<USS Meridian> No Warrior
- From: Joe Neromiger <neromiger@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: ussmeridian@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 12 Dec 2004 21:31:11 -0800 (PST)
No Warrior
by Lieutenant JG Joe Neromiger
Saunders left, saying something about everything being all right, something
about stress, something about fear, then something about laundry. When he did
leave, there was the hissing shut of the quarters door, and then a silence like
a pool of mercury under a cocaine sky, a weight on the soul unimagined until
this very moment of his life. All around him, his walls and furniture,
belongings and all, looked as if they were turning to crystal, but not the
illuminated blue crystal everyone dreams about; it was a leaden gray crystal, a
sort of mineral that could kill at the touch. Ringing in his ears murdered that
silence but left its body to rot in the environment, like roadkill on a lonely
desert highway that lingered like a long asphalt finger through a forever-night
without stars.
On his tongue, nothing but the silver taste of failure.
Approaching his mattress, he fell to his knees, devoid of all bodily energy
(including adrenaline), but kept moving, searching, sending a long arm into the
black limbo of his under-bed, searching for something. When he found it, his
arm retracted and pulled it out. It was a frame, an old metal frame containing
an old photograph. That photograph was taken by an antique camera, something
called a ?Canon Rebel,? that Jason had found in an antique store. He had given
it to Joseph as a gift one year and it was a very wonderful experience. Joseph
had given Jason a ticket to a Broncos game because he could only find one; the
game, after Joseph?s purchase of his friend?s ticket, became sold-out.
Otherwise he would have gone with him.
The photo was of Jason at age eighteen walking out to that?that old basketball
court that was a training area. It was from behind, but Jason was turning back
to look at him; as if Joseph had said, ?Hey Jason!? and then snapped the
picture. As a matter of fact, that?s exactly what happened, as Joseph was now
remembering it. He was preferring that now: Joseph. It was his given name, his
name at birth, and after it was inscribed on his birth certificate, it was
seldom used and otherwise replaced with the epithets ?Joe? or ?Joey.? Now was a
good time to start going by the name that meant his birth, that meant his life.
It would serve him only a short while longer.
He beheld that picture of Jason, his slender white chin coming like the sun
over the brown leather horizon of his right shoulder. Above his chin was a wild
unkempt head of hair, blown by the October afternoon breeze. In the unfocused
background was a barrage of tan bramble: the dying desert bushes of the
wilderness. Out of the picture, as Joseph remembered, was Destiny Salladay, now
only Jason?s friend. He remembered Jane being away somewhere. Steven Eagle had
been behind him.
Joseph felt an odd feeling when his thoughts trailed to Steven and Jane, as if
he was remembering ghosts. Specters of a shattered life. Destiny was also
faded, but within her, in his mind?s eye, there was a dim candlelight. Jason
Ziredac was now the only thing that his mind could let him feel was real and
tangible and there. Maybe that was because?
Candid was the photograph, as Jason?s face had little time to transmogrify into
a smile or a funny face, only the rawness of his blank but full visage, devoid
of pose. Joseph was standing solemnly in his quarters, just beholding him.
Admiring him. ?Jason,? he said, and he was not sure if it was aloud or in his
mind. ?I wish you were here. You wouldn?t have let them all down. I?m?I?m
sorry.?
In response, only that eternal look on Jason?s face, that youthful face, that
beautiful face.
Removing the photograph, he approached his table and sat down, turning the
photograph over so Jason?s eighteen-year-old face looked through the sheer
glass surface of the table and down onto the cream-colored carpet. The strange
paper it was printed on made a tiny slap on the glass that almost made Joseph?s
heart leap. Collapsing into his chair, he merely sat silent and unmoving,
gathering his thoughts, his intentions, his emotions. Looking down at the back
of the antique photograph, he saw faded gray words moving diagonally across the
white background in a widespread march. And it said:
?Kodak Kodak
Kodak.?
It must have been the company that made the film. That old film?he wondered why
no one used it anymore. The picture turned out wonderful and sharp, taking in
all the details of the subject: Jason. You could even see the faded spots on
his brown suede jacket where rain had faded the dark brown color away into a
lighter shade. Even the texture of Jason?s hair was brilliantly developed, and
he loved it all.
Standing, he approached the replicator. He spoke. ?I need a pen, ballpoint,
black.?
A tiny wand, it seemed, shimmered into place. At the end, a golden cone, and at
the other end, an identically gold cylinder that looked like it could be
depressed. He picked up the shiny black object and held it like a writer would,
and pushed the cylinder in. The head of the ink tube came from within like the
needle of a syringe. Joseph marveled at the pen and thought about history,
about how much people used to use these things. So he headed back to the table,
and sat.
He wrote. He wrote for about fifteen minutes if you accumulated all the actual
writing time. It took him three hours to think of the right words to write on
the back of the photograph, as they would not be erasable and he could not
throw away what he was writing on if he made a mistake. So he worked
meticulously, painfully, gripping the pen so hard that when he finally released
it from his hold, letting it click dead on the table, there were indents on his
thumb and forefinger. And he could feel his heartbeat in them.
The handwriting was beautiful, he thought. He thought it should be. It should
be.
Pensively, Joseph reached into his pocket and took out a tiny piece of metal.
This metal had a button on it, and a hole at one end. This metal was a phaser.
He observed it quite studiously, sticking out his bottom lip in thought while
furrowing his brow. It looked small, he thought, and he thought it fitting. He
thought it all fitting. So he placed his thumb on that miniature phaser?s
trigger and held it as a fighter would, but not a warrior. Warriors moved
bravely on with a beautiful stride and an angelical light around them like they
were touched by God. Over hills and through cavernous labyrinths, warriors
boldly strode forward without even a thought of looking back over their
shoulder. A sword in one hand and a scale in the other, they went until it was
their time to be taken.
I?m no warrior.
Joseph felt nothing. His body floated down to the floor and landed deafly, on
its side, legs curled slightly up, his arms sprawled in front of him. Gaping,
his open eyes would have seen his fingers numbly lying on the carpet. They
would have seen, but they were nothing anymore. Those eyes were like open
windows of an abandoned house, for Joseph Neromiger was dead, and died not in a
warrior?s stance, and not in the coward?s stance either; he died in his stance:
in the stance Joseph Neromiger was supposed to die. He felt that anyway, and it
was the last thing he felt.
What those living could not see was the pair of sympathetic and sad angels,
pulling their white sheet over his body like they were tucking him into bed
after he fell asleep to his favorite children?s story. The angels were not
glowing with light, nor did they have wings. They were simple beings that were
coming to take the boy home, to take him home to where he belonged, to where re
could rest. When the sheet fell slowly over his body, he awakened out of his
body and stood over it, looking down at his sleeping old self. Sadly, the
angels looked at him invitingly and held out their hands, and he took them, and
they took him.
And that which was written on the back of the photograph:
Jason,
When these words are presented to you, I am gone. You don?t remember the day I
took this photograph, probably. I wanted to tell you something, something I
never thought I would tell you. You have always been my best friend, yes I know
that, and you know that. But there is something more. You had Destiny and Jane
to worry about, and you often talked about them to me. But in the background
was old Joseph, quietly loving you. I?m sorry you had to hear this after I was
dead, but it was the only way. I felt humiliated with myself that I should feel
these feelings for you?and I was never sure of myself. I didn?t know if I was
straight and didn?t know if I was gay, and probably never knew. But despite my
sexual orientation, there were those feelings of love I had for you. Take it
however you please, my friend, for there is no need for reserve: I am no longer
here.
It?s funny. Life was so confusing for me, just this constant mashing together
of thoughts, facts, and ideas, and nothing ever made sense to me. My feelings
for you, my own significance, nothing. Thank you for being the friend that you
were. I just hope you continue with it. You always knew I loved you as a
friend, and you should keep that. Tell Jane how sorry I am. And buy her a
chocolate chip mint ice-cream cone. I made a promise I would buy her one, one
day. And if you ever see him, tell Steven I?m sorry things were never easy.
Goodbye, my friend.
Sincerely,
Joseph Thomas Neromiger
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