Ben facilitating an E.R. visit was giving Blanche DuBois to the utmost. Truly, the kindness.

Tennessee Williams vis-à-vis Brian De Palma.

That whole face blow-up thing was just a symptom of a bigger blow-up.

The prodigal return to the West Coast. Driving from LAX through Downtown LA, perusing the apocalypse—I figured I’d shimmy in here and hang out on the down low. Treading for a second before being shooed off to find other concealment.

SUR and I connected on the terms of psychic grifting, and I was familiar with the predictability of the group dynamic. Why not take cover here? Just gotta fake it with a bunch of people again. You did it before—you know how. Play along while dying.

This would be a temporary escape from life—from heaviness, failure, grief, debt, foreclosures, and answers I would never have.

Constructing a new persona involved working with former sketches of self, remaining true to established narratives: a core of truth wrapped in something earnest and wistful. Yes, I too am SURching. I am U. (Eyeroll.) A place to eat and sleep and suspend reality for a moment—I can do this. What are my options?

By the time Ben and I were settled into the second E.R., and I’d been tranquilized and hooked up to a steroid drip, the level of cozy suspension deepened. Ben got me snacks. We bonded—or I bonded to him. Whatever it is when you take someone hostage.

An active emotional meltdown turned into a weepy state of submission—to the intimacy of patience and kindness. Momentary safety, where tragedy is averted yet reality looms. There’s nothing to do but just put your head down, child, and rest for now.

—Pransur

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