Chapter 2: Cut Away

     I watch my naked body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. What’s it doing lately? The overgrown, matted body hair and the inexcusably pasty white skin can be taken care of; but there are some intrusions of my age that I’m going to have to learn to cope with. When did I acquire all of these new folds and oddly shaped clumps of flesh? What is it that’s turning the muscle in my pecs and thighs into the consistency and appearance of playdough that has been thoroughly rearranged by a drove of three year olds? My scalp is too visible through my thinning, graying hair. There are bags of God-only-knows-what under both eyes and my chin.
     What happened? I was always so careful. I never attended loud concerts, unlike all of those idiots constantly predicting their deafened futures but frequenting arenas packed full of Who fans anyway, yet for some reason my hearing isn’t up to par with what it should be. I never drank too much alcohol or did any hard-core drugs in my youth. I always tried to exercise consistently. I ate my leafy green vegetables and managed to avoid whatever type of cancer people die from in their 30's and 40's, but old age seems to be invading more quickly than I'd prefer.
     It’s like you can’t do enough planning. No matter how cautious or how projected a person’s intentions are, everyone inevitably forfeits to Mother Nature. Well, plastic surgery may divert Her for a while. Cher is a living example of that.    
     I chuckle at myself and it pulls me out of my mirror trance. I’m being too critical of myself. I look fine for my age. ‘For my age.’ That’s the part I don’t want to have to acknowledge. I just want to look good. Good enough for all ages.
     Oh, God. I turn away from the mirror and turn the water on in the shower. I test and adjust it before I get in until it is hot enough to redden skin. Honestly, how much time can I spend planning? Hell, how much time can I spend reminiscing? That seems to be how I occupy the majority of my time anymore. Planning has failed me, now all I have are my memories. Better times, worse times, more innocent and naïve times. I’m constantly trying to remember just for the sake of remembering. Sometimes, especially since I’ve been on my own, I want to be able to just live now and enjoy now. I spend so much time trying not to forget, that I worry I’m not creating new memories. I know that’s silly. After all, I’m creating a potential memory right here and now, aren’t I?
     Well, I guess something momentous probably has to happen in order for it to be committed into long-term memory. One instance of simply standing in the shower, something I do every single day (sometimes twice), is not going to be something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Unless I make it into something I’ll remember. I begin belting out a chorus of “Try to Remember” from The Fantasticks, I stop halfway through and feel a little embarrassed. What if that kid downstairs can hear me? Anyway, I’ve sung in the shower plenty of times, usually tentatively enough so as not to be overheard by the kid downstairs, and singing a song about trying to remember isn’t necessarily going to create a memory.
     I spot my razor on the edge of the tub, and a little flicker goes off in my brain. Almost like a flashbulb. Now, a picture. That’s something you remember. Even if you don’t remember the actual circumstances surrounding the actual time when a snapshot was taken, you remember the photograph as if it were a real memory. I “remember” getting a red wagon on my second birthday and I “remember” sitting in that wagon with my blankie around my shoulders and crying my little eyes out because Popo, my stuffed beagle, had fallen out of the wagon and onto the floor. In actuality, that particular instance was captured in a photograph, which is sealed away in one of my mother’s photo albums. My memory is of the photograph, and hearing that story every time I looked through the photo album with my mother. I don’t actually remember that instance, just as I don’t remember anything else from my second birthday party that wasn’t captured in a photograph.
     The razor. I’d remember that. Not only would it be momentous, I’d have the consequential scar to remind me, whether I wanted to or not. A scar like a photograph. Although, I have scars that evoke no memory whatsoever. There’s one on my bicep. And there’s a puzzling scar right above my penis, hidden underneath my pubic hair. I noticed it only a few months ago when I broke it off with Linda and shaved off all of my body hair after hearing that was the preference in gay culture. Of course it’s all grown back now. Shaggy or shorn, I don’t seem to have much luck. So why spend the time?
Where would I do it? The wrist comes to mind immediately. But that’s just a cliché, I don’t want to commit suicide. It’d have to be somewhere that people won’t see on a daily basis. I consider my stomach, my foot, and then I finally decide on my inner thigh. Not only is it hidden, it’s also tender and sensitive. It’ll definitely give me something to remember.
     Jesus, am I losing my mind?! Sometimes I do welcome thoughts of going crazy, it might be an adventure. Certainly more exciting than the hum-drum condition of my life right now. I pick up the razor and examine the blue plastic covering. I flip it up exposing the blade. I remove the blade and set the plastic back on the rim of the tub. I notice that I have cut my thumb in the process and blood is running down my hand with the shower stream. Funny how the cut is so fine that it’s painless at first, taking time for the nerves to even notice anything is wrong. I put my foot up on the front corner of the tub, exposing my thigh. I’m a little nervous, but that’s good. That’s why this memory will stick. My senses have been set in motion. My hand with the blade waver just beyond the inside of my thigh. This is silly. I plunge into the flesh and drag toward my scrotum about an inch-and-a-half. The cut is deep, and I definitely feel it, unlike the nick on my thumb. I expected warmth, but instead it feels like ice is forming around the gash. I hold the razor and watch the blood stream down my thigh and disappear into a pink swirl and down the drain.
     I hope I remember this.