The Story of Y

During the thick of it I thought that one day I would wake up homeless, on the mattress in the alley across from Sol’s. That would have made for a decent ending to this book, too. I’d describe a detailed, colorful descent into some alternate reality that’s all black, then, as if the point of view is split, two eyelids bat together and I’m lying alone in an alley as businesspeople walk past. Or better still, I’d “wake up” dead. I’d watch from above, a translucent shade of the human I once was, as people moved me from the couch at Sol’s to the ambulance, the hospital, and eventually, the morgue. They’d rush me from one place to the next in a mash of sirens, stretchers, and screams, as if those were the moments that could have saved me. This also seemed possible. Who knows how many times I was on the verge of death? I didn’t wake up as the homeless man and I didn’t not wake up. I thought about using those possibilities as endings to this book, but that seemed dishonest. Plus, what really happened was even more bizarre. I lost two friends, a lot of money, my job, three fingers, and a toe. But at some point in this year, I learned how to cherish, well, everything. I wouldn’t change a thing. This, like every other written work, is my Bible, your Quran, our story of the Buddha…