The spark of life flickers: 

 

Story 3

 

Clarence 

 

They planned this event for months.  Clarence prepared for years.  His whole life was lived to bring him to this moment.  It was clear to everyone that his talent and genius were so special that it almost seemed unfair to the other living musicians.  He was more than a musical prodigy; he was destined to be a great conductor as well.  

 

He was young in years but embodied in his seasoned spirit the sum wisdom and instinctual experience of every great one before him.  All looked on him with pride because they knew he would move the art forward, some jealously, they knew he would eclipse their legacy and thereby diminish their stature.  All knew it was unavoidable.  Clarence was destined to be the best yet.

 

Through his high-rise floor-to-ceiling window, he sat peacefully at one end of a long, thick green glass dining table and looked out over a mix of autumn colored leaves circled by dark pavement patterns in the big city park off in the bustling distance.

 

The sun had slipped over the horizon with a green flash ending the daylight of the day, and the glow of the cloud-streaked sky matched the mercury vapor lights that flicked on and marked the paths through the central city park.  He sat back, smiled at the serenity, and sipped his vintage Cabernet.  He warmed to the still chilling notion but conscious realization that tomorrow he would lead a new orchestra into history. 

 

He was proud of himself. Proud of what he had already accomplished.  His drive and confidence had pushed him and brought him to the humbling place in his brilliant mind where he knew all he had achieved was merely the mortar he would need to build a real career.  This was his true beginning.

 

He sighed at the thought and had an anxious gasp of, “What if, as he sat among all the honors around him.  Most of the symmetrically hung art on the walls and the other perfectly placed eclectic objects around his large open floor plan condo were given to him. They were awards and gifts from those whom he had touched.  His admirers. Even the furniture and the one-of-a-kind etched and frosted glass table were given to him.  The table was the most special. It was from his lover.  The comfort his belongings gave him helped to add to his confidence, as the “What If” turned to “Que Sera, Sera”.  He was ready to accept this next challenge as he began to feel the resounding applause and warm adoration tomorrow night would bring.  

 

He pushed his athletic, well-proportioned beige body away from the thick glass table and stood.  He felt a small pop.  He thought it might be just a vertebra popping back into place, maybe from his grueling workout, maybe from the tension of the day.  The pop did not hurt, but he noticed it. 

 

Clarence walked to the window, swirling the fine-red wine around the bottom of the large crystal goblet, a gift from the vintner.  He stood tall by the tempered glass, looking down as the city lit up for the night. He sipped and swirled the last mouthfuls of the lush velvety oak Cab.  He tilted his head back to finish off the very last pleasing sip of the rare vintage and felt a sloshing sensation, then another pop.  The same pop he felt before.

 

By the time he put his head back down, he felt dizzy and unstable.  He went toward the high-backed red leather chair, but didn’t make it and fell to the ground. The last drops of the deep red wine splattered and stained the tasseled edging of his new Persian rug.  The glass shattered, and large shards of the goblet broke into smaller and smaller pieces and spread out over the shinny waxed hardwood floor. 

 

Clarence lay there unable to move, conscious, just barely.  Something was clearly wrong, he thought.  As he struggled desperately to move, he found he couldn’t and didn’t.  His dinner guests had gone.  Some decided to go home, others went out to one of the other pre-season gala celebrations, or went back to work on the final touches for the grand opening of the symphony.  

 

Clarence was helpless.  He had dismissed the housekeeping staff for the evening.  He was alone, as he had wished.  No benefactors, handlers, or companions were there to help him make a move.  He was lying prone in his well-appointed condominium suite, and felt the warmth of the sun on the window as it cooled and the dusk light outside dimmed.  He was thinking, only thinking of what to do.  He couldn’t move.

 

Other sensations began to dominate and replace his waning sight and touch.  His smell was intact and heightened, and he had the distinct smell of floor wax, although he could no longer feel the difference between the soft Persian rug and the hardwood floor.  His expressionless face lay half on each.  He could not see the sky darken to a ruby red that complemented the color of the few drops of wine left in one of the pieces of glass that rocked to a stop on the floor, and he missed seeing the checked rows of streetlight that lit all the lanes up town and cross town, although his eyelids were partially open.  

 

The phone rang and rang on the fourth ring; it stopped as his upbeat voice mail message greeted the caller.  He heard the beep but could not hear the message. 

"It's just Mom and Aunt Agnes; we just called to say we love you.  Good luck tomorrow, we will be watching.  Love you, enjoy yourself. “

“Stand straight, this time,” Agnes said in a strict godmother way.  

“Love you.  Bye.”  

He heard the long beep end the call.  Time passed, and more calls came in.  He didn’t hear any of them.  

 

Clarence had not moved but was now feeling sensations and images, ones he had never known.  His fears were great.  However, there was a resigned sense of acceptance coming over him.  He understood his situation.  He did not try to move again.

Something desperately wrong had happened; they knew as the Paramedics moved his cold but beating body onto the gurney into the ambulance.

One Paramedic said, 

“It looks like he had a stroke or embolism, or something.”  

He was not qualified to diagnose, but it was evident to this trauma professional that Clarence’s brain had excessive fluid.  

“I'll bet he fell and hit his head.”  The other attending technician speculated. 

 

Precious moments passed, and among a crowd of news cameras and microphones, the ER doctor confirmed the fluid in the skull.  However, it was apparently not from a fall.  Apparently, Clarence had had a severe brain hemorrhage, at least two.  The cause was yet unknown.  He was alive but in a coma, and most likely, if he recovered, would have been brain-damaged.  He was not able to sustain himself, and they had him on life support. 

 

Clarence was only aware of his surroundings in the third person.  He could not hear or see but seemed to have an interpreter who helped bear witness to the surroundings, shadows, and whispers.  With the experienced help of the interpreter, he watched all of it from within a clear, fluid-filled orb that filtered all the inputs and softened the reality.  It made the trauma easier to handle.  He still had some decisions to make.

 

He sensed a warm enveloping glow; all else faded.  He saw the intense spark.  The glare would have blinded him if he could see, but he couldn’t, and his lack of vision only forced him to pay exclusive attention to the spark with no further harm to him.  

There was only one question; he did not know the answer.  He was now scared.  He had "So much life left,” the headlines in the life and leisure section read.   

 

He was so young, so talented, and now he was in a coma.  The spark patiently occupied his full attention, like a waiter who politely waited for him to select an entree.  Clarence knew he had to decide.  He knew he had the will to live and knew he could handle the rehabilitation it would require.

 

He even knew how inspiring and how much good might come from his struggle.  He contemplated the disappointment and pity he would receive from his fans and support team.  He thought about compositions and orchestrations that were unfinished, and he stopped and thought about his lovers, whom he would never know the same way.

Clarence knew his lover would already be crying about his condition and the potential of his passing. 

 

His artistic team had assembled the finest medical team, and they knew from the eminent doctor's prognosis that Clarence would never be the same.  Clarence looked at the spark and knew no amount of time would help decide.  He stared back into the spark of his life and put in his order, with a large, deep sigh, said,  

“Yes”

The spark strobed up to a brightness so consuming it vaporized his spirit, and placed it everywhere all at once, and consumed his past and snuffed away his future.  The spark was out.  

 

There was no longer any need for the top-notch medical team, all brilliant in their field, to plan any course of treatment.  Clarence had had his last breath, and the spark of life had left with him.  Left were only a body and the work that body had accomplished.  Clarence now knew he was an eternal spectator and only a helper who no longer held his candle to the spark of life.