Random Acts Of Storytelling

by Earl T. Roske

The Suicide Note

  Samuel Lyons steered his '72 Capri into the Supermarket parking lot and parked in the first open slot he came upon. Turning the key he sat and listened and waited while the engine coughed itself to silence. He wondered if the man they had found today, hanging from a rope connected to the ceiling with a large hook, died as slowly. Did he cough? Did he make any noise?

  From the profile that Sam and the other investigators of the Seattle police had put together it was unlikely. But then, the whole situation was unlikely; except that it had happened. Sam had worked for the city of Seattle as a detective for a dozen years now and never had he seen a stranger case of suicide. Nor had he read a stranger suicide note.

  The man who had committed suicide did not seem, from any psychological angle, to be a candidate for taking his own life. He had a job as a bank officer handling student loans. There was no large out standing debts. No dark habits or addictions were evident. Those that worked with the dead man said he was quiet, but happy. He was known to donate money and time to many charities. This was a model citizen with no skeletons in his closet who suddenly, without any apparent reason, hung himself; until you read his note.

  Sam climbed out of his car; the smell of burning oil from his engine assaulted his nostrils. There were too many other concerns right now in his life that overshadowed the purchase of a new car; braces for Katie, just for starters. He slammed the door shut and started to walk away then spun around and went back. Unlocking the door he dug around in the glove box and located the gas bill. On the back was the grocery list his wife had dictated to him over the cell phone. He'd been stuck in I-5 traffic, listening to the angry shouts of those whose insurance premiums had just been increased.

  Re-slamming the door, Sam examined the list as he walked towards the automatic doors. Six boxes of Hamburger Helper? Oh, well, he thought, at least it was cheap.

  Someone leaned on their car horn, sending an obnoxious blast into the air. Sam looked up, thinking that he had walked in front of someone's moving car. He hadn't, but in front of him, a few long strides away, an old woman was slowly crossing the driving lane between the store and the parking area. The horn belonged to a bearded young man with a grimy red and white baseball cap. The man unrolled the window and yelled, "move it you dumb old goat!"

  The barrage of yelling and horn blowing shocked Sam. Why so angry? It would only take the woman a minute to cross the lane. What's a minute in the big scheme of things? Sam stared in wonder at the driver, who responded by showing Sam his middle finger.

  Sam continued to stare as he stepped up onto the sidewalk out side the store front. Another car passed. Inside of it a man and a woman were shouting at each other. The man quickly raised his right hand in a threatening manner. The woman flinched but continued to yell at him. Their car kept going and Sam watched them go; so much anger.

  Perhaps the dead man was right, he thought, stepping into the cool interior of the grocery store. The not left by the suicide had been the most unusual that Sam or any of the others had ever read. The beginning was an apology:

  To whomever should find me and this note: I apologize for any inconvenience. I figured that hanging would be best because it would leave no blood. I thought about drowning, but quickly realized the possibility of traumatizing someone who might find my body and not be prepared for the encounter.

  Sam smiled at the recollection. They had been alerted to the suicide because one of the dead man's neighbors in the apartment building had noticed a note taped to his door. It had read, "I have committed suicide, please call the police. Thank you." Thank you? Who would have thought that a person would ever commit suicide and be polite about it? The man had prepared for everything. All his bills were paid and he had even left a power of attorney allowing the A.R. Thomason Funeral Home to withdraw the necessary funds from his savings account to handle the funeral and burial. The next part of the letter that followed silenced every cop in the room when it was read out loud:

  The money that is left over is to be given to any charity that benefits members of the police department and their families. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience I'm sure I have caused.

  What had happened was a model citizen had committed suicide. The fist thought was that he was involved with something dirty. But investigations revealed that the only dirt he had been involved in was that dirt that he wore after volunteering in the adopt-a-highway program. If the next few pages of the suicide not had been lost, there would have never been an answer. Fortunately the dead man had neatly stapled the pages together before killing himself.

  Sam wadded through a screaming trio of toddlers who were voicing their displeasure over not getting their own way. Their mother, a tired, harried looking red head was desperately trying to placate them while ushering them out the door. Next to Sam an old man grumbled about how a good strapping would fix their wagons. Looking at the old man Sam saw bitterness and anger etched deeply into the liver spotted skin.

  "What the hell are you looking at," snapped the old man.

  "Nothing. Sorry," replied Sam and he turned away to select a shopping cart. None of its wheels wobbled.

  He pushed the cart down the first aisle and picked up four loaves of cheap, wheat bread; four for five dollars. A real bargain. As he continued to add more low cost items to the cart he mulled over the angry old man, the fighting couple and the guy in the truck. They were all angry. But it wasn't just them. He could clearly recall how mad he was when the women two cars in front of his had slowed to less than twenty miles an hour while trying to merge onto the freeway. And last night the fight with his wife, about bills and braces had been the hottest yet. Then there was this suicide. And there was the note:

  I do not believe that I am a martyr. However, I have done this for a reason. As the years have gone by I've noticed that people are becoming more and more angry. People shoot each other and yell at each other for the smallest of reasons. I don't know why, but I believe the pace of our society may have something to do with this. My grandmother use to can her own vegetables. She used a pressure cooker. I think that our society is a pressure cooker and it is becoming hotter and more pressurized. Each of us seems to have our own little pressurized life. Some explode and some just leak. But there is a danger here for all. We all need to release some of the pressure in a safe way so we don't hurt those around us, or the ones we love. That's why I did this.

  Suicide for some reason other than a selfish reason? It was impossible. Sam was sure that if all the psychologists of the world got together they could justify this man's suicide. Somehow they would find a flaw in his life that enabled them to say, "oh, well, there you go. That's why he really did it."

  But Sam wasn't really to sure about that. Everything about the man seemed so normal and good and happy. Everyone who knew him was shocked and no one expressed even the slightest knowledge that there was something about him that was tarnished or dirty. Sam looked down at the cart he was pushing. It was full. He'd been loading the cart without realizing it. His subconscious had been working in over time; Oreos were not on the shopping list. To heck with it, he thought, Marion likes Oreos as much as I do. And she was right about the bills and the braces. Just like the dead man was right about the anger.

  There was a lot of anger. Sam was often full of anger, and sometimes it went into a high boil. When he thought about it - mentally stood back and looked at the confused jumble he called his life - there was a lot going on. Bills were piling up faster than he and Marion could pay them. There was the children's’ school, and the other students within, and the drugs, and the gangs, and, and, and. It mad him dizzy just thinking about all of it. With that much bearing down on people the stress had to be magnified hundreds of times great than the stress a subsistence farmer had to deal with three or four hundreds years ago. The modern world with all its media, gadgetry, and population was becoming overwhelming. Pressure cookers were leaking; some more furiously than others.

  "Paper or plastic?
"

  Sam blinked and realized he was next. Half his groceries had been bleeped across the scanner and now the courtesy clerk - pimply, purple haired, and a ring in her nose - was staring at him.

  "Sir," she said, again. "Paper or plastic?"

  "Plastic. I guess."

  The courtesy clerk began tossing Sam's groceries into bags while he groped around in his back pocket trying to extract his wallet. He finally removed his wallet and opened it to remove some twenty dollar bills. He had three of them; just as it took three sheets of paper for the dead man to explain his reason for committing suicide. It was, ultimately, the most bizarre reason he had ever encountered.

  So here is what I am offering. I am willing to take the blame for every argument, every lie, every slow person crossing the street, and any incident that causes domestic strife. Whatever it is that makes you angry, please blame me. It’s my fault; take your anger out on me. Remember, also, I have cheated. By taking my own life I have avoided having to deal with living every day and all the obstacles therein. We may not be able to cheat death, but I have cheated life. Take all your anger out on me, but please, love those around you.

  Thank you;

  Karl Hanklin

  "Anything else, sir," asked the cashier.

  Sam looked up as he started to hand over the money. She was wearing a real smile. It seemed to say "I enjoy my job, and I'm glad to be helping you." Not everyone seemed to be full of anger. Behind her, just above the register was a plastic bucket. Inside the bucket were several pre-selected and pre-wrapped bouquets of flowers. Marion liked Oreos, but he new she liked flowers even better.

  Okay then, Mr. Hanklin, Sam thought, I will hate you for cheating life and for causing that argument with my wife last night. He smiled. But today I'm buying flowers for her; because I love her.

  "One more thing," he said aloud. "I'd like one of those bouquets of flowers."

  "Certainly," the cashier replied, and then added, "they are pretty."

  As the cashier added them to his total and pulled his change from the cash drawer Sam turned and looked out through the huge glass windows. If only everyone could read Mr. Hanklin's letter. Sam saw the old woman he's seen earlier. She was standing at the edge of the curb, waiting to cross traffic and reach the safety of her car.

  "I'm sorry," said Sam, turning back to the cashier. "I think I need one more bouquet of flowers."