Too Far

by Jason Starr

  ‘Now you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on,’ Rob said. ‘I don’t know why I’m sitting here, feeding you muffins in a playground, when I’m supposed to be in a meeting, hashing out a multi-million dollar licensing deal.’

  ‘Good to know you’ll have some money coming in,’ I said. ‘You’re gonna need it.’

  ‘What’s that suppo –’ Rob winced, catching a whiff of my breath.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ he asked.

  ‘Was,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you quit drinking.’

  After I swallowed another bite of muffin, I said, ‘We’re here to talk about you, not me.’

  ‘What about me? What do you want, Jack?’

  ‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’

  He gave me a look like he hoped I was joking.

  ‘I’m serious, what do you –’

  ‘Oh, I’m very serious, too. Two hundred thousand is the commission I would’ve gotten if you had bought that apartment. And you should feel lucky, getting off easy after what you did.’

  Actually two hundred thousand was way more than what I would’ve gotten for my commission, but Rob didn’t have to know that.

  ‘Did?’ Rob said. ‘What did I do except not make an offer on an apartment?’

  ‘You told me about Discreet Hookups,’ I said.

  He paused, absorbing this, trying to make sense of what I was saying.

  Then he said, ‘So?’

  ‘So that site led to me ruining my life, and now I’m going to ruin yours. Well, unless you pay me.’

  ‘Whoa, slow down,’ he said. ‘So that’s what this is really about? You went on that site?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  I thought of the reasons – unhappy in my marriage, insecure in general, midlife crisis, craving for excitement – but nothing seemed to explain it in full.

  So I said, ‘If you didn’t tell me about the site I never would’ve gone on it. I’d still be living in my apartment, with my son who I love more than anything, and oh yeah – my marriage wouldn’t be over and I’d have access to my bank account.’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he asked. ‘Did one of the guys from the old band put you up to this?’

  He looked around, as if maybe hoping to see Tommy, our old drummer, jump out from behind a tree.

  ‘About the money,’ I said. ‘I’ll text you my wire transfer info and you can transfer the money into my account as soon as I leave here.’

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right, I probably am,’ I said, remembering my recent blackout. ‘But what does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Why would I give you a fuckin’ cent?’ he said.

  ‘So your wife doesn’t find out about what a cheating scumbag she’s been married to all these years?’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell my wife anything.’

  ‘I wouldn’t?’

  He could tell I was serious.

  ‘Look, man,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what happened to you on that site, and if you think I’m responsible, I’m sorry for whatever I did, or said, or whatever, okay? But please, cut me some slack, bro. My life’s complicated as fuck right now, man. The shit hit the fan when I got back to L.A. after my last New York trip, okay? A woman I’d fooled around with a few times, a waitress from Swinger’s, came by the house and – well, you can imagine how that scene went down. You were right, bro – I was playing with fire the whole time. I don’t know how I was deluded, so oblivious. Anyway, I went to my healer and talked it through and I decided to cash out while I was still ahead. Figure I’ve had my fun, sowed my middle-aged oats, and now I can focus on my family again. The wife and I, we had a long talk. It was really amazing – we opened up to each other in a way we hadn’t in years. It was like we’d been chatting for years, but we were finally having a talk. Anyway, we’re going into counseling, gonna try to work shit out. We have our first session set up for when I return to the coast. So, as you can imagine, the last thing I need in my life right now is any more drama.’

  He was obviously pandering, trying to get my sympathy. He’d always been a big drama queen, going back to our days in the band. Whenever he was unhappy about a song selection or there was some other conflict, he’d go on about whatever his drama du jour was, in an attempt to manipulate the situation.

  But that wasn’t going to work this time.

  ‘So you’re staying in your marriage,’ I said, trying to stay calm.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ he said. ‘I mean I never had any intention of leaving, as you know. My wife, God bless her, gets it. She knows how hard monogamy is, so she’s willing to hear me out. But I’m still jonesing for that apartment. My wife and I’ll use it – it’ll be good for us to, you know, rekindle. Maybe we’ll give it to one of the kids someday, my girl wants to go to NYU, maybe she’ll stay in the city. What I’m trying to say is, you’ll get your commish, all right? If not on this apartment, then another one. And I, for one, am willing to forget today ever happened.’

  The idea that Rob was staying in his marriage, that he wouldn’t lose anything, made me even more determined to fuck him over.

  ‘I know her number,’ I said.

  ‘Whose number?’ He seemed confused.

  ‘Your wife – Julianne,’ I said. ‘It’s public, on Facebook. I already have it programmed into my phone.’

  I showed him my phone with his wife’s number, which I’d entered while waiting for him at Starbucks.

  ‘Why’re you doing this?’ he asked.

  ‘Revenge,’ I said.

  ‘Revenge? I didn’t even do anything to you.’ He paused, squinting. ‘Wait, what happened to you on Discreet Hookups?’

  ‘You’ll hear about it in the news,’ I said.

  ‘The news?’

  ‘About the two hundred thou,’ I said. ‘Wire transfer’s probably the best way. When I leave I’ll give you fifteen minutes to get it done. I know there’ll be a lag before the money appears in my account, but you can CC me the wire details. If I don’t get those details in fifteen minutes, your wife gets a phone call and you can forget about rekindling. You think she’s understanding? Well, let’s see how understanding she is when she hears about all the trolling you’ve done on D-Ho. You’ll be lucky if your kids ever even want to talk to you again. If there’s a God – and I believe there is – you’ll wind up on the street, sleeping in vestibules.’

  ‘Two things,’ Rob said. ‘One, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Two, there’s no way I’m wiring you that money.’

  ‘Then say goodbye to your family,’ I said.

  As I stood, he grabbed me by the wrist.

  ‘I don’t have two hundred thousand dollars lying around,’ he said.

  ‘If you were ready to plunk down two million dollars on an apartment you were planning to use as a fuck pad, you can afford to give me ten percent. My deserved ten percent.’

  I saw the terror in his eyes.

  Still gripping me, he said, ‘I get it now. I was confused for a while, maybe ’cause this all caught me off-guard, but now it’s so obvious. This is all because of jealousy, isn’t it? You’re jealous, not because I had more talent – you had tons of talents too – but because you couldn’t let go of the dream like I did. I moved on, but you stayed in fantasy land, thinking you were gonna be a rock star someday. I meet guys like you all the time – fuckin’ dreamers, afraid to take risks. You can’t deal with the fact that I made it and you didn’t, so this is the only solution your sick mind can come up with – to try to take it away from me.’

  ‘I had a good career,’ I said. ‘I was making money.’

  ‘Yeah, as a studio musician, with all the other failed wannabes. It must suck to be you – feeling like the industry fucked you over, feeling like succ
essful guys like me got what you deserve. Is that why you were cheating on your wife? Because you felt empty inside? Because you had nothing going on, except trying to sell a fucking apartment? I bet you blame her too, but you should be blaming yourself.’

  I yanked my arm free, then said, ‘I’ll be checking my email.’

  As I unlinked the kiddie gate and exited the playground, I heard him scream behind me, ‘You’re a fuckin loser, Jack! A loser!’

  ‘Not tonight I’m not,’ I said to myself.

  I didn’t feel bad for Rob, but I knew he was right. I was scapegoating him for my problems, the way I’d scapegoated people my whole life. My parents, Maria, promoters and managers who didn’t give me a ‘fair shot.’ He didn’t force me to go on to Discreet Hookups; hell, he hadn’t even really encouraged me. I’d made that decision on my own. If I was counseling myself, I’d tell myself that I had to take responsibility for my actions.

  ‘Fuck that,’ I said out loud as I headed down to the subway station at Ninety-sixth and Lexington.

  Just because Rob hadn’t directly ruined my life didn’t mean he was a good guy. He knew I was vulnerable, in a bad marriage, and he’d planted ideas in my head. He was like a lot of addicts I knew – trying to get people to sink as low as they felt inside. He was an empty man and he wanted me to feel empty, too. He deserved to lose everything, he deserved to suffer. This wasn’t about revenge; this was about justice.

  I checked to make sure there were no cops or MTA employees watching, then I jumped the turnstile.

  On the platform, I waited for the train to arrive. I saw the light in the tunnel, felt a little wind, so it wouldn’t be long.

  I didn’t know if Rob would actually go through with the wire transfer. He’d seemed sufficiently terrified when I’d left him, but it depended on how much his marriage actually meant to him. Either way, I felt like I’d done a good thing. If he wired the money, Maria and Jonah could use it to help have a happy, stress-free life. If he didn’t do the transfer, well, at least I’d die knowing that, in the end, I’d tried to do something positive for my family.

  The roar of the approaching train grew louder, the headlights blaring like the eyes of a vicious monster.

  I was looking forward to death. It would be a relief from the shit show my life had turned into, that was for sure. I just wanted the pain to end. I wanted peace, darkness.

  As I bent my knees, about to take my dive into eternity, I already felt the train’s beautiful impact, the relief of my spiraling thoughts shutting down, when somebody tackled me, pinning me down to the concrete platform as the train whizzed by.

  ‘Don’t worry, I got ya, I got ya,’ the big guy said.

  I heard a woman say, ‘Oh my God, I’ll call nine-one-one.’

  Other people were just screaming.

  I tried to get up, but the guy wouldn’t let me budge, and then I was struck by what seemed like the worst realization possible:

  I was alive.

  19

  They must’ve injected me with something because I’d stopped screaming and was just staring at the roof of the ambulance, trying to prepare for whatever came next.

  As they carried me out of the ambulance toward a building I glanced at the signage:

  B E L L E V U E

  Figured. Where else would they take a guy who’d tried to jump in front of a train?

  They took me to a small hospital room that had a bed, a table and chair, another chair in the corner, some equipment for examinations, and not much else. They didn’t leave me alone. An aide, maybe some sort of guard, remained in my room at all times, obviously to make sure I didn’t try to kill myself again.

  Nurses and doctors examined me, like a normal physical, and then a psychiatrist, an attractive gray-haired woman named Dr. Lindsay, asked me questions, mainly about my general psychological state like:

  ‘Do you ever feel helpless?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you ever feel alone and isolated?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you ever feel like you’re not in control of the decisions you make?’

  ‘Never.’

  I knew that she and the other doctors were just doing their jobs, but the last thing I wanted was for them to determine I was insane. If that happened, they might commit me, and I’d wind up on suicide watch indefinitely.

  Why didn’t I jump a second sooner? If I had, I would’ve been wiped out. I hadn’t seen any newspapers or news online, but the guy who’d saved me was probably considered a hero. He thought he’d done a great thing, saved a good person.

  If he only knew.

  Although I felt calmer, thanks to whatever drugs they’d given me, I was still planning to jump in front of a train, or slit my wrists, or OD the first chance I got.

  Or, if I wound up in jail, I’d kill myself there.

  No one had mentioned anything to me about the police investigation, but they knew my name and had to know I was a murder suspect. Maybe they didn’t want to alarm me, or maybe Barasco had instructed them to not mention anything about the murders.

  Then Dr. Lindsay asked the question that she’d been building toward:

  ‘Why did you try to kill yourself, Mr Harper?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ I said.

  She’d been entering all of my responses into an iPad. She added this one as well, then said, ‘Witnesses say you were about to jump in front of an oncoming train.’

  ‘Well, they’re wrong,’ I said.

  ‘But several people have reported seeing you about to –’

  ‘I have no desire to kill myself, I swear. I love my life.’

  She entered this then said, ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Harper,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you rest now.’

  As she headed out, I asked, ‘How long do I have to stay here?’

  At the door, she turned back and said, ‘I’m not in charge of that decision.’

  I sensed she was lying.

  ‘You can’t keep me for more than twenty-four hours, right?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t that the law?’

  ‘Rest, Mr Harper,’ she said as she left the room.

  The aide remained in the room. His name was Cuvis. Hoping he’d be my ally in here, or at least give me information, I tried to strike up a rapport with him. But he wouldn’t talk to me, unless it was about bodily functions. I asked him if I could have my phone back – my personal belongings had been taken away – and he told me I’d have to discuss that with the doctors. I noticed that there were no sharp objects around me – no pens and no knives, not even a plastic one was served with my dinner. I considered trying to jab the plastic fork into my throat but a) I didn’t think it would kill me, and b) Cuvis was staring at me while I ate.

  He even came into the bathroom with me.

  ‘You’re really gonna watch me shit too?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ No-bullshit tone; this was clearly his career, his wheelhouse – suicide watches.

  I tried to go, but with an audience, I was too tensed up.

  Back in the room, I said, ‘I guess it’s true what they say – you know, about a watched pot never boiling.’

  Jeez, I couldn’t even get the guy to smile.

  * * *

  The stagnant air with the combination faint odor of disinfectant and feces was sickening. The dinner last night reminded me of a cross between mediocre airplane food and the TV dinners my mother used to ‘prepare’ for me when I was a kid. I wouldn’t have minded going back to prison – if it meant getting out of Bellevue.

  More nurses and doctors visited. I asked them when I would be allowed to leave, but they all avoided the question. Then a doctor told me I could discuss my situation with Dr. Lindsay.

  When Dr. Lindsay returned, I said, ‘So what’s going on? Are you going to release me today or what?’

  ‘A detective fr
om the NYPD wants to speak with you,’ she said.

  ‘Nick Barasco?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Are you aware of why he wants to talk to you?’

  ‘I don’t have amnesia,’ I said. ‘I’m just surprised he didn’t come sooner.’

  ‘He’s wanted to talk to you since you were admitted here,’ she said.

  Her gaze hardened as she studied my reaction.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ I said. ‘You wanted to make sure I’m sane. Well, I’m totally sane, okay, so you can send him in at any time.’

  ‘I highly suggest you consult with your lawyer first,’ she said. ‘The detective mentioned a lawyer who’s represented you before.’ Dr. Lindsay looked at her iPad. ‘Marcus Freemont.’

  ‘He’s not my lawyer,’ I said.

  ‘Well, you should have someone –’

  ‘I want to represent myself.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a matter of representing, it’s a matter of consulting. I really think you ought to talk to someone before you –’

  ‘So what’ve you determined about me so far?’ I asked. ‘You think I’m crazy? That’s the bottom line, the elephant in the room, so let’s just get it out in the open. What’s your diagnosis, doctor? Come on, let’s hear it.’

  ‘You’re experiencing extreme agitation,’ she said.

  ‘That doesn’t sound like medical lingo. You sure you’re a doctor?’

  She remained stone-faced.

  ‘See?’ I said. ‘You’re the one who won’t answer my questions, hiding behind your psychobabble, and you think I’m crazy?’

  I felt abnormally hyper and unguarded, maybe some side effect of whatever drugs they’d been pumping me up with.

  I wasn’t looking at Cuvis, but I knew he was watching me, making sure I didn’t lash out at the psychiatrist.

  ‘I think you’ve been experiencing a lot of stress,’ she said, ‘and that’s manifesting as –’