Frustrated
Objective
Juan Carlos Catala
He knows numerous different ways to tie a knot. His
old profession, which demanded a lot of daring, requires it. He became an
expert, not only in tying but also untying every single knot that he'd
encounter every moment in his career. That's why this trick has been carefully
planned. It's the first time he's attempted it and he doesn't want to fail.
Several years have passed since the last time he had
to tie an important knot. Now his hands are executing this task once again.
Although his fingers move with absolute certainty through the damp rope -- made
this way to increase its resistance -- his slow reflexes betray his commitment.
His nervous system also delays him. But he has already made up his mind.
All of his body weight is placed on a wooden table
with long, metal legs that lifts him four feet off the floor. The table is
three feet in diameter. He kneels and balances himself, trying to stay stable.
His ankles and arms are tied together behind him. His body is contorted into a triangle.
As he prepares, there's no audience to applaud him.
Cries and cheers are not heard. In his not-so-distant past, the yells
resounded:
"That's nothing for you, Zor!"
"That is easy!"
"That's no challenge!"
This time silence surrounds him.
He's not on a stage or in a stadium, nor two
thousand feet above the ocean. He's in his own apartment. He resides in a lower
Manhattan neighborhood where boarded-up windows and broken glass on the streets
and sidewalks are common. Graffiti is scrawled on brick and cement walls:
"Jennifer loves Pedro," "Latesha + Tommy"…along with the
usual four-letter words. Hope left this hood a few decades ago.
He is completely alone. Today Zor has no assistants to help him.
No paramedics will arrive to rescue him if something
doesn't go as planned, which happened during his last two shows, when he was
advised to retire for his own good.
He knows the risk. But he has decided it's worth it
for what he wants to take. His…own life.
A life plagued with frustrations, losses and
disillusionment that he doesn't want to continue.
For this reason, the natural-colored, one-inch-wide rope
he's using to do the procedure suspends from the ceiling of the small studio
apartment. Two ancient metal hooks that once held two 75-pound chandeliers are
nailed into the ceiling, a few feet away from each other. They are conveniently
placed for his final performance. That's why the rope starts with a knot
drawing his hands and feet together, toward the back of his body, then runs in
a forty-five-degree angle up to the ceiling. It passes the first hook, goes to
the other one, and drops vertically down to his head, ending in a large
hangman's noose which floats half an inch away from his face. He hits the noose
softly with his forehead as he looks over his shoulder to examine the knot in
his hands, reassuring himself that everything is ready. As he moves, the rope
sways slightly back and forth.
Now he places his head inside the twelve-inch-wide
noose, proceeding to lower his body at short intervals and adjusting the rope
around the skin of his neck.
Ending this ritual, he takes a deep breath and holds
it for a few seconds, then lets the air puff out of his mouth. He's resigned.
"All I have to do now is throw myself to one side and end this," he
thinks.
Seeking a few seconds of relief, the man closes his
red, exhausted eyes. Tears well up in each eye but take a few seconds to escape
his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. He can't believe he has a single tear
left to shed.
He's spent several hours without sleep or rest,
drinking rum instead. He's passed hours in delirium. Blurry images fill his
mind, confusing him even more. He can't concentrate on one thought for more
than two seconds. He's ready to end it once and for all.
With his sight still hazy, he manages to focus on a
poster tacked to the wall. He sees a photograph of himself, covered from head
to toe in ropes, chains and padlocks. The title at the top reads: "ZOR, the Escape Magician." A
tiny smile comes to his lips for a few seconds. Then it vanishes as if the
smile was never there.
Feeling nostalgia wash over him like a spring rain,
he scans the 900-square-foot apartment. Bright-colored outfits are spilled all
over the floor. A black leather sofa he and his wife bought 20 years ago at an
upscale furniture store and two brown recliners with threadbare arms and dark
stains from his shoes also occupy the room. A body-sized, wooden trunk, painted
gold but with noticeable paint chips in several spots, sits unused in a corner.
A few of his magic tricks still inhabit the interior. A thirty-six-inch by
twenty-four-inch, silver-colored box several months ago held at least fifteen
gold-plated and pewter awards, plaques and other trophies which recognized his
art. Baffled, he sees the empty box but doesn't know where they are now; nor
can he recall that he sold them.
On the otherwise-bare, dusty living room wall hangs
a five-foot-tall poster of his wife Rita. She smiles during their honeymoon
days on Antigua, where they stayed in a small cabin just a half mile from the
Caribbean Sea. He is standing beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.
His eyes look at her, absorbed in her beauty. He'd asked a 14-year-old island
boy to snap the photo. But now the picture hangs askew, with shattered glass
showing where he's thrown projectiles at it with anger and frustration. He
grimaces now when he thinks of Rita.
For years, Rita had warned him that if he wouldn't
quit drinking and stop throwing temper tantrums, she would leave. One day, she
packed her suitcases because she had found a shiny, new love with his agent, of
all men. In his delirium, they talk
through this photo since the day she left. He's fuzzy on how many years have
passed. She used a lawyer to communicate
with him just once. He refuses to sign the divorce papers but even so, she
vanished from his life.
Now he appears very different than he did on his
honeymoon, thanks to the copious gray hair that sprouts from his head and
two-thirds of his face that he hasn't trimmed in a long while. His beard has
numerous knots and a couple of food particles enmeshed in it. His body once
weighed a trim 180 pounds, now, though, it's at least 60 pounds underweight.
His gentle face is covered with veins and redness that demonstrate his love for
the demon rum. He looks much older than he should. Now he thinks: "Fifty
years of life are too much. Going on living the way I have been is not only
insane but shameful."
Thanks to the bottle, he has lost his wife, most of
his old friends, his artistic abilities and gigs, his relatives and even the
notion of whom he'd once been. Depression and despair have taken not only his
self-esteem. His assets, including a five-bedroom condominium, were all
confiscated because of the debts he's amassed. A newspaper hasn't mentioned his
name for at least ten years, when he suffered a breakdown and had to be
hospitalized. Although his name was once known throughout the English-speaking
world as one of the greatest escape artists ever, hardly a soul would recall
the name Zor now. Is that a cartoon character? many people would ask. His own
mother wouldn't recognize him, even if he hadn't been orphaned when he was
eight years old.
But he's not reminiscing about his traumatic past
and how he's come to this rock-bottom end. The alcohol flowing in his
bloodstream doesn't allow him to think clearly. He can't remember the last time
he concentrated on anything for more than 30 seconds. Except, of course, for
making this knot.
He stares down at an empty rum bottle on the floor;
he feels that emptiness in his heart. The bottle seems to stare at him as a
witness. He has piled other bottles into a dusty corner of the apartment. Most
of them are covered with dust, with the liquor in brown drops congealed on
their sides. He has spent more time with them than anything else the last few
years.
On his scratched, pine dining room table, he's
placed a tarnished silver candelabra, an oversized bouquet of silk purple
hydrangeas, dusty white plates and silverware and a few cloth napkins. All of
them are in disarray, as if a child pushed them aside during a fit of rage.
Wrinkled, torn envelopes and letters complete the tabletop tableau.
On top of these items lies an eviction notice to
vacate the apartment. He had more than enough time to leave but couldn't do it
by himself. His electric, gas and water bills all scream "last
notice" in red ink.
Angrily and with a sigh, he dries his tears with the
shoulder of his faded, gray tee shirt. Then he throws his head to his right
side. He begins to count: "Ten…nine…eight... " Images pass through
his mind quickly, some from his childhood and others from his adult years.
His life has become a nightmare, playing like an
endless tape, starting each morning at dawn and ending in the oblivion of
restless sleep. The present days have dimmed any joy he had yesterday.
He's attempting a trick that he knows will be definite.
This time it's not an act. It's his final escape.
It is nearly six o'clock in the afternoon and his
apartment interior grows dark. Outside of the brownstone building, people move
quickly to their destinations. New York City's traffic is heavy as people leave
their office buildings and spew onto the sidewalks of lower Manhattan, heading
to the subways, taxis or to walk home. Voices rise; laughs and shouts ring out.
Inside his apartment, however, all is silent. Zor
breaks it with a soft sob. A drop of mucus oozes from his nose.
"Seven…six…five…" He resumes counting
down. He realizes that it won't be long now. He has made the last decision
he'll ever make. "Four…three…" He's distracted by the sweat trickling
down his cheeks and involuntarily he raises his shoulder slightly and jerks his
head to the side, trying to swipe it. He glances toward an upper corner of the
room, towards the rail adorning the top of a battered oak armoire.
In that precise moment , through the rail, he espies
a hidden bottle of rum. Because of the armoire's height, he couldn't see it
from the floor. From his position kneeling on the table, however, he can focus
on the clear bottle filled with orange-brown liquid. He feels a sudden,
incredible urge to drink from it. His saliva glands respond automatically.
With rapid clarity, he recalls one of the arguments
he had with his wife about his drinking. This rum bottle had disappeared
without a trace. Although he searched for it for several days afterward, he
never saw it again. Now he convinces himself that he had not once opened and
tasted it. Rita will never know it but this seems as if she's trying to help
him one more time.
He sees her eyes staring at him from the poster,
making him feel ashamed. He starts to
shake and loses his balance. Trying to regain it, the table slips out from
under him. Abruptly he finds himself in the air. The rope violently yanks up
his head, hands and feet while his belly plummets to the floor. His body contorts
into a grotesque horseshoe. His stomach stops just six inches from the wooden
floor.
The table bangs on the floor, obscuring the sound of
an aching sigh trapped in his throat. The rope tightens around his neck as gravity
takes effect.
Although everything has gone according to plan, he's
been taken by surprise. He panics.
He used to stay calm because he had to act quickly
to escape death. This time, though, he's so frightened that his mind is blank
and incapable of transmitting the tiniest coherent message.
Furiously and feebly, he tries to untie the knot on
his hands. His inebriation delays his reflexes. He violently pitches his body
between the two ropes, only inches from the floor. His belly grazes it as gravity
pulls his body even further downward.
As the rope forcefully squeezes his neck, his face
turns red. Blood accumulates in his veins and his eyes pop open, straining against
his eyelids. His brain receives images but they are only shapes. They don't
make any sense. The rope increases its pressure and narrows, pulling against
the hooks on the ceiling.
Everything is working perfectly. His body hangs
grotesquely with his head pulled several inches backward by the rope, and the
weight of his hands and his feet. The man considers whether he has any chance
of stabilizing his position and saving himself. But that's out of the question.
The rope breaking would be his only salvation.
Quiet grunts buried in the lower part of his throat
are unable to escape his lips as his face burns a burgundy red.
The struggle intensifies. He realizes how desperate
the situation is. His eyes feel as if they'll explode but they seek the rum
bottle on top of the armoire. Still this vision is secondary to the lack of
oxygen. He's realized, too late, that he is not ready to die.
He opens his mouth, trying to inhale the precious
air he needs but the rope around his neck continues to tighten. His tongue is
forced out as the area is constricted. His mind no longer controls his movements. The nervous system has taken
charge.
Uncontrollable spasms roll through his body. Exhaustion
starts to take its inevitable toll. His hands no longer move, his eyes no
longer see images. Instead, everything in the room becomes dark. Bloodshot eyes
quickly roll upward, a notice that their job is finished. Little evidence of a
struggle remains.
One final spasm occurs, followed by a deep, internal
groan that indicates the end has come. The man's body relaxes.
Silence creeps into the apartment. Everything is ended.
In reality it had ended many years ago. Just now… life…is gone.
The
End
_____________________
Bio: Juan Carlos Catala. I'm a writer and musician. Born in 1962, I'm one of
nine children. I was raised in Guaynabo, Puerto Rico, a suburb of San Juan. But
I've also resided in New York City and Tampa, Florida; now I call Clearwater,
Florida, home.I was inspired to write this story after two close friends committed suicide by hanging themselves.