In the fog of drugs and thoughts of death; as the replays of the key moments of the Super Bowl tried to get his attention, he visualized an image: a swooping steady-cam shot moving closer and closer, pushing into his twelve year-old face as he stood up against a tree.
It stopped, but not abruptly when it framed his face. He didn't know it was there. He didn't know he was being filmed. And it really was film.
He didn't have a distinct expression on is face. He was on drugs that multiple doctors had given him for high blood pressure, a heart ailment, a fractured lumbar vertebrae, arthritic knees, a pacemaker to keep his heart beating, drugs for high cholesterol and in the last 24 hours, for congestive heart failure. Some of the drugs were for multiple problems.
And there he went, discussing his health problems again. Of course, this time, the congestive heart failure could kill him. He had almost taken himself to the Emergency Room the other night when he couldn't breathe laying down.
He told a couple of people but nobody offered assistance. Maybe because he insisted on doing his radio show the day he was examined by his internist. Or maybe because nobody gave a fuck.
That could explain the blank look on his face when the camera came to rest. Eyes open but not seeing. A slight sense of surprise that had nothing to do with the camera, but rather to do with the turns his life was taking.
The end of turns. Then end of life.
