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Oh Sherrie

Without warning, the line stopped skipping and the monitor cried a continuous note.

This must be it, I thought, as the shrill sound ruptured my ears.

The line skipped throughout the evening, its cadenced rhythm beeping in sync with a

garbage truck reversing in an alley.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hodge,” the nurse said, powering off the ventilator.

She seemed unmoved by the ordinariness of mortality. Her stolid face yielded no

emotions, and her apathy belied the bitterness. I watched my beloved Sherrie submit to death, a

heartless hitman.

Once upon a time, I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart. There's nothing I

can do, a total eclipse of the heart…

Among the women I courted throughout my life, no one could top Sherrie. Her charming

charisma, her beautiful body and her flawless faithfulness thrashed my heart upon her death.

Now, these qualities became an irretrievable relic of our relationship. Reliving our past only

grated against the open wound in my heart and triggered a hemic hemorrhage.

Bloody hell, Royce. Think of something else.

I walked home that evening with the liveliness of the nightlife clashing against my grief.

Couples strolled the streets this Friday evening, indulging in the gateway to the weekend. Each

glance witnessed a nutjob undergoing an endless endorphin rush and wouldn’t require a trial in

court. I saw their souls through the radiant smiles illuminating their faces. Their buttocks must

have burned from the erupting rays of sunshine.

Have you freaks considered upping the dosage? Try getting hooked on downers.

Scowling at their cheeky faces, I regarded these Pollyannas with contempt. I wished

death would strike when they were most vulnerable, a falcon soaring toward an unsuspecting

chick. My contempt was unjustifiable, other than the stark contrast between their emotions and
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mine. Their chirpy cheers fueled the flames within, as my civility coped with the venomous

ecstasy hissing through my veins.

I understand y’all are happy, but must everyone suffer for it?

Was it their happiness triggering my hatred, or was it my affection for the sweetest

woman I’ve ever met that sparked the scorn? Sherrie assured me not to worry if the worst were

to happen because she would patiently wait for me—unfortunately, this was easier in theory

than in practice. Even a dunderhead like Forrest Gump could describe our relationship, peas

and carrots.

I gave zero fucks to anybody or anything on my way home. A strumpet standing in the

corner solicited her “services,” as if I were in the mood for entertaining a lady of the evening.

“Not interested, I’m not attracted to women whose bodies are like temples,” I

sneered.

“Don’t sweat it, I have a vibrator. I know how much getting off first means to you,”

she replied.

Funny how she has nothing to say, but she says it so loudly.

The illuminating stop signal at the crosswalk was no match for my indifference to life.

I’m living in a world of utter indifference, anyways.

If nobody gives a damn, why should I?

I entered the intersection and became the target for unpleasant hand gestures and

frightened faces. It wasn’t long before I was reminded of the familiar inconvenience of a

pedestrian traffic accident.

Here we go again.

I gasped, but it was too late. Blotches bloodied my face that was blanched by bitterness.

Copper coated the insides of my mouth as I crumpled like a towel puppet, blunting my nose as I

smooched the street. The other drivers slammed on their brakes and honked their horns as I

moseyed into the street, why didn’t he? Did he crave police attention?
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“Where’d you get your license from, bud? Inside a box of Cracker Jack?” I yelled.

“Don’t you see the sign, idiot?” he replied, pointing to the crosswalk signal.

“Want me to call for an ambulance?”

“I’m fine, help from someone who drives a piece of jap-crap can’t be that great,” I replied,

swallowing pennies and brushing the pavement off my clothes. I heaved myself up and felt my

ribs ache; every step deepened the rocks burrowed in my skin—nothing a soothing slumber

couldn’t fix.

“I shouldn’t have slammed on the brakes,” he muttered, returning to his vehicle.

I would say there is a secret I’m taking to my grave, but it wouldn’t make sense. Nobody

believes this, but children can see spirits. I was a callow child back then, and I thought “hey,

baby” was just a statement of fact. It wasn’t until years later when a psychopath plowed into me

before I realized Death blessed me with this peculiarity. Oh, how I wished Sherrie were also

immortal; we would live together deathlessly. Anyways, that’s how death granted me my

supernatural skill for regeneration, and, how I learned in this country, the pedestrian always

prevails over the driver. That’s as much as I’m willing to share because if everyone were

immortals, it would evaporate my river of extra income.

I trudged home and thrust open the door. The city lights shimmered through the blinds

and into the room, infusing my apartment with a pearl-gray glow. The wound in my heart

hemorrhaged again as this reminded me of Sherrie’s glittering eyes. Sherrie is looking down

from miles above, and I will never reach her. Moments like these make me regard my rarity as a

double-edged sword that should sleep in its scabbard. Thinking that sleeping would hasten the

passage of time rather than watch the hours tick by, I plopped on the bed, lying sullied, smelly

and spiritless in the dead of night.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes; every second of the night, I live another life.

These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside; every moment I'm awake, the further I'm

away…
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Months, or maybe years passed as I threaded the sea of emptiness daily. It was easier

to remain in bed than sever the chains shackling me to my mattress. I fantasized about

Sherrie—until the popcorn kernels on the textured ceiling returned me to purgatory. I lost hope

in the passage of time eventually healing my wound whose scab I kept scraping; each

subsequent day promised nothing but yesterday’s monotony. Motivating and educating young

scholars was once a cistern of contentment, but like much of the working class, my spirit has

quit, and my body is forced to attend.

Upholding the façade everything was fine and forcing a grin was a torturous task; I hid

behind my words and masked my feelings. Attending social gatherings with my friends and co-

workers once rejuvenated the most disheartening days, but my colleagues and companions

were dead to me. When Chris, my college colleague, mentioned his mother’s passing, this

pointless piece of information prompted no hint of sorrow or any traces of emotion. My mind was

so disemboweled it became the epitome of cognitive dissonance. I was less disenchanted by

the literal passing of my partner, but more so because the shadow who bestowed me with

eternal life also robbed my pride and desensitized my emotions. Living was a painstaking

ordeal, and I craved nothing but to thread the sea of emptiness, hoping I would succumb to

fatigue and drown—but death was impossible.

The joy of partaking in previously pleasurable activities could not penetrate the

impermeable varnish of lethargy that glazed my emotions. One weekend, I figured I’d visit the

local museum to gaze at art and savor the serenity of the surroundings. I had long departed

from my formerly regimented lifestyle, and the cologne I marinated myself in could no longer

mask the overpowering odor of my “masculine funk.” You know you’ve assumed the identity of

Sasquatch when your nose-blind nostrils perceive a pungent odor they’ve never smelled before.

My rotting body probably drew more flies than an entomological artist. Those egocentric

narcissists would throw me to the curb if I arrived as is—everyone knows the pretentious and

haughty attitudes of those who frequent these “cultured” establishments.

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It seemed forever since I last bathed, or even showered, for that matter. The warmth of

the water permeated my skin, raising my brisk body temperature and thawing the bitterness

caking my heart. I lay under the water and became a contortionist. The surrounding marble

walls enlarged the small bathroom into a pint-sized powerhouse as I drifted in and out of

consciousness, the room expanding and narrowing. However, I probably forgot to breathe while

contemplating how to rid myself of my mythical disservice. The buildup of carbon dioxide

triggered a respiratory response, and the chain tethering me to reality tugged me back from the

tides.

Damn, I missed my chance. Curse you, primeval instincts!

Half-chewed prunes appeared on my fingers and toes, and this illusion spanned across

multiple states of awareness; I wasn’t sure if I was hallucinating or if I really had lain in the tub

for that long. Mustering all my strength to lift myself out of the tub, I regained my feet, dressed

and left for the museum.

The art museum was once an asylum for me to compose myself and collect my thoughts

whenever Sherrie and I quarreled over petty crap. This bittersweet perception of the museum

made me wish I had bit the bullet and appreciated the fact Sherrie was alive before her

existence became a distant memory; I should have swallowed my retorts and caved, drifting

with the current.

The paintings appeared cryptic and more complicated than I remembered. I could only

identify the flat faces of the Virgin Mary and the saints in the concrete background; exquisite

elements like lines, masses and colors camouflaged into the canvas. The alluring portrait that

once connected me to the artist now yielded no mesmerizing sensations.

Why is the Virgin Mary’s head tilted to the left? Is she reaching for something, or is

she pointing at something below? What were people thinking back then? What about

contemporary culture motivated the artist to convey their thoughts through art?
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These questions rose in my barren mind and were obliterated by my absence of

reasoning. While grappling with the paralyzing pain of loneliness, I struggled to meet the artist’s

objectives for composing the piece—Da Vinci heard my cries and swiped left, rejecting my call

with contempt. The qualities of the picture once dazzled me in thought- and emotion-provoking

ways, but my brain rebuffed this artistry like a macaroni necklace gifted to a snobby mother.

Having pried no pleasure from my former outlet of ecstasy, my visit was yet another wasteful

expense at a place harmed by my heartache. The entrance fee was nothing but an act of

philanthropy toward an establishment on the brink of bankruptcy.

On my walk home, I passed the pub sparking the relationship between Sherrie and me

as invisible strings adhered to my limbs, steering me toward the entrance as I powerlessly

performed the puppeteer’s commands. Memories of our relationship coursed through my mind,

from the time Sherrie was alone and sipping a Long Island Iced Tea to the evenings buffalo

sauce smudged our wasted faces. I needed a place to rest my weary legs, but I needed a drop

of artificial happiness even more. Pain floats in a sea of booze.

“Back again, Royce? Seems like those students of yours are sending you back more

and more often,” said the bartender. “Remind me to give them a discount if they walk in.”

“Give me a break, Charles. I drink because of them and I hope they don’t find me

here,” I replied.

“What’ll it be today?” he asked.

“Just Absolut on the rocks, please.”

He served my drink and looked at me, feeling it out if I wanted to engage in a

conversation.

“Thanks,” I replied, grasping the glass and taking a sip.

I avoided eye contact by looking through the ice cubes, but the insensitive fellow couldn’t

take the hint.

“How’s Sherrie? Haven’t seen her in a while.”

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I wanted to clutch him by the neck, dig my nails into his chin, pry open his jaw, and

shove the words back in his mouth. I imagined the sweet sound of his neck snapping.

“We’re done,” I replied.

“Wow. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened between you two? Y’all seemed

perfect for each other.”

“Life happened. Maybe karma, too.”

“You can tell ol’ Charles. Is she okay?”

“She’s fucking dead, Charles. Are you happy now, you callous son of a bitch?

Sherrie’s dead and we’ll never see her again.”

The dams in my eyes disintegrated and a sudden stream flooded my eyes; my eyelids

flickered to salvage the tears maintaining my composure in the furnace of perdition. I would not

let my eyes bleed—at least not in the presence of these sanctimonious armchair critics.

“I’m sorry, man. Time will pass. Here, the drink’s on me tonight.”

He left me in peace and stuck his nose into another customer’s business. I tuned out

“Hot Blooded” playing on the jukebox and the energetic environment in the tavern as I watched

the ice cubes melt in the desensitizing elixir.

Sherrie is looking down at you, Royce. How do you think she feels about watching

you excessively mourn over her death? People enter and exit your life every day, and death is a

natural occurrence in life.

I felt a firm slap from someone’s hand on my shoulder, and I nearly leaped off the

barstool.

“Hey there, here’s a tip. Monologue is when you talk to yourself in your head. Isn’t

that what you teach your students? I’ve been sitting here for five minutes watching you attempt

telepathy with a shot glass and you still haven’t acknowledged my presence.”

Was I talking aloud this entire time? Dammit, I hope the jukebox sang loud enough to

suppress my voice.
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“What do you want from me, Chris?” I asked.

“I thought I’d find you here. Turns out my instincts were sharper than I thought.”

Instincts? What is this guy talking about?

“I know it’s been a rough stretch of time for you lately, but you need to get back out

there.”

“You can buy me a drink, but I’d like to enjoy it alone,” I said, looking at my drink and

considering beating him with the glass.

“Anyways, check your email when you get a chance. There’s a class reunion at the

steakhouse tomorrow night and I’d love for you to celebrate with us. If you remember Jenny,

she divorced again, if you’re interested.”

At what number did she lose count? You’d think by now she would have settled with

someone willing to sleep with her.

“Save your breath. You’ll need it to inflate your date,” I replied like it was an

inherent response.

“Watch yourself—a sharp tongue is no indication of a keen mind.”

I wasn’t sure if I pierced his pudgy heart or if he bit the bullets and sympathized with

my grief.

“I will always cherish the initial misconceptions I had about you,” said Chris, sighing.

“Anyways, you’re just twisting the knife, kiddo. If that’s what you want, be my guest,” he said,

getting up to leave.

Moments later, some prick played “Oh Sherrie” on the jukebox, and that was my cue to

leave.

“Oh Sherrie, our love, holds on, holds on,” the jukebox sang.

I placed a few bills under the glass and ran like hell before Steve Perry annihilated what

was left of my fragile composure.

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The crisp wind shriveled my lips as I stepped onto the sidewalk. I stumbled home

breathing into my clammy hands, only to exhale into them moments later because of Jack

Frost’s relentless reign of refrigeration. The deafening silence on the street was intermittently

interrupted by the howling wind. A shutter of chills traveled down my spine as I clung to the past,

fancying what I would do if I could see Sherrie one last time.

Am I emotionally retarded? I mean, baggage is understandable, but steamer trunks are

not. Maybe Chris was right—I’ve got to get ahold of myself. Look at Chris, he didn’t become a

depressive after his mother died. If I’m doomed to live forever, I may as well live my life in

happiness than exacerbate my existence.

This would be the dawn of my new life, or it would be my transition from the frying pan

into the fire—the latter wasn’t going to happen. I experienced a long-lost sensation; every fiber

of my being shuddered with anticipation. Instead of venom hissing through my veins, it was

adrenaline.

What has gotten into me? Is my puppeteer high on the devil’s lettuce?

There was a burst in my brain, a burst of happiness. Numerous possibilities exploded in

my mind. The blast unearthed my concealed craft of flirting, my entombed eloquence of

schmoozing, and my shrouded skill of razzle-dazzling a crowd. The road ahead may have

bumps and bends, but this was my calling card of adventure.

Looks like I win again, death. Pardon me, where are my manners? This is no battle of

wits between us. I would never pick on an unarmed opponent.

“One way or another, I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya one

way or another, I'm gonna win ya,” I sang.

I almost forgot the lyrics Blondie’s “One Way or Another”—what a welcoming change to

humming 38 Special’s “Second Chance” day and night! Here I am, at the beginning of the road.

All that’s left is placing one foot in front of the other and beginning the journey. As I skipped my

way home, I fixed a list of how I would obscure the overtones of a “single-man household”
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before tomorrow. In case Jenny followed me home tomorrow evening, my home would welcome

us to unite our souls and explore the phrase, “all access.” People enter and exit our lives all the

time; I’m sure Sherrie would understand.

When I finally reached home, I inserted my key into the keyhole and was grazed by a

remarkably recognizable touch. I could not come to grips with this familiar sensation, but the

memory was buried deep in my hippocampus. I turned around and our eyes locked.

“I may have ravaged your heart, but you won’t need it anymore.”

Words left me as my mind was sent reeling, bewildered by the images transmitted by my

eyes distended in disbelief. Blood drained from my face as I staggered and skipped out of my

skin, tremoring like a rabid animal as I plummeted into an everlasting, ebony abyss. It was an

unexpected delight, an unforeseen satisfaction—an experience I would love to relive.