The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  I’m not opening that letter.

  I have fantasies about disemboweling her lawyers. Cutting them open and removing their intestines so they can see them. Holding them up in the daylight should they care to take a look as they die a slow, painful, aware death. They’re bad people who enjoy their jobs on top of it. I’d use the dullest knife I could find.

  I am the sticky, syrupy, sinful residue of a hate reduction sauce. I am thick. I am obstinate in my despair. I am nothing. I’m not opening that letter.

  But I should pay those bills. Maybe I’ll send the letter to the power company. They can deal with it.

  An hour later, I’m sitting behind my desk listening to some douchebag whine about an inheritance. His grandfather left him a nice cut of the bazillion dollars he earned as a captain of some industry and I can tell already that if this asswipe has his way he’ll burn through it before he’s thirty. He’s twenty-eight.

  Lucky for him, there’s no chance of that. No, he’ll live a safe, padded life thanks to the strict discipline his great-grandfather laid down on his grandfather that leads to the kind of strength and willpower and lack of scruples that results in fortunes this large. On the other hand, it also leads to a lifestyle that produces offspring who don’t know their fathers or, in turn, how to father. So what you end up with is a lot of money and a fuckwad grandson who seems to think he’s entitled to the keys to the bank.

  Instead, what Junior here gets is a structured payout that’s tiered to different ages tied, in theory, to corresponding leaps in personal growth and responsibility. He got a hundred grand as soon as the old man dropped dead. Basically a bonus for showing up at the funeral. At thirty, he gets another five hundred, the assumption being that he will be in the mood to marry around then and this will pay for the wedding and eliminate any of the speed bumps so many newlyweds and poor married people have with regard to money. At forty, he gets a check for another million, to make sure Douchey McDouche’s kids are taken care of. At fifty, he gets the rest. Three million. What was that geezer thinking? I tried to steer him toward donating it to charity or leaving it to a beloved cat, but he wouldn’t have any of it. He had a soft spot for the boy and from what I could tell, felt that he had failed his own son by not being around while earning all the god damn money. So this was a make-good. Not that it would make anything good. The kid was lost a long time ago.

  He’s wheedling around trying to convince me that he’s so smart he can handle all this financial stuff himself. Never mind the weeks I spent sitting with the guy who actually made the money ensuring everything was just so for little mister man here. I’m waiting for him to start questioning our rate and asking for a retroactive break on the price his old man already paid. Like we give refunds. Meanwhile, he’s wearing a brand new Cartier Pasha. Yesterday, it was an Ernst Benz ChronoScope. Sorry all that free money isn’t enough for you, Hoss. Nice to see you’re making smart decisions before the check even clears.

  I think I punched a garbage man last night. Or a bum. One of the two was breaking my balls about not being able to stand up. My knuckles are all scratched up so that must have been it. Or I fell. But usually falling means scratches on my palms and face. Must have been a punch.

  There’s no way to hide the scabs since we’re going over the details in these documents and I have to keep pointing things out to this dumbass. I don’t care. Not a little.

  To each of his idiotic questions I nod and shrug and recite the lines that service my client while protecting the firm. Twelve years sitting in this chair. The wheedling pansy in front of me doesn’t have any new problems. And I hate his tie. I wonder if he’s ever been hit in the face. Probably not, but I’m telling you it would do him some good.

  Once I get rid of him there are a few other clients and meetings and some conference calls to attend to. They all go pretty much the same. I get through them playing a tepid version of my former self. Thank god I’m a meaningless cog in this vapid machine. I could be replaced in a matter of hours if anyone cared to make the effort. So far no one has. I wonder how long this can last. Not much longer. I am a victim of inertia. When I was on my way up, I couldn’t be stopped. I had three job offers the second I passed the bar. I doubled my salary twice in seven years thanks to some brash self-marketing and shrewd interview choices. I quickly became the darling of my current firm’s founder, sitting in with his biggest clients and gaining experience my peers wouldn’t come close to until they had put in another decade of grunt work and ass kissing.

  I was being groomed for bigger things.

  Whispers of making me a partner had even begun circulating for a brief second or two. How I must have been hated. But that was when I was on my way up. I am now on my way down and it would appear that once again nothing can stop me.

  My head is pounding and there’s only so much coffee I can drink before the balance tips from beneficial by way of caffeine buzz and energy boost to an annoying incessant need to urinate causing me to excuse myself three or four times from the same meeting. Unprofessional.

  I wish I had some coke. I don’t. I have to gut it out.

  My debit card is missing. I’m guessing it’s at a bar, but fuck me if I know which one. I should cancel it, but I don’t. I will. Just not now. It would take seventy-two seconds to cancel it and order a new one. It’s exhausting to even think about.

  I spend the conference calls grunting agreement with whatever is being said and drawing detailed vignettes of my clients in sexual positions they may or may not enjoy in real life. The fat banker with the twitchy eye swallows a cock where I should be writing down interest rates or fees or something important. An old lady I’ve never met gets a Penthouse body and Jessica Rabbit tits and a Mandingo boyfriend putting the stones to her from behind. I forgot how much artistic talent I’ve been ignoring my adult life. Too late now to do anything serious with it. Maybe I’ll start an anonymous Tumblr with these and see if they go viral. They won’t. I won’t.

  Hours later, my headache is dissipating. I think of myself as heroic in my struggle against the lingering damage of the night before. I’m a gladiator. I am the myth behind the man. I can’t wait to go to sleep.

  Lisa doesn’t call. I check my cell to see if I drunk dialed or texted her last night. Nope. Between meetings I try her office. Nothing. I hang up before the voicemail picks up. Her office phone has caller ID.

  The final meeting of the day includes my direct supervisor and former mentor, Harry. I haven’t seen a lot of him lately. His choice. We’ve had our talks and he’s suggested things like taking some time off or maybe not putting myself under so much stress. What is unspoken but understood is that I’ve disappointed him both as a lawyer and a man.

  The meeting is brutal because it involves me discussing numbers and details and I have to pay attention even though I want to put my eyes out with a staple gun to stop looking at these papers that I hate so much.

  I run the meeting and Harry sits like a granite lion at the end of the table. Harry’s gravitas alone is worth an extra hundred grand in billing from this client. He’s a big, navy, pin-striped security blanket. He’s watching me closely. If I’m getting anything wrong, he isn’t correcting me. I think things are going well. Considering.

  I wrap the meeting up, our clients sign some papers and hands are shaken. Another satisfied customer gets fed a few bad jokes, has their back patted, and is escorted to the elevator. I know this was a test. I know I failed. Inertia.

  Harry watches the doors close and turns to me, staring me down as only a disgusted father figure can.

  —Everything okay?

  —No. Why?

  —Because you’ve been acting like an ass and you look like shit.

  —I’m fine. I’ll be fine.

  Harry looks me over. I can’t tell if he’s going to fire me or hug me or is just thinking about what he’s going to have for dinner.

  —Christian. We’ve talked about this. Enough. Get your act together.

  Harry walks away, a
flaccid smile on his face for the receptionist who may or may not have heard our conversation.

  7

  (Oh, the perils of divorce.)

  As our man at the bar can tell you, should you muster the courage to engage him—but, again, I urge you please do not—the path of separation is fraught with ugly pain and selective memory and endless meditation on impossible alternate realities.

  What if we had met later in life?

  What if we had tried counseling earlier?

  What if I was a person of stronger character?

  Yes, the contemplative possibilities are rich and fascinating and, although ultimately fruitless, have armed the old boy with plenty to ponder as he pours himself into another extended evening of overpriced spirits and impulsive aggression.

  Tonight’s activities take place at a venue similar to our last encounter, only slightly lower toned. This is not to say our man’s taste is faltering. He is simply changing things up. Adding a bit of variety to this long, slow drift into nothingness.

  Look around and you’ll see a class of people who are more than comfortable paying good money to be seen here. Further, the customers in attendance, for the most part, did not attain their social or economic position as a matter of accident or coincidence. At least half of every couple here is a person of ambition and determination, and to some degree, obstinance. And so, as the evening’s shenanigans begin, the response to the old boy’s behavior is not unpredictable or surprising in the slightest.

  —Another one.

  —Grey Goose martini, olives, up. Yes, sir.

  If you’re the nosy type, you’ve already observed and noted the four spent olive skewers lined up in front of our man’s almost empty glass. Not unlike the skulls certain primitive tribes will post on spears outside their village as a warning to potential trespassers. You’ve more than likely also calculated his upcoming drink to be the fifth of this very early evening.

  The martini is produced in record time and served up with the same precious showmanship as the previous masterpieces.

  —My shift is ending, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll run your tab and start a new one for my replacement.

  Our man waves his hand to indicate that this is a nonissue. He is hitting his stride and shan’t be concerned with such trivialities as money or manners. His posture is foreboding. His breath is a weapon. His demeanor is a charismatic malignance. He scans the room for new arrivals.

  Oh, my. There, a few seats down, in the black dress. You probably saw her come in, but our man was too busy with his own myopic reflections to notice until now. He quietly inventories her various physical attributes. She’s attractive, but on the far side of thirty. She’s confident enough to sit at a bar alone but her cosmetic enhancements do signal a need for attention. Her potential for illicit entertainment is intoxicating. His predator eyes narrow as his reptilian brain assumes command, superseding whatever discretion may have lingered from the few hours he spends sober these days.

  In his perfect world, our man would sweep this temptress off her feet, shower her with effortless conversation, witty compliments, and his own personal brand of winning charm. The poor girl would swoon and her heart would race and she would fall truly, madly, deeply in love with him. She would beg him to be hers forever, to never leave, and to promise his everlasting devotion. She would give herself to him fully and completely. She would sacrifice her dreams and relinquish her ambitions. She would forsake her family and friends to slavishly worship at the altar of their romance. She would be his.

  In this fantasy world, our man would wait for that particular moment wherein the transformation from stranger to lover was complete, look deep into her eyes, savoring her unwavering vulnerability, the purity of the moment. And then he would crush her dreams and break her spirit and ruin her for all other men. Grinding her into the powdered version of the fiercely independent woman she once was. He would complete the act by walking away without explanation or hope for reconciliation, perhaps chuckling to himself about how easy the task had been. Some women never learn.

  But you know as well as I that our man hasn’t the immediate enterprise or long-term resolve required of an endeavor of such scope. He enjoys the fantasy, though. A satisfying scratch to the itch that has of late been a constant in the back of his angry little mind.

  As the old boy weighs the likelihood of success of the various options of approach available to him, he is interrupted by the thoughtless bartender.

  —I’m sorry, sir, but your card was rejected. I ran it three times.

  Well, that certainly puts a damper on whatever strategy was bubbling up in our man’s consciousness, no? Or perhaps it serves to catalyze tonight’s inevitable meltdown. One might even picture the old boy grateful for the unexpected surplus of fuel that his self-loathing psychological apparatus burns at such a high rate. Hurrah!

  Our man takes his card back and carelessly drops five twenty-dollar bills on the bar. Small embarrassments like this are best left in the past as soon as possible.

  —Keep it.

  —Thank you, sir.

  Our man sips his drink and returns his attention to the unavoidably beautiful woman in the black dress.

  —Can I buy you a drink?

  —Doesn’t sound like it.

  To be fair to the old boy and his growing rage, she makes no effort to look over when responding. Clearly a move calculated to intensify the humiliation our man is now enjoying. He was attempting to move on from the shame, for God’s sake. And to top things off, she raises the drink she already has with a hand that bears the diamond wedding ring on which some lucky fellow apparently spent a great deal of money. The nerve!

  As far as our man is concerned, she has done the heavy lifting for him. He has been unequivocally forced into the corner he so desperately wants to be in. He affects a tolerant smile, fishes another twenty-dollar bill (his last) out of his wallet and slides it slowly in her direction, savoring the drama microsecond by microsecond.

  —Well then. How about a blow job?

  Ho ho! Now he has the whole of her wide-eyed attention. She even turns slightly to face him—an added bonus for the old boy as she’s allowing a better view of her prominently displayed décolletage.

  It is unclear whether the brief silence that follows our man’s inquiry is due to her being stunned speechless or her gathering her thoughts before launching a concise but vicious riposte. We shall never know.

  The gentleman with whom she arrived when our man did not see her enter now approaches, sliding a smooth, territorial hand across the small of his bride’s back.

  —Our table is ready.

  —This guy called me a hooker.

  Her significant other bristles as blood rushes from his brain to his muscles.

  —Excuse me?

  Upon further inspection, you’ll notice the lady’s escort is a man of great physical stature, naturally thick and exercised on top of that. A brute. Watch as he presents a posture of alpha male, leaning in toward the drunk who is noticeably thirty pounds lighter and five years older. Our man’s face falls into the easy smile of inevitability.

  —Sorry.

  The old boy lets his apology linger as he sips what he knows will be his last drink in this bar. And by sip, obviously, I mean gulp. Despite his gag reflex flaring in response to the sudden harsh intake of vodka, he gallantly presses on, delivering his final word on the subject.

  —Easy mistake with that perfume.

  Well, the husband’s meaty fist striking the center of our man’s face is no surprise to any of us. What is worth noting is the ease with which our man absorbs the blow. He flies backward, taking a few of the beautiful but uncomfortable bar stools with him. Nearby waiters swarm the combatants and the manager chirps for them to be expelled and the crowd watches the most exciting thing that will happen in their presence tonight. For them it is shocking.

  Neither fighter resists as they are escorted quickly through the front door of the establishment. In the case of ou
r man, this is all going as planned. As to the muscular gentleman, there is the matter of defending his wife’s honor—in his mind, a state of affairs far from settled.

  Outside the restaurant, our man, there on the sidewalk, holds his hand to his nose. Not to stop the bleeding—an impossible task at this point—but to feel his own blood racing out of him. To know that he has accomplished something. A few more punches to his face and a final kick in the gut leave the old boy a soiled mess on the pavement. The husband of the lady in the black dress finishes the job by spitting on the side of our man’s face as he lies there motionless. The old boy manages to cough out a loosened crown and some of the blood that clogs his throat. It is the one act he has managed tonight that is not contrived for attention.

  The most delicate hint of a smile crosses his face as he fades to black and we take our leave, the work of the evening finished.

  8

  It’s one of those perfect summer evenings.

  A man I met less than five minutes ago is punching me in the face. His form is magnificent. This guy has put in some time at the gym. I wonder if he ever fought Golden Gloves or anything organized. He definitely should have. Pretty sure my nose is broken.

  I’m wondering why things never work out for me. Why I never get the lucky breaks. What could I have done differently in my life? What other choices could I have made? What other paths could I have taken? Could I have been a different person or is this who I was always destined to be? What could have been?

  This is my time to think. Me time.