The Last Time I Died by Joe Nelms Page B

existence of the reality I thought I had destroyed. It’s in there. All of it.
    One recovered memory plays over and over in a constant loop, as if searching for approval or context or company. I was eight. Staring at the stoop. The night my father killed my mother. My god.
    This is officially my earliest memory. HackShag has lost the title to the brash, young newcomer. Eight-year-old Christian Franco now holds the belt.
    Chubs finishes up with the IV.
    —Okay, you rest now.
    Like I was going to enter the Ironman.
    She scurries out to let the doctors know the good news.
    I’m so tired.
    Black.

18
    *It’s three years ago.
    I’m standing in one of the ballrooms at the Four Seasons in Philadelphia.
    I’m crying as two hundred Jews stare at me and think either
Oh, what a sweet young man
or
God, what a pussy
. Half of them are right.
    I’m crying because I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
    From what I can tell, men look at getting married as the end of a long, arduous process. Celebrating the end of the march of courtship. A culmination. Women look at it as a beginning. The launch party for your new life together. The starting line.
    I’m crying because I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
    I’m crying because I’m trying to remember how I got here and I can’t.
    I’m crying because I drank too much scotch before the ceremony.
    I have no family at the wedding aside from my sister. My choice.
    We’re having a Jewish ceremony. I have no particular religious leanings beyond yelling the name of somebody’s lord and savior when I stub my toe. On the other hand, Lisa was raised in a Jewish household. Orthodox, no less. Observed every holiday. Fasted. No crazy black dresses and wigs, but she went to Hebrew school and was bat mitzvahed. She still observed well into our marriage. Made the full spread for Rosh Hashanah every year. Tried to atone every Yom Kippur. Everything. But ask her what happened when you died and she’d tell you there’s nothing. The lights go out. Black.
    It made no difference to her that this one belief sort of negated the whole concept of practicing religion, Jewish or otherwise. If life only leads to black emptiness, how did practicing a religion help anything? It always struck me as pointless, but it was important to her so I said nothing. And now I have to stand here while this overblown donkey of a cantor murders a song I wouldn’t like even if he could sing. It’s endless.
    When I saw Ella before the ceremony, she put on a brave face and wished me the best even though I know she has her doubts. And by doubts, I mean she thinks Lisa would make a delightful ex-fiancée. Ella’s husband shook my hand and handed me another drink right before I walked to the chuppah. His little way of calling me a sucker. I was fine until I saw Ella waddle down the aisle with her maternity bridesmaid dress. How cruel of us, looking back. She didn’t want to be in the wedding in the first place, but Lisa insisted and I bullied. Ella walked down the aisle with as much dignity as she could muster and all I can see is her rotund belly and I’m thinking maybe that will be Lisa one day and won’t that make us whole? I could have held it in if I had kept my eyes closed the entire ceremony. Ella was my trigger.
    I made it a point to have dinner with Ella and Tim as a foursome a few times before the wedding. We had never made the effort before then (also my choice), but I wanted to show off my new toy. This magnificent beast that I had tamed. This mountain I had climbed. Look what I did. I saw this beautiful creature and I snookered her into loving me almost as much as I love her. I broke her. Ella meet Lisa, my new life.
    Ella forced a smile and talked girl talk with Lisa even though I know Ella well enough to understand that she was actually feeling Lisa out. Looking for the weak point. The cracks. Not that she would have ever acted on this intelligence. She knows better than to give me advice.
    And