Part 25 (1/2)

Of course, when I pulled the trigger, I died.

Liar.

And Tyler died.

With the police helicopters thundering toward us, and Marla and all the support group people who couldn't save themselves, with all of them trying to save me, I had to pull the trigger.

This was better than real life.

And your one perfect moment won't last forever.

Everything in heaven is white on white.

Faker.

Everything in heaven is quiet, rubber-soled shoes.

I can sleep in heaven.

People write to me in heaven and tell me I'm remembered. That I'm their hero. I'll get better.

The angels here are the Old Testament kind, legions and lieutenants, a heavenly host who works in s.h.i.+fts, days, swing. Graveyard. They bring you your meals on a tray with a paper cup of meds. The Valley of the Dolls playset.

I've met G.o.d across his long walnut desk with his diplomas hanging on the wall behind him, and G.o.d asks me, ”Why?”

Why did I cause so much pain?

Didn't I realize that each of us is a sacred, unique snowflake of special unique specialness?

Can't I see how we're all manifestations of love?

I look at G.o.d behind his desk, taking notes on a pad, but G.o.d's got this all wrong.

We are not special.

We are not c.r.a.p or trash, either.

We just are.

We just are, and what happens just happens.

And G.o.d says, ”No, that's not right.”

Yeah. Well. Whatever. You can't teach G.o.d anything.

G.o.d asks me what I remember.

I remember everything.

The bullet out of Tyler's gun, it tore out my other cheek to give me a jagged smile from ear to ear. Yeah, just like an angry Halloween pumpkin. j.a.panese demon. Dragon of Avarice.

Marla's still on Earth, and she writes to me. Someday, she says, they'll bring me back.

And if there were a telephone in Heaven, I would call Marla from Heaven and the moment she says, ”h.e.l.lo,” I wouldn't hang up. I'd say, ”Hi. What's happening? Tell me every little thing.”

But I don't want to go back. Not yet.

Just because.

Because every once in a while, somebody brings me my lunch tray and my meds and he has a black eye or his forehead is swollen with st.i.tches, and he says: ”We miss you Mr. Durden.”

Or somebody with a broken nose pushes a mop past me and whispers: ”Everything's going according to the plan.”

Whispers: ”We're going to break up civilization so we can make something better out of the world.”

Whispers: ”We look forward to getting you back.”

Afterword.

HE LEANED FORWARD, his breath the smell of whiskey drunk straight from the bottle. His mouth never all the way closed. His blue eyes never more than half open. His one hand held a coiled loop of rope, the old hemp kind, blond as his hair. Yellow as his cowboy hat. The cowboy kind of rope, and he shook the rope in my face as he talked. Behind him, an open door showed a flight of stairs that went down into the dark. his breath the smell of whiskey drunk straight from the bottle. His mouth never all the way closed. His blue eyes never more than half open. His one hand held a coiled loop of rope, the old hemp kind, blond as his hair. Yellow as his cowboy hat. The cowboy kind of rope, and he shook the rope in my face as he talked. Behind him, an open door showed a flight of stairs that went down into the dark.

He was young with a flat stomach, wearing a white T-s.h.i.+rt and brown cowboy boots with thick heels. His hair, blond under the straw cowboy hat. A belt with a big metal buckle holding up blue jeans. His skinny white arms, tanned smooth as the pointed toe on each cowboy boot.

His eyes veined with a forest of little red lines, he says to grab hold of the rope and grip it-tight. And pulling the rope, he starts down, his cowboy heels hammer a step, then another step, another hard wooden knock into the dark bas.e.m.e.nt. There, in the dark, dragging me, his breath the whiskey smell, the same as the cotton ball in a doctor's office, the cold touch of rubbing alcohol the moment before an injection.

There, another step into the dark, the cowboy says, ”The first rule of the Haunted Tunnel Tour is you don't talk about the Haunted Tunnel Tour.”

And I stop. The rope still a loose sagging smile between us.

”And the second rule of the Haunted Tunnel Tour,” the cowboy, his whiskey smell says, ”is you don't talk about the Haunted Tunnel Tour....”

The rope, the feeling of braided fibers, is twisted hard and greasy smooth in my hand. And still stopped, pulling back on the rope, I tell him: Hey...

From the dark, the cowboy says, ”Hey, what?”

I say, I wrote that book.

The rope between us going tighter, tighter, tight.

And the rope stops the cowboy. From the dark, he says, ”Wrote what?”

Fight Club, I tell him. I tell him.

And there, the cowboy takes a step back up. The knock of his boot on a step, closer. He tilts his hat back for a better look and pushes his eyes at me, blinking fast, his breath boilermaker strong, breathalyzer strong, he says: ”There was a book? a book?”

Yes.