I’m still reading a book called Independence Day by Richard Ford. It’s taking me forever to get through it—partially because I’ve had a lot of deadlines to hit in recent weeks and therefore haven’t read as often as I prefer, and partially because it isn’t the type of book a person reads quickly. It’s 90% internal dialogue and introspection from protagonist Frank Bascombe—a divorced, middle-aged former sports writer who is now selling real estate and is in what he calls his “Existence Period.”
I read a scene in the book recently that really hit home. Frank has just fallen asleep after thinking about his ex-girlfriend who was recently murdered. He didn’t want their relationship to end, but it did. Much like he didn’t want his marriage to end, but it did also. With all of that running through his mind, he drifts off to sleep and here’s what happens:
“Suddenly my heart again goes bangety-bang, bangety-bangety-bang, as if I myself were about to exit life in a hurry. And if I could, I would spring up, switch on the light, dial someone and shout right down in the hard little receiver, ‘It’s okay. I got away. It was close, I’ll tell ya. It didn’t get me, though. I smelled its breath, saw its red eyes in the dark, shining. A clammy hand touched mine. But I made it. I survived. Wait for me. Wait for me. Not that much is left to do.’Only there’s no one. No one here or anywhere near to say any of this to. And I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.”
I imagine he’s just come face to face with the angel of death, and lived to tell about it. But he’s sorry that he has nobody to tell. He doesn’t say that he’s sad or devastated by this fact, instead he says he’s sorry—as if he has had a hand in his loneliness. And he did to some degree. His ex-girlfriend claimed he was boring and his ex-wife claimed that he “relies on how he makes things seem.” Frank seems to be willing to own both accusations. But when things got rough, and he felt like he was about to die during his dream, he was sorry for not being more aware of his faults and for not doing something about them.
I’ve never had anything that dramatic happen to me. But I have woken up, or gone to bed, wishing that I had somebody to explain my own trails and dilemmas to. And wishing that I had someone to listen to in return. When this happens, it causes me to think about the ways I’ve blown it in the past or to regret not trying harder when I’ve had the chance. But unlike with fiction, real life relationships, or potential relationships, rarely end with the clarity that Frank had. Sometimes, it’s hard to know what exactly went wrong. Other times, the reasons seemed clear at the time, but they’ve become fuzzy with age.
But, to be honest, I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about where I’ve gone wrong or wondering if I’ve made the wrong decision. I can’t change any of that now. And I believe I’m in a healthier state of mind than I’ve ever been, but that doesn’t necessarily stop moments like the one Frank had from slipping up on me once in a while.
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