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Robert, on his hospice bed, tells me,
“I’m changing my name to Bruce.” We’ve been
friends for years. Robert clings to Judaism, Islam, Hinduism,
and odd others as they drift to his ear: Carpathianism. The Will
of the Drowned God. The Order of Wen the Eternally Surprised—you
name it. How many paths
can a person follow at the same time without getting lost? “They all lead
to the same place,” he answers confidently. And now, at
last, he is here, at that place, surrounded by robed priests and
teachers. One orders,
“Close your eyes, drift off, yield to the Rapture.” Another, “No!
Stay sober, watchful for the Sign.” Another presses
her radiant face into Robert’s, as if this alone will move him
to finally Get It. Robert sits up,
waves his arms, clears the room, and tells me to lock the door.
He whispers, “I’m changing my name to Bruce.” “Why?” I ask. “So that they
will never find me.”
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