Chapter 1b
The sensation is the most beautiful experience any human being has ever had. It is cosmic, infinitely orgasmic. I almost wish I had done it sooner. Then again, maybe it wouldn't be as good if not tempered with pain. Hell, maybe I should have waited longer. Either way, turns out death isn't the grand finale everybody has it cracked up to be. It's good.
I woke with a headache but an understandable one. It was the kind of pain that you can be glad for, the kind that feels like penance, the justifiable kind. The hole in my head throbbed gleefully. I was in my garage, the big aluminum door still shut, pieces of myself now dried to the wall. There was no car to stain. It was gone.
The sun was brighter after that but calmer. It illuminated everything without burning my eyes. The streets were barren, save a lone tumbleweed rolling down the street to the South, towards Lenny's Video Shoppe with the old fashioned looking wooden sign advertising paradoxically new technology sales and rentals where kids could go to rent Who Framed Roger Rabbit and adults could go to rent Debbie Does Dallas.
Everything seemed normal, only a little better. I walked across the street, looking both ways for traffic and not seeing a single car, and breathed in the metallic scent of my own demise. The clouds practically waved at me as they passed by. I'd never seen such a beautiful day in my life.
With nothing else to do and no other interruptions to be had, I decided to walk down to the bar. The bar in town was Darren's Drink Hole. It would be more aptly named a shit hole but, you know, one man's feces is another man's beverage. Darren was inside alone when I got there. The bar was otherwise empty except for him, standing there in his black and white penguin suit and fading hair slicked to one side. He was polishing a glass when I came in and said, "Hey, Erwin, what'll you have?"
I said, "Feces."
Darren said, "Well, I'd oblige but that damn health department..."
"No," I said, "Sorry. My mind was somewhere else."
That was true. That happens to me sometimes. I'll get started on a topic, it'll make me think of something else, the pattern goes on and on until finally somebody asks you if you want a drink and you decide the best and most logical option is to answer that you would actually love a tall steamy stein of shit.
I remember once in a high school history class, for instance. The wicked witch teaching us wanted us to make historically accurate and relevant dioramas. I hated the idea at first. I never did end up liking the project and what I finished with was some paper dolls with paper guns, but there were parts I enjoyed. Specifically the posterior parts. We worked on these dioramas during class so that Mrs. Hatford could hover and critique. In front of me Cindy Echidna was bent over her desk working on hers.
She was that girl. When boys talked amongst themselves about who in school they'd like to sleep with her name was always the first to come up. If anybody mentioned any of the other beautiful young ladies around our school, well, they were probably homosexual. Meanwhile, there's Cindy, bent over at her desk, skirt so short I can see the white of her panties only partially hidden by smooth pale thighs. Mrs. Hatford, still hovering, has sneaked up on me. Cindy's ass must have been especially loud, her vagina especially enthralling, because I didn't even hear the creak of bones of shuffling steps of our teacher until she said, "How, exactly, is this going to benefit your diorama?"
I didn't think about the reply. I had already been thinking. The answer to how could only be one thing at that moment. I had already taken time to think about every other possible scenario. Without looking at Mrs. Hatford I nodded and said, "In the ass."
I told him, "My mind wanders. Just give me a glass of Jack."
He smiled, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf behind him and poured it into the glass he'd been polishing until it almost touched the rim then set it on a coaster in front of me.
He said, "So how's life treating you, Mr. Packard?"
I started to reply then stopped. We both had a good laugh at that.
He said, "So are you planning to move out of here now or you gonna stick around town?"
I took a drink of my whiskey and thought about it for the first time. There was nothing binding me there anymore. There wasn't anything binding me anywhere. Then again, "Where would I go? Same hassles everywhere. I might go around, see the sights, but I'm in no hurry."
Darren nodded. "Amen to that. Problems have a way of seeking a person out anywhere you go."
"What's there to do these days, Darren?" I asked.
He said, "Just the exact same shit there's always been, Erwin. Vivere, aut mori."
I finished my drink and said, "Thanks, Darren, I'll do that," and parted with a tip of my hat. With no hat on it was probably more like a tip of my skull cavity.
Night had come on fast but no faster than the whiskey. The whiskey brought the blare of sirens and pummeled me with lights even out on the dark and deserted streets. I stumbled home through it, retched some, passed out twice (not for long, it was still dark when I made it home), and vomited several times, the last time having woke me up as I gagged on what already lay puddled around me.
When I finally did make it home I let the dog out for a walk and took a moment to stare at the stars. The city lights are far from bright here, the city isn't much of a city, but tonight they were all silent and the stars shone down as brightly as I'd seen since I was a child. The air was cool and still and sterile. Yeah, as it turns out, blowing my brains out was the best thing I ever did for myself.