The Last Time I Died

by 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

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  65

  64

  65

  67

  66

  67

  69

  68

  69

  71

  70

  71

  73

  72

  73

  75

  74

  75

  77

  76

  77

  79

  78

  79

  81

  80

  81

  83

  82

  83

  84

  Copyright

  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.

  2

  (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.

  3

  (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.

  4

  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.

  5

  *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.

  The tip-off is the shoes.

  In those heels I bet she can’t walk more than the distance between the cab that brought her here and the bar. High maintenance. Trouble. God help the man who gets in her way when she’s trying on outfits.

  Dana and her friend squeeze into our table as if we’d invited them. The friend’s eyes meet mine briefly, but long enough for me to know I’ve been assessed as well.

  She introduces herself around and makes it a point not to spend too much time on me in the process. I can see we’ve got an issue already. She’s at the far end of a table for six and it feels like our chairs are pulling toward each other. I’m careful about how much I direct any conversation her way. Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. On her end, she’s playing things very cool as well. Focusing her attention on my married friend, David. Turns out they’re in similar businesses. He in advertising, she in fashion. She’s well spoken and so effortlessly confident. They’re discussing photographers and designers I’ve never heard of.

  She lives uptown.

  She’s from Philadelphia.

  She speaks fluent French.

  She’s an avid reader.

  Democrat.

  Former downtown music scene fixture.

  Ran the marathon last year.

  Cooks.

  I’m having trouble keeping up with the conversation on my end of the table because I’m listening so intently to hers and I’m afraid it’s going to be obvious soon. I force myself to concentrate on whatever the fuck David’s wife is telling me but really I don’t care at all and find myself making sure my head is held just so, in case the high-maintenance pain in the ass looks my way.

  I’m a distracted peacock.

  Fucking wish I’d worn the blue shirt. Why didn’t I wear the blue shirt? My eye color shifts between green and blue depending on what I wear. When I wear green, they turn green. When I wear blue, they turn blue. I’m wearing white. I would look so much better if my eyes were blue right now but I didn’t wear the god damn blue shirt. I should put more thought into this kind of thing and it’s too late to fix it now. At least I got a haircut last week. Maybe I had a premonition.

  I catch myself getting caught up in my own bizarre magical thinking and insist that I return to the real world. Look at the menu. Order a drink. Check out the waitress’s ass. Do something besides fret and posture like an eighth-grade girl.

  We order, we drink, we laugh. I drink a little more than I should. I say maybe three sentences to her the whole dinner, calling her bluff. She’s got a smile that makes you want to do things for her.

  She’s driving me nuts. I happen to know I’m being funny this night but she’s not buying any of it. Giving me nothing. Anything that comes out of my mouth and wafts her direction sours before it hits her.

  Despite my best efforts I’m sketching a composite of her personality and the life she leads when she’s not around me.

  Farmers’ market on Saturdays.

  Works in Tribeca.

  Spinning class.

  Hates to travel.

  No pets.

  Really funny.

  I can’t stop.

  The older woman at the next table makes it a point to lean over and compliment the pain in the ass on how delicious her perfume smells. She’s not wrong. The scent reminds
me of somewhere I’d rather be.

  We pay the check and start the debate of where to head next. Of utmost concern to me is steering the thinking toward whatever destination will be of most interest to the pain in the ass. If we drink a little more in the right environment, who knows where the evening might lead? I want her to go with us, but I know the best thing that could happen is that she decides to call it an early night and leave. Or she remembers some other plans she has. Or she meets another guy and splinters off from us. Something that gets me off the hook. But none of these things happen and we decide on margaritas across the street.

  Her name is Lisa.

  I know already this will not be good.

  6

  I wake up with another wicked hangover compounded by a whirlwind of half-memories from the previous evening.

  Yelling at Lisa.

  Martinis.

  A bullshit fight with a bunch of waiters.

  Something about a cab driver and Sixth Avenue and all those fucking horns.

  My leg hurts but I have no idea why.

  If I had my druthers I’d never wake up. I’d stay in the black of REM where there’s nothing and nobody. Like I deserve.

  A shower. A shave. Some coffee with enough scotch to take the god damn edge off. My head buzzes and it makes the coffee taste extra bitter. I don’t even remember making it this morning. I sit on the bed for a good fifteen minutes thinking of nothing as I stare at the back of my open closet. What if I never moved from this spot? Wouldn’t be the worst thing that ever happened.

  Every morning I’m extinguished but somehow still walking. If I had the initiative to try, I would have to work my way up to usefulness.

  Finally, I stand and slide my jacket on. At least I look the part of a capable lawyer. A capable lawyer ten years older than I actually am.

  My keys must be somewhere. I dig through the suit I wore last night. There’s blood on the lapel. I find them in the front pocket for some reason. Lucky break.

  One more cup of coffee as I gather my thoughts.

  I am a cancer of me. I want to suck myself into the black hole of my mind and I want to take you with me.

  There’s a stack of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. I should pay those bills. The stack is getting tall. On the bottom is the letter from Lisa’s lawyers. It’s been sitting there for a week now. Or maybe it’s been months. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. It can’t be good news. Good news comes from Lisa in a manic phone call. She’s reconsidered. She wants to talk. She’s drunk. She’s horny. She’s forgiving. I love good news. Bad news comes from her lawyers. Bad news usually leads to more bad news.