First page of a book.(moving too slow?)

[Kaimani]

‘Freddy: Remember the man in the suit at that zoo we went to in England? You said it was a lion. I still say it was a man in a suit. It had to be; he looked like he was just glad no one was taking photos. You could see it in his eyes. Well, I could. Saw him mouth ‘shoot me’. You said he was saying ‘feed me’. Guess a lion, or a man in an animal suit, begging for food is better than one asking for the end. If I had to bet I’d say they fed him in the end. I don’t think they will have shot him.’

Pause play.

His words staggered up his wind pipe. They seemed merely thoughts so confused with their own existence-and reason for that existence-that, unsure what to walk as, had become the last thing they wanted to be. It was as if they and his voice were two trapped lovers who’d stayed together out of some barely remembered sense of duty, regardless of having long since walked past love. But they were words that wore a voice, and that’s all he wanted.

As he spoke he kept the recorder so close to his lips that, had you been standing just slightly behind him, to the left, you’d have thought most of his face was glow-in-the-dark. The ‘record’ button was pushing harder and harder, now, against his thumb. The green light dimmed, and, for a moment too brief to outlast a blink, went out. But the words that remained in his lungs forced his finger back against the button. The light sharpened. But no words came out. Any that dared to try and find a way past his teeth lost their way some place between his lungs and the back of his throat.

Still, he just had to say something, anything, and to keep saying it because among the spaces, silences and half-spoken words he would find the one thing: the right word, phrase, truth or lie.

He swallowed air squeezed what you had to call words through gritted teeth.

play

‘I will tell you everything. No, I can’t do that. No one can. No one remembers EVERYTHING so no one can tell anyone EVERYTHING. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can just see you now using words like ‘intellectualizing’ for what I’m doing. Still, I guess, nearest to the truth would be to say I will tell you everything I remember. And that’s only everything I remember now. I might not remember it later. Or I might remember it differently and, then, I’d have to tell you how I remember things then. You always say it doesn’t matter that you don’t know much about me, you know me. Never understood what that meant. But it worked for you, I guess. I guess I’m thinking if I remember then I have to remember, so I will remember…that made sense in my head.

That lion, or guy, at the zoo; I wonder what his name was.’

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