Read The Last Time I Died Online
Authors: Joe Nelms
The Last Time I Died
JOE NELMS
F+W Media, Inc.For Amy, Zoe, and Rufus
Ultimately, a thing exists only by virtue of its boundaries.
—Robert Musil
1
Black.
Time to die.
The average response time of an ambulance in Manhattan is six minutes and thirteen seconds. I’ll wait two and a half minutes after I make my call.
I carefully position my feet in the center of the chair. Fucking modern design looks great, but it will tip in a heartbeat if you’re not careful.
The noose is tied to the exposed water pipe I used to do chin-ups on to impress Lisa, so I know it will hold.
My apartment door is slightly ajar and clearly marked 4B as in boy.
The front door of the building is propped open with a doorstop and I’ve taped a sign on it asking my neighbors for their patience while I move a sofa.
I drop the meticulously tied rope around my neck, positioning it so that it will most likely not cause any vertebrae to crack. The best you can do in this situation is play the odds and hope for the best.
Nine. One. One.
—Hi, I’d like to report an attempted suicide. Would you please send an ambulance to one thirteen Prince street, apartment seven B, as in boy…. That’s correct, ‘boy.’ Thank you. Oh, and please hurry…. No, I can’t.
I hang up, toss the phone onto the couch, and check my watch. Two minutes and twenty five seconds to go.
(Please be forewarned: This is no hagiography.)
The gentleman under consideration is inarguably a lout.
An ogre.
A peddler of the most garrulous of hokum with an unsavory penchant for self-indulgent masochism.
But here you are. The old boy has been standing at the ready for a good two minutes and you have yet to say a word. The suspense is delicious.
You watch. Taking in every sacred detail. Unable to move your naive little gaze from his shoes. You don’t dare chance missing the most thrilling microseconds of the day, do you? After all, when our man’s feet leave the chair on which he is so precariously perched the story is over.
Or is it?
Never you mind. Let me reiterate. The old boy isn’t worth your time.
He is no one.
Two weeks earlier.
(Pay no attention to the insufferable chap at the furthest end of the bar.)
He’s less likely to notice you if your eyes are averted and, please pay closest attention when I caution you, that guideline should be of the utmost priority this evening.
In a matter of moments the scoundrel will be attempting some form of attention-garnering stunt likely involving a lurid confrontation, pernicious vandalism, or the expulsion of bodily fluids around and/or onto his neighboring patrons.
So, you’d rather he didn’t focus his weary eyes on you before then.
It is my personal and passionate recommendation that you skip your pre-dinner cocktail and make your way directly to your table or, better still, leave the restaurant entirely.
For now, he simmers.
Should you find yourself caught in the funnel of this jackanapes’s gormless gimcrackery, do try to avoid regarding his comportment a personal attack. Your transgressor is a man who suffers from an overabundance of stress and is ignorant of the proper means with which to diffuse it.
For the record, he is thirty-eight years of age.
Our man has pointedly taken advantage of the last hour to self-medicate with a gratuitously pretentious vodka, although, in all candor, he would have settled for tub gin. Those of you who dare observe his falling face as he scans the room in the mirror behind the bar may find what you think is hope or vulnerability. It might be. Careful, though. What you will also find in those eyes is seditious monkeyshine. A lure for compassionate naïfs such as yourself. He cannot help himself.
To the casual observer, this is a calm trifle of a man easily overlooked. A crumpled little scab hunkered down in a world to which he might not completely belong.
Pity him, if you must. But also know that he’s as calculated a hunter as there exists.
Cunning. Bloodthirsty. Wounded.
Sometimes his attacks are savage and obvious. Other occasions they are subtle and infuriating. Tonight, so far, they are self-inflicted.
Ah me, here we go.
The gentleman behind the bar glides over to inquire about our man’s status. His voice, low but audible, respectfully offers to tally the evening’s charges. It is a less than subtle indication that our man has quietly been determined over-served.
Our man’s response is predictable, if slurred.
—Another martini.
—I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think that’s a good idea.
The game is afoot. Our man lifts his heavy, heavy head to meet the sharp, sober eyes in front of him.
—Hey, just because you like blowing my father doesn’t make you my mother. Pour my fucking drink.
The bartender’s reaction is a polished and practiced one. It is practically invisible. He nods to a manager across the room who whispers to a waiter next to him who speaks calmly to another, more sizable waiter passing by and that is that.
Within forty-five seconds our man has been efficiently escorted out of the restaurant and unceremoniously deposited onto the cold Manhattan sidewalk to fend for himself. He is advised to avoid the premises for the foreseeable future and observed for the brief moments it takes for him to careen down the block far enough to assuage any and all attending eyes that he is gone for the evening.
Well done, old boy. Mission accomplished.
Traffic is flying down Sixth Avenue tonight.
Well, flying might be an exaggeration, but for this time of night in midtown? Not bad. A steady stream of thirty miles an hour. It’s the honking that bugs me. I’m trying to think.
Lisa fought for me. She tried everything. Begged me to work with her. Begged. That seemed so odd to me. Didn’t we fall in love without even trying? Honestly, I remember being kind of aggravated that it happened. I was having such a good time as a single man when this giant lightning bolt hits me and she’s all I think about and I can’t help myself. I didn’t have a choice but to fall in love. So why did I have to work at marriage?
A black guy in a produce truck yells at me. If I heard him correctly, he thinks I’m an idiot. A
fucking
idiot, to clarify. Alright, fair enough. But you’re the one driving that junker on third shift.
I feel like marriage should have been a self-perpetuating machine. Everyone always warned me that you had to really work at it. You have to work at it but it’s worth it. I assumed they were telling me that because they thought I was a selfish bastard who wasn’t ready for commitment. I said I would work with her but I never did.
I lied.
—Asshole!
The headlights are blinding. And they won’t stop coming. I put my hands up to block my eyes but then I can’t see where I’m going. The cars whoosh by so fast some of them don’t even notice me until they’ve already passed. I watch a few of the drivers’ eyes widen as they approach. Steady on, people. Nothing to see here.
—Move, dick!
You have to think long-term about relationships. Here’s the tradeoff you need to make peace with: What if you open your soul and then, later on, things don’t work out? What if you make the effort and everything that you are is laid bare for someone to see and soak up and then they have that forever? It’s not like you can ask for your deepest, darkest secrets back, is it? They are now a shared possession and you have to have trust that proper care will be taken of them. But that never happens, does it? Some secrets are too good to keep quiet for too long. Time and distance create a fog of emotional safety around your chosen secret keepers. In the mind of those who don’t live with these hidden treasures every god damn day of their life, the sting seems to soften a bit over time. They evolve from shocking revelations into novelty facts. And revealing them seems less like a shattering of sacred bond and more like a parlor trick. And who doesn’t like parlor tricks?
Don’t ever say anything, but…
Between you and me…
You’re not going to believe this…
At first the betrayal is a bit of a rush. A tiny shot of adrenaline, the knowledge that they’re killing someone just a little bit by opening their fat mouth. It’s inevitably couched with
Keep this quiet, okay?
and
If you tell anyone I’ll kill you!
but they’re still doing exactly what you were terrified they would do before you trusted them anyway. You’ll never know, of course. That relationship has long disintegrated and you’ve both moved on.
—What are you, crazy?!
A livery driver in a turban slows his roll long enough to tell me to get the fuck out of the middle of the street. What, does he own the road? I’m a taxpayer, too.
You can’t hurt me.
I spread my arms like wings and smile as I walk. Everyone stay in your lane and you’ll be fine.
Looking back on the ruins of my marriage with some perspective, yes, I might have done some things different. Opened up. Shared. Listened. But it’s always easy to see that stuff when it’s too late. Ultimately, I blame myself. But that shouldn’t be a surprise. So does everyone else.
A thoughtful driver in an SUV yells something about me getting killed.
Nice try, sucka. I’m already dead.
*It’s four years ago.
I’m sitting at dinner with friends I’ve since let drift away.
It’s the first warm night of spring and we’re celebrating someone or something or nothing with an al fresco meal. I am what I remember as happy.
An old girlfriend walks up. Dana. We parted on good terms a while ago and remained friends, so I don’t mind the interruption. She saw us from inside the restaurant. At the bar waiting for the table she was never going to get.
She’s with a friend.
I welcome the opportunity to add new possibilities to the evening’s mix, but Dana’s with a girl I can already tell is a pain in the ass. She’s too beautiful and her hair is perfect. Look at that skin. Jesus.
You always want a little something to be off even if it’s only a little bit. You want to know she knows she’s human. Not the case with this one. From what I can tell in the first five seconds I’m in her presence, she’s flawless. Her body is Pilates-ed to within an inch of its life and the little black dress she’s poured herself into fits like it’s trying to impress her.