Jennifer L. Knox
Friend of the Devil
Ron was last seen circling the shelves inside
a Quik Trip near Lutsen. “He seemed lost,”
the clerk said. The gas pump camera showed
Mary, Ron’s wife, slumped down in their car,
but we’ll never learn how Ron, 81, with dementia,
managed to get Mary, 79, half-paralyzed,
into the passenger seat. An adrenaline-soaked
feat of strength, or will—must’ve been
an ugly, grunting driveway dance. On the radio,
their son begs listeners for tips. “They won’t last
long without their pills…” then we’re back
to the Grateful Dead Hour. “Attics of my Life.”
Though I spare you my story about taking a whizz
in the Anaheim Stadium parking lot on acid
back in ‘87—Petty and Dylan opened—I want to
re-re-retell it to you bad (“No one can see me!”),
I think, because my brain’s been scrambled by
fear. I watched a documentary about it on TV,
how a crying child left to cry never really stops,
never knows smooth soothing, lives in a state
of unarmored ever-fret until the helplessness
burns off and flips over in a beat to blackout
rage. So this quiet, loving thing—this glacially
slow forward movement unburdened by burning
and burying us—itches like hell. But you’re psyched
to drive to a nice sunny beach on Lake Superior
and get your feet wet like a normal person on vacation.
There’s a veil across the screen I perceive. Your
shirt’s already off, “Isn’t this great!” I stand there,
popping like water dropped in hot lard. Even if
you were as fogged-out as Ron, you’d be solid,
no sudden moves. You’d never be compelled
to pull a stunt like he did, but I would.
“I love you,” I say inside my head, which, back
in the rental car, comes out: “I know I’m capable
of killing someone for money.” “Where do you
come up with this stuff?” you ask, nowhere near
my damage, and turn the radio up before I can
reply, so I sing along with “Ripple” (if you fall,
you fall alone) until what I’m sure will be
bad news interrupts the song.