Photo Finish   

My body is falling apart. I have two to three weeks until it happens. With a margin of error of about that much time, I stopped thinking about it when I left the last mountain in my rearview. I don’t really know where I’m headed, but I promised myself that I’d see the coast before I left. Dunno why though, but I procrastinated. 

    It’s an odd feeling, for sure. Why in the world would I do that when I have so little time? Why would I do any of this, really? I could’ve bought myself a month or two if I stayed in my bed, but I’ve never been the type to eat through my blood. It feels cold.

    I’ve hurt people. I’ve lost people. For some, no apology in the world’ll help. To those, I say you’ll probably be happy to hear about it when it happens. I can think of a couple of people who’ve been waiting for it. 

No one didn’t hear the news. Maybe I’m just overestimating my importance. The only note I left was a hastily signatured stain across a urinal wall.

    God I smell. Like one of those homeless guys on the subway. I always felt bad for them, but I don’t think it quite clicked until I found myself on the road- either I’m naught like them or they’re naught like me. I’m like some kind of banshee gunning my Harley 80 on a 60.

    I’ve tried not to break hearts in these towns, but I guess there’s nothing better to do than latch onto a cold, mysterious stranger. Not enough time to fall in love, but more than enough to see the disappointment on their faces after I leave the bar early. I only ask for water anyways. I don’t want to smudge the last of my clarity with that stuff. Already low on sleep. Hard to do anything about that though.

I like to gaze out at the distance like some kind of grizzled cowboy. The yellow horizon gives the bloody rocks these little halos as it rises. They’re so blinding that I have to pull over every once in a while- both to let ‘em pass and make sure I’m not the one passing. Wonder what a cowboy would think about having more horsepower than they have horses.  

Got famous at 25 so I don’t think I ever had a good feel for ambition. Never really had time to rest or think. I was the boy running my county’s ballot box when the greatest political upset in 50 years happened.

What am I waiting for? Honestly, if only I could’ve been so patient. Maybe I would’ve at least had a paddle here. Ambition’s a tricky thing.

Things were simple at first. The neighborhood filtered in then out, casting votes and cigarette butts in equal measure.

It was only by evening when the first curious reporters came snooping around. I don’t remember why but they mentioned some kind of delay. Heard rumors that a power outage trashed half the state’s electronic votes. The next day, there were a few more reporters and a few voters who we’d already seen. Bothered the shit out of our poll manager. He swore he’d flash his pistol. By noon, there were a dozen cameras on us. Apparently our state was among the last three to finish counting, and our county was among the last few in our state. Guess the media was just hedging their bets.

The bets paid off. Big time. By day three of whatever it was, I was getting sick of it. As much as the extra hourly pay was nice and all, I could only take so much standing and withstanding all the attention. We were officially the last state. I swear I hadn’t ever even seen half that many people in my whole life. I couldn’t count, hell I couldn’t even breathe. The air was thick with city perfume and whispers I could hear four walls away. They didn’t let the reporters anywhere near the back rooms.

On day four- and frankly, I couldn’t have ever imagined a day four, the whole state was handed a recount order. Now if I had to describe my manager’s facial expression, I’d pin it somewhere between tomato and my grandpa’s elbow skin. He almost quit on the spot. And he would’ve, if there wasn’t word of mouth that he’d be hung for it. Well, about as close to hung as you could be with the media circus brewing in the background.

The evening went on forever. I could tell there was something in the air. It scared me. I went around out back for a smoke break. Now keep in mind, I’ve never touched the things before or since, but they wouldn’t let me take time out otherwise. Borrowed a cigarette from the boss on his way back in. I coughed and watched the street fill up with vans and trucks. Weird antennas and equipment galore. I swear it was like first contact and we were the Roswell greymen.

I stopped smoking early, but kept my break up late. At some point, I decided to head back inside. I smelled smoke. A different kind. Ran to the back room with all the storage shelves. Saw my manager holding a lit cigarette over the last couple of sealed boxes. I asked him what. He said none’ya. I asked why. He gave me a black eye.

I was on the ground. My face turned blue. His turned redder. He pressed the cigarette to the box until it started to smoke. I stood up. He walked forward. Somewhere in the next few seconds, he was out cold and I was putting out the fire in the box. I turned around to see a lone camera on me. Must’ve forgotten how nervous I was because I said don’t worry, I got him. It was live.

People forget how suspicious the whole thing actually was- or maybe the media frenzy was just more interesting than the facts of the matter. A backroom brawl, a reporter overstepping her boundaries. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had apparently saved our democracy. Or something like that. All I cared about was that there was one last day of counting. I winced the whole way home in the dark, rural silence.

I came into work the next day through a parade of bright flashes and a jungle of microphones. Thought it was good old patriotism. It wasn’t until I shoved my way into the building that I saw the clip. Right there on the tiny lobby TV of this converted dentist’s clinic, I saw the words POLL HERO STOPS ELECTION SABOTEUR. Took a lot more hits than I remember. At least thrice as many as I had bruises. Somehow, the other guy came out of it a whole lot worse off. I learned that I hit like a kid who just found a spider on their nose. Just like that, the fight was over and the votes were saved. I turned to the camera and said don’t worry I got him. And that was that. 

The other poll workers turned to stare at me, expecting a rousing speech. I shrugged at them and said it’s work. I took up the manager’s card and went into the back room for the count. Didn’t expect cameras. Who cares if it’s illegal, it’s good television. I sorted the last box live behind a flimsy partition. They were talking numbers. Red, blue, red, blue. One takes the lead and then the other. I wasn’t a politics guy, so I never knew the election was that close. 

    Have to admit, I got kind of nervous at the last few ballots. Red, blue, red, blue. And then it happened. The moment I’d see over and over again for the rest of my life. I counted the last ballot and glanced at the two colored cards the media  prepared for me. The room was silent. For a moment, I was alone on the other side of the partition. Past the cardboard, twice a dozen cameras sat there, eyes gaping. Behind those, a few hundred million people eagerly awaited my call.  I lifted the corresponding card, and the room went white for a solid minute.

    The single hand of an everyman raising a card above the darkness.

    I swear I could still buy a t-shirt with that image in some kitschy novelty shop. Wouldn’t get any royalties from it though, not that I needed the money after that. I got paid a king’s ransom for interviews, took cameos in the year’s popular films, was sponsored by everything from shoes to squeez cheez. And just when I thought my fifteen minutes of fame were up, the feeding frenzy continued.

You see, in the meantime, I had married the reporter who made me famous. She wasn’t half bad looking, and she was smarter than me by a mile. Plus, it was hard to relate to anyone else, and things were nice for a while. We got along. A year. Two years. Things were working out, except that she wanted to move to the coast. The fact that she became a He was the smaller matter of the two. I just can’t stand the ocean. Nothing personal, I said. I understand, He replied. I nodded and kept packing. Life.

 And apparently ours was everyone’s business. Tabloids flew off shelves, reporters stood on desks. What I thought was cut and dry and personal turned into a national discussion. I heard He lost his job. The president called, sounded real pressed for time. Told me that the country wasn’t ready for it, and that some fights are better left unchosen.  I was in no mood to talk after that, but then He called. He convinced me that love had to win, even if I wasn’t so keen on the whole deal at first. Plus, talkshows paid. At first, I felt bad for Him. Then, I realized that I could still help.

The Heroes of Democracy became the Heroes of Love just in time for the midterm campaigns. When we first moved to the coast, I thought it was gonna be until the cameras got bored. But then He ran for congress. And He won. Silent fast food dinners turned into formals and simple walks into press briefings. I hated it. 

First things first, I didn’t even know how to put on a tie. And even after He gave me a bunch of etiquette lessons, I’d slip out with blunt opinions and curses. Let me tell you, those political types can never just say what they mean. Grew old real fast pretending I didn’t want to punch out those obnoxious geezers. But I kept it in, at least until we got home. There, we’d always have a little ritual.

First, we’d wave the cameras goodbye. Hang up our coats, change our clothes, and discuss how we did that night, taking our mistakes into account for tomorrow’s battleplan. Then, we’d shake hands and slip out of the house in secret to see our respective mistresses. This wasn’t a bad time at all. As I said, we got along plenty. It felt more like making a living hanging out with a friend than balancing an increasingly intricate series of plates.

He was really good at balancing, though, so He decided to take on even more plates. Mayor- no, Governor. The campaign trail was tough as a mother, and the opposition was a nasty sonofabitch. The incumbent came from old money and almost twenty years in that very seat after getting rid of the state’s term limit. But He was the face of love, and He was determined. It brought back some memories when the vote came down real close. But He won. We won. Earned us a lot of good press when we recreated the card of democracy photo to celebrate both ours and its fifth anniversaries. 

It got a lot harder to sneak out when we left the governor’s mansion. Didn’t bother Him nearly as much as it bothered me, though. But I couldn’t complain. I was living the high life. It’s not often that a well-liked politician is also a beloved celebrity. Good thing too, because it made it a hell of a lot easier to swallow just how far He wanted to push the bar. The momentum from the news helped Him pass the bill he’d been fighting for. And things kept going swimmingly up until the headaches started.

He claimed it was just stress, and I believed Him. But stressors came and went, and the pain stayed, worsening month by month. His mistress pushed Him to see a doctor, and they found something. I didn’t learn of it until a few days later when He sat me down for a talk.

Might be fine, might be a few months left. I nodded and said I understood. But I didn’t. I guess I still don’t, even though it’s happening to me. We’d get through this. It was a promise. Governance waits for no man, and the administration needs to stay strong. The public is strictly not to know for now. That now, of course, lasted about a good month before the treatments pushed Him into the inevitable announcement. Though a little shaken, the public seemed like they’d weather the storm together with their leader. And I was ready to put on the greatest public show of strength this side of a tire toss. Unfortunately, it just so happened that I was on a diplomatic visit to Costa Rica with my mistress when I was informed of the news.

 I’d been found out. 

Apparently, a particularly clever reporter managed to trail me one night, catching the whole courtship on tape from dinner to one thing leading to another. Not only that, but they uncovered receipts that would point to the coverup of His early illness. I was scared and I was angry and I don’t know what I was thinking. I chased down the mobs, beat the cameras out of their hands. I screamed until I couldn’t and my mistress had to drag me offscreen. It was decided. 

I would take the fall for Him. 

Upon my return to the States I found myself a pariah, a traitor now to pundits and people on both sides of the aisle. I was ushered into a silent hotel stay as the divorce papers proceeded in the background. Would’ve been a waste of a lawyer if I didn’t also ask for marriage papers. In the wake of all the hullabaloo, my mistress-to-be-Mrs. decided that She wouldn’t go down without a fight. Face to face with Him, She swayed the audience of the nation’s third most popular talkshow with a speech about how true love can change. It was no coincidence that She was a stage actress of some acclaim beforehand. 

With public opinion firmly confused, the situation was soon forgotten in the trail of a hurricane in the Bahamas and shooting in Kentucky. I had one last call with Him in which told me the treatments were going well and that there were no hard feelings, really. But I heard it in His voice, I was to blame for being careless. Figuring that it’s best for us to move on, me and the Mrs. relocated to Hollywood for Her career. It seems that in her brief stint as a household name, She was able to secure a couple B-tier roles. 

I felt kind of useless watching her work her way up from film to film, but my only skills were being famous and being me. Suffice it to say, the combination was not good for my career prospects. It’s no coincidence that I picked up my bike hobby during this time. I’d ride out from our crummy apartment next to the rumbling highway and wander aimlessly along the miles of concrete and 2-story buildings. I saw not only muggings and streetfights, but also tearful reunions and family barbecues. In a way, it felt like I was finally part of regular society.

It was right about the time that He narrowly lost his reelection bid that She found her first major role. When I first heard that she’d be starring as the villainess Mistresserpent, I had a few questions. But typecasting or not, She replied, it’s the reboot of a classic spy series and the script looks both marketable and nuanced. Seeing as how there was no further discussion, I tried my best to be supportive. 

After a couple grueling months of snack-fetching during filming and a few more of shoulder massages through post, I finally got to attend the closed screening. It felt like she stormed the role and stole every scene she was in. Suffice it to say, the audience felt the same. She was an instant star, and they gave her two more movies to prove her worth. I was glad that her efforts paid off, though I was worried about how six years of production would impact her. She said she’d be fine, so I just tried to keep out of the way, as I’ve had more than enough of that kind of spotlight for one lifetime. 

Somewhere around the end of the first year, I tossed around the idea of a memoir. Somewhere around year three, I tossed around the rough draft of a memoir. Somewhere around year four, it was rejected by every publisher that either of us had connections at or could think of. And just when I couldn’t feel any shittier, I heard that He was playing himself in a “based on a true story” serial about the rights movement. She told me to calm down. I told her that she doesn’t understand me. 

After mulling things over for a few days while she was on set, I called her to apologize. She said she’d call me back. She did not. One day I felt a little lonely, so I drove out to where they were shooting. I kept out of the way for a few days straight just to get the chance to speak to her. Finally got through on the final day of filming. She apologized for being so cold and broke down in my arms. It was just a tough time and she didn’t want to drag me down. Couldn’t blame her. She invited me to the shooting wrap party.

We arrived early and stayed late. There were all sorts of suits and coots there, but I stayed clear of pliants that might make me a little too honest. And then out of nowhere, I lost track of her. She musta disappeared into that dancing whirlwind of girls too young and guys too old. When I found her, she was acting weird again, and she was hanging around the similarly weird Director. It was impossible to pry her away, so all I could do was stick by her side. I forgot how it happened, but they convinced me to have what she was having. The next half an hour is a little fuzzy in my memory, and it sure doesn’t help that it’s been a while, but this is what I remember. 

We were in a backroom and things were warm. Too warm. So we went out on the veranda to see the sparkling city. We got dizzy looking down from the top of the hills and stumbled back across the party. I vaguely recall a plan to go for a swim in the pool before an instinct in my gut overpowered me, taking us to the cars outside. Me and her piled into her convertible and that’s the last thing I remember before the gap. 

I came to and found myself strapped to the mint-condition driver’s side of a smoking wreck. In between lapses of consciousness I heard the sirens arrive. I was alone in the hospital. Even through their veneer of professionalism, it was obvious that the nurses were keeping me at arm’s length. My only company was the maddeningly small television hanging from the ceiling of the room. Even as my condition improved, I heard no news about her. Instead, a neurologist came by and informed me that there was something concerning in my tests. 

I was released into a taxi and arrived at an empty home. I didn’t bother checking the papers, nor did I attend the candlelight vigil or the premier. Heard from the Director that her family wanted to keep her on the pumps. Her will said otherwise. The paper didn’t say a thing about me so I figured it was none of my business. But my business never seems to stay mine.

Next thing I know, I’m on TV again, a double pariah- but the only one that would know Her will better than her estranged mom. There was a procedure available that could partially resuscitate her. Thing is, it could kill our son. Now I didn’t know we had neither a kid nor a chance, so the whole thing hit me kinda hard. All the while, the media had their noses so far down my neck they could probably tell what I ate for dinner yesterday. I sat there for a couple days straight just staring at a wall. Shivering at the thought of all those eyes peering in at me. Wondering if there’s some reporter that’s going to start their life of fame and influence off the back of my breakdown.

I didn’t want to lose Her, so I did the only thing I could. The religious crowd didn’t like that, I’ll tell you what. And the rest of the crowd didn’t like me to begin with. Guess everyone thought I was trying to have my cake and eat it too. So I sat, and I waited. It was another couple weeks of staring at the wall. Our son didn’t make it, but She did. At least that’s what the Director told me. Her mother’s wish had finally come true in a way. I figure she’s living a comfortable, if severely limited life in that woman’s controlling clutches. Heard the biography they released is selling like hotcakes. 

After that I was alone. Moved back to the sticks to mope between appointments and silent rides through the countryside. It started with me losing sleep, all feeling in my toes, and some random memories. I could tell you Their birthdays but not my own. Not that it’d matter much considering I wouldn’t see mine anyways. As I went to my last appointment, I mulled over how I kept making the wrong choices. Then, the thought dawned on me that I haven’t had much of a choice in anything this whole time. With time being the operative word, I left the moment they finished taking my temperature. 

I packed a bag, cashed my bank, and revved up my Harley. In all my time on the west coast, I had somehow never been to the ocean.

The gulls screech amid predatory dives into reeking tide pools. Salt and woodrot are king under the boardwalk. I can’t taste the wind though. I can barely feel my limbs. But after being carried around my whole life, I walked to the only place I could find peace. I sit with my sore back against a hard rock by the sea. 

I’m kind of glad I kept it for last. The burnt sun I could reach out, grab, and put in my pocket. The ghostly waves that lick at my legs. The hypnotizing horizon and the infinite expanse of the sea. It’s exactly like the pictures. 

I may have run out of time, but the sea will still be there.