, I know, John. Relax. I’m not talking to you.”

  As we left the room I said to John, “I gotta go, man, see you tomorrow.”

  John smiled at me, a tired, yellow grin. “Thanks for dropping by, young scholar.”

  In the parking lot, the kid lit a cigarette and said, “Mom said you drove up to visit John. She always talks about you guys hanging out in the bad old days. I thought she was bullshitting me. I love your work, man.”