Piano Solo

When I go, she’s going to have time to think. Nobody has that around me. I’m too close, in your face, too much, all the time.

There are four of us about to go. A Scottie, a pug, an orange cat, and me. I don’t know the order. Think it’s going to be close though.

With luck I might last out this last war. The Suerken War. But not the others. Too much. The age of masterpieces is between 35 and 55. I’ve had my fair share. Only Milton exceeded, giving us Paradise Lost at 61. I’m 65. Done, really. Except I can still do to Mercersburg what has needed done for 50 years.

I was talking to her about a post I probably won’t ever write called “The Line.” She was wondering why I was so obsesssive about getting in touch with an old failed friend called Will Martin, with whom I’d risked life and limb very often, very directly, and very, well, flagrantly, as if we were actually daring the man I could see walking across the Mount, the one who kept giving me the nod and somehow intervening when my life was at risk. Will’s wife thought I might be stalking him, which is funny, given that he has accomplished nothing with great talent and I have done great things with great talent.

What I wanted to know was the answer to a very simple question: Was he ever afraid in all our incredibly dangerous doings? Important question. There is a line between the moral person and the sociopath. The first indicator of the sociopath is no fear. Lots of people live close to that line, fighter pilots, race car drivers, firefighters... It was only recently that I discovered I last experienced physical fear on the Grand Corniche of the French Riviera when I was 10 years old. Not since then.

Let me explain with one example, not involving Will. I came up on a stop sign in a Ford Capri on Hell Road in the early spring. Hell Road. Coming round the last bend before the Stop sign, no way I could have known about the glare ice awaiting me. Only nanoseconds to make a decision before I crossed the road at 50 miles per hour and slammed into the trees, fatal case. Remembered my dad, who once had a similar problem. Spun the wheel and avoided the head-on disaster. Instantaneous decision. Spun the wheel like my dad did, wound up parallel parked between two trees. Took me three minutes to back and forth my way out and onto the road again. You’re supposed to feel something after a close call like that. Shaking hands, anxiety attack, big leaps of the heart. Nothing. I drove home. Got mad when it turned out I had also caused a flat tire on the trip into the trees.

All the close calls with Will never frightened me. And there were a lot, a lot, of those. I wanted to ask him, was he ever afraid. Because I could more easily believe him a sociopath than me. I had three strong hands preventing me from crossing The Line, two Robert Lairds and one Leon Miesse. I always knew I could have been a better fighter pilot than my dad. I had this one incident this one time in the middle of Bridgeton when I was driving full speed with only millimeters to spare on either side and I was not going to lose...

No, I am not a sociopath. I am more dangerous than that. I am a moral person who experiences no physical fear. Why so many have been so afraid of me through the years. Why Mercersburg should be afraid of me at this point in time. Listen to the music. Determined, relentless, oddly beautiful. This time it’s playing for Paul Suerken.