Happenstance
Remarkably, I woke up this evening and found myself in this terrible nightmare, for you see, they say I killed a man. They say murder, a heinous crime against society. But I don’t remember it at all. I don’t remember any of it. I woke up and here I am in prison, exactly six years and six days after the fact, all those hours not recorded in my brain cells. Nevertheless, here I am. Besides that, they have pictures of me the night the police caught me. The police report says that I was walking along the main highway, in the middle of the road, an amazing story in and of itself. They say I was carrying a hatchet, my handy little ax from my tool shed. And there it is! Yes, it is my hatchet, no doubt about that. I keep it exceptionally well honed. I use it to cut off limbs and clear out wild roots and other such things that might vex me. I am in the picture holding the hatchet just before the cops knocked me down with those blasted rubber bullets. Dreadful! There is no denying it. And the blood covering my hands. Oh how horrible! The arresting officer testified that I must have used the ax; they have these pictures to prove it! Therefore, I wake up in this horrible place, a killer, a condemned man on death row. I try to make sense of it, but I don’t remember. I remember my wife and two children, Martha my devoted wife, Evelyn my daughter, and Franklin my son. How precious they are! I think we must have been a happy family, very close, but who can remember clearly under the circumstances? My thoughts are fractured. I don’t remember my friend the man they say I killed. They say we were friends until something happened. No one can tell me what happened. Most distressful! If only I knew the reason, maybe it would help.
And now, at this very moment, I stare at the unadorned calendar hanging on the cinder-block wall. Someone has X’d out the days and circled today’s date with a red marker pen, most curious! I don’t remember those days, those X’s. And yet, here I am. There is no denying the fact, in this six foot by nine foot cell, like an oversize grave, and I just now, this very moment, awake into this nightmare. And there, there’s the dinner tray, several empty plates, the remains of a rib steak, the bone gnawed clean, cake crumbs (double fudge, my favorite!); it’s all gone too, like the last minutes of a succulent life. But, no matter! For some strange reason, my stomach is bloated; I am not the least bit hungry. Astonishingly, I hold the plastic fork in my hand. See, there it is, floating in front of my face. And this plastic knife in my right hand. Very odd and frightening to awake this way!
Now, I hear noise down the dark hallway. It’s a heavy door opening on rusty hinges. There are footsteps on the concrete passageway echoing on the block walls, closer and closer, louder and louder, until they stop outside my cell. In the next cell I hear nervous rustling. Someone gets up off a creaking mattress and urinates, pee splashing in the toilet bowl; a man breathes out a long sigh like pain or relief or resolution. Now, a key clinks in my lock and a prison guard opens the door. “James, it’s time.” Indeed, my name is James. I can’t deny that. But why am I here now? Where are we going? “No!” I close my eyes to escape the nightmare. When I open my eyes again, in an instant, I’m lying on a sanitary table under white lights, in a white room.
Yes, this is my arm. I know the scar on my left thumb. I burned my thumb playing with my mother’s cigarette lighter when I was ten years old. Most amazing! Most horrifying! This really is me. Here I am at this very moment, my arms and legs held fast with leather straps. I do not struggle. I cooperate completely. I want to show them that I am not a violent man. Certainly, I am not capable of violence, of that heinous crime. Now, the alcohol swab to prevent infection which causes me to laugh hysterically. And now, the needle. You see how my vein bulges and offers itself! I am not a bad person. I am docile. I am civilized and docile. But this nightmare is terrible! If only I could remember. If only I could wake up.
“Mr. Johnson, you’re going to feel a little prick.”
The needle pierces my vein and I flinch.
“Sorry.”
“That’s okay. Thank you.”
Thank you? It seems to me that someone else is speaking, but it is me. I see a trickle of blood. This really is happening to me. A sober man wearing a stethoscope around his neck hooks me up most efficiently. I see the clear plastic IV bag dripping saline solution. I see the yellow and red IV bag piggy-backed in, waiting for the signal.
“James, James.”
“They are coming to get me out of here. Coming to rescue me! Thank God they have come to their senses!”
“James, do you have anything you would like to say?”
I look through the glass. There are faces gaping at me. Excited faces. Terrible faces. My heart is pounding. In an exaggerated manner I mouth the words: “You are looking at yourselves!” And my shrill laughter bounces off the security glass. I am terrified. I can hardly breathe. It’s like a strong man has a tight grip on my throat.
“James, please pay attention. Do you have any last words?”
I struggle to say, “I can’t remember.”
“Okay, then,” the speaker on the wall says.
The truth is, I can’t remember. Doesn’t that count for something? Can they execute a man who doesn’t remember anything that’s happened for the past six years and six days? I must be dreaming this horrible nightmare, but I am not. For sixty seconds or longer, there is no sound. I begin to think the governor himself has telephoned. I’m innocent! They’ve called it off. All is well! But wait, what is that noise? I hear a disturbing “click,” “click,” “click.” Yes, three low clicks, followed by a soft humming motor. Over the door, a clock as big as a stop sign says 11:59 and 30 seconds, now 40 seconds. The yellow IV is flowing down into my waiting vein. I must receive it. I feel the burning liquid in my arm, now in my shoulder, now in my solar plexus, 11:59:50. Now I remember everything. My wife!
