Last night J and I saw Wristcutters: A Love Story at the Chicago International Film Festival. In the opening scene, the main character, Zia, cuts his wrists, drains his blood into the bathroom sink, passes out on the tile floor and dies. Next he discovers that a special afterlife exists for perpetrators of suicide in which everything is "pretty much the same" as their old lives, "only a little worse." His job's a bit more mundane, his apartment a bit dingier, the streets, the stores, more bleak. His new roommate berates him for eating the last of his cottage cheese, throwing the empty container at him while he lies in bed. "I've considered killing myself again," Zia tells the audience, "but I don't want to end up in an even bigger shithole than this."
The movie was tragic and hilarious and, as is true in the best of things, the tragedy is tolerable because hilarity is stirred in. And, in my opinion, vice versa.
After the movie, J and I had crepes for dinner and fell asleep watching a rerun of Saturday Night Live. In the morning I elbowed him in the chest while half asleep because he was snoring. "Jesus! You just nailed me with your elbow!" he blurted next to my head. I apologized when I woke up an hour later, consciousness and conscience intact. We made love and he said, "That's one area we've got figured out. Working toward a common goal."
After showering, he needed a clean t-shirt and said, "Did you take all my stuff out of here?" looking into a drawer of my t-shirts and socks, no longer mingled with his.
"Everything's in grocery bags in the den," I said with an unintended laugh, "Sorry."
Later he carried the bags into the living room and the handle ripped on one, splitting the bag down the side, his kelly green sweater and black Stax Records t-shirt spilling onto the floor. He piled the bags and loose clothing onto the coffee table. "Do you have a garbage bag that I can just shove this stuff in? These paper bags are shit."
I dug through the cabinet next to the refridgerator and brought out a stockpile of plastic grocery bags and fancy boutique shopping bags with ribbon handles. "Here. Let's put 'em in these," and we set about digging his sweaters and jeans and socks out of the the paper bags and dropping them into various smaller bags.
"Here. There's more room in this one."
"Those pants will fit in here."
"Half my wardrobe's here, I guess."
"I know."
Eventually we began to chuckle, him handing me boxers I'd washed and folded carefully into paper bags weeks before on the day I knew we'd break up. Now we divvied them into tidier, sturdier bags for him to carry out the front door, unsure when - if - he'd be back. I'll put that one in here. You put that one in there. Purposeful. Loving. Working toward a common goal. "This is really sad," I said, laughing hard now, the corners of my eyes wet, "And funny, too, I guess."
"It's kinda nice like that."
"It is."
It is. Somehow the humor cuts the sadness, but I'm relieved the sadness is there. I enjoy goofy entertainment as much anyone, but light humor dissolves in my mouth like cotton candy. Dark comedies stick in the throat like a thick, warm dumpling. Like the film from last night, the morning was funny, hopeful, strange and sad, catching in my throat, assuring me of its substance.
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