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PROSE
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Anyway. I went to one of his Sea Cadet events. I stood there watching as he stood there staring.
He was at attention—immovable, focused, robotic...empty. The crowd watched as their CO ad-
dressed these pretend military members. I was in the front of the crowd straight across from Rid-
gely. I wanted to laugh. I felt nervous and proud. Those eyes did nothing. They were hardly even
staring: merely existing, without purpose.
I wished I had that discipline. I didn’t want to move. I did well for the most part. Silent tears, the
cold bar of the bed gripped firmly in my hand. Just an occasional involuntary tremor disturbed the
three and a half inch needle between my lumbar vertebrae. Half-inches certainly made a difference.
“It looks like the flow of the spinal fluid is pretty slow so we’ll need to leave the needle in a little
longer.”
There’s this scene in the 2002 Count of Monte Cristo where Abbe Faria tells Edmond that speed
is key. They crouch in their cold prison cell next to dripping water. The droplets are erratic and
unpredictably fast. Edmond is supposed to be faster. Abbe Faria, despite his age, easily swipes his
hand in and out—no water to be seen. Edmond is not so skilled.
I used to set my bathtub faucet so that it dripped like Edmond Dantes’ prison cell. I’d slice the air
with my hands, hoping their smallness would work to my advantage. I felt fast, but the water was
smarter, knowing exactly when to drip.
I wish my cerebral spinal fluid knew just as much as my leaky faucet. If I reached my hand behind
my back, I probably could have beaten the drip.
“I’m sorry; I can’t give you anesthetics while the tap is in place. We’re almost done, though. Hold
on.”
I once almost drowned while taking a lifeguard entrance test. I don’t know if that qualifies as irony,
but. The procedure of the test was simple. Two minutes to swim one hundred feet, dive twelve,
rescue the drowning brick, hold it at your chest above water, and return using only your legs. The