Ersatz: A Burned Out Light Bulb

I put down the book and rolled onto my side. The window was dirty, and the lights from the streets below, the ones to the south that I had memorized, were hazy and blurry. Had I needed a clearer view, I would have reached for a rag, a substance full of ammonia or bleach; but I preferred it that way: disguising the truth.

The truth is hard to tell. I think I’ve obscured it so far off from its original form, that had it been made of clay, a perfect figure with all its limbs attached, it would now be a torso that lacked the necessary parts to escape my reconfiguring of it all. I have this way of altering things to my whim, to the way I need them to be; it is not a gift.

He sat in the window and stared into the sky as if trying to take it down with his gaze—that’s how I would write him; but the truth is, he was just leaning against the wall and there was no window in sight. And when I wrote that he looked at me, smiled, and ran the back of his hand against his cheek as if trying to wipe away food, the truth was there was no smile at all, just a straight look, a blankness, a lack of recognition. It would be as though we had never met, as if we’d just bumped shoulders one night in a bar.

I find my version of him in the protagonist of my favorite books, and I, somehow, draw myself into the mix. I’m the table beneath his flat palm, the whiskey he drinks, and the moisture from his bottom lip that is left on the rim of a glass. I’m the streets on which he walks; I’m the burned out light bulb in his bedroom, the one he can’t quite reach to replace. No one wants to be a burned out light bulb.

I use him. I make no apologies for this, nor will I ever write the ending as it will actually be. He’ll be taller or shorter, his skin will be darker or lighter, the scars will find themselves to other parts of his body, and he’ll be wearing a red sweater—this part I’ve already decided. There will be a sidewalk involved, but I won’t be in the makeup of it; I will not be locked down in gravel and dirt. I will probably wear something extravagant, like a gown I can’t afford and have no reason to be wearing at all. And the music, the song that will play during the credits, during the acknowledgements, during the endless thank yous that won’t bear his name, will be something only he will understand.

The chosen font of the words will have no meaning; the time of day will not serve as a backdrop that hints at a sequel. But the front window of the store, the one that will be just off to the left of this finale, will be smudged with fingerprints; and the fluorescent lights just on the other side will be brighter than necessary. Yes, I think that will do.