Pumpkins, Organs, and Extortion

October 24, 2005

I was given a mission to find the perfect pumpkin.

"That's a lot of pressure," I said.

"Okay," said Deborah, "It doesn't have to be perfect ."

"It's still a challenge."

"There are pumpkins all over town; it'll be easy to find one."

"I don't mean it'll be a challenge to find one, I just mean it'll be hard for me to get one."

She didn't understand, so I explained: "I've been feeling depressed lately, and when I get depressed, I procrastinate like a motherfucker."

Deborah is subject to depression, too, from time to time, so she was sympathetic and tried to be encouraging. "Don't be down," she said.

"That never works," I laughed. "You can't just tell someone not to be depressed, you know better than that."

"It was worth a shot."

After dropping off a few prescriptions at the pharmacy, I roamed through town in a half-hearted attempt at finding a pumpkin to carve. On Broadway, near 10th Street, I passed by Grace Church. Outside the entrance, a sign read: Organ Recital 4 p.m. FREE.

"Free organ recital? Cool."

A loud pipe organ sometimes makes me want to strangle somebody, but if I'm in the right mood, there's nothing better. It was nearly 4 o'clock when I saw the sign, so I decided to take a chance.

Two mild-mannered Christians stood by the "suggested donation" box. I didn't give any money, but they smiled and welcomed me just the same. My feet echoed as I walked down the aisle, and even though the church was empty, I still felt self-conscious about it. I lifted the latch on the worn wooden door of a pew near the front and sat on a musty, maroon cushion. It was dead silent. I closed my eyes. The drone of the city was muffled and distant. Occasionally, the rumble of a truck or a car horn snuck through, but the only thing I heard otherwise was the persistent high-pitched ringing in my ears. The longer I sat, the more it began to feel as though I had a seashell in each ear. I heard someone lift the latch on the door of a pew across the aisle. I opened my eyes to look.

It was an elderly black woman in a grey trench coat, with grey hair to match. She was talking to herself. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but she appeared angry. She decided not to sit down and instead walked to the front of the church, muttered for a moment, then turned left and went into an area I couldn't see, but looked off-limits. A moment later, she emerged, still muttering, bobbing slightly, and turning side to side as if looking for something. God, maybe? Eventually, she walked back down the aisle and headed out the door.

Suddenly, the organ pierced the silence. A fugue of musty air blew through the pipes and woke every Episcopal ghost. It began in the upper register, chasing its tail for a few minutes, before layering on a thick blanket of midrange, as if the organist had a dozen hands. When he finally dropped his foot on the low notes, I got a free massage.

It was a fairly long piece, and the silence afterwards made me think the recital was over. It wasn't. The first piece made my head buzz so much, though, that I was afraid a second song might loosen my fillings, so I left.

The recital left me in a strange mood. Removed is the only way to describe it.

I wandered back to the pharmacy to pick up my prescriptions. My health insurance ran out a few months ago, and American healthcare being what it is, I haven't had much luck finding an alternative. Since my previous prescriptions were covered by my insurance, I wasn't prepared for how much everything actually cost. For the pharmaceutical companies, my dysfunctional body is a cash cow. For me, it's a money pit. As I said, I was in a strange mood to begin with, but when I saw the total on the register, it got even stranger:

Close to five hundred dollars.

The guy behind the counter heard me gulp and couldn't look me in the eye. Since I can't live without insulin and all the rest, there wasn't much choice. Going deeper into debt is better than going six feet under.

I try to tell myself that there are worse things that can go wrong with a body—because, of course, there are—but it’s hard to maintain that perspective.

I put the prescriptions in my bag, jumped on the subway, and went home.

I forgot to get a pumpkin.