Together We Will Go
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To absent friends, deeply missed and profoundly mourned… a love letter written in the hope of understanding what happened, and why, the day the road ahead suddenly became inestimably shorter than the road behind.
INTRODUCTION
At 10:23 p.m. on 14 April 2019, a text file was uploaded to several commercial websites located within the United States. Because of its length and lack of publicity or provenance, the file went virtually unnoticed for several days, lost in the flood tide that is the internet, before being abruptly removed when the websites received court-ordered takedown notices at the prompting of the Utah State Attorney General.
The AG’s office justified their actions by claiming that the document was necessary for an inquest into several deaths, and as evidence in any criminal proceedings that might come out the other side of that investigation. The filing also suggested that the document contained “dangerous ideas” that were a threat to the public well-being.
Both claims were met with skepticism by the online community, especially since the Utah AG’s office figures prominently in the document, leading some to speculate that the takedown order was motivated by a desire to conceal their actions from public scrutiny. Nonetheless, the court order had a chilling effect on other sites that might have been willing to repost the material, and as of this writing it remains unavailable online.
In the belief that the public interest is best served by transparency, even—and sometimes especially—in the face of official pressure, steps were taken to ensure the document’s release. Its publication in this volume is not intended to condone or condemn the actions described herein, but rather to encourage debate and discussion in the public sphere. It contains journal entries, emails, texts, voicemails, and real-time transcripts that deal with issues of controversy that some may find disturbing.
Discretion is advised.
Everyone says first-person narratives are bullshit, that there’s no suspense because you know that whoever’s talking can’t die by the end of the story, otherwise who’s writing it? Well, by the time you read this I’ll be dead, along with maybe a dozen others, so I guess the joke’s on you.
That’s called the narrative hook, like when Alfred Hitchcock talks about putting a bomb under a coffee table so the audience knows it’s there but nobody on-screen does, and they’re talking about golf or who’s screwing who or some other shit that would normally bore the life out of you but you’re going nuts because you know that thing’s gonna go off any second and then it’s blood and guts and brains as far as the eye can see… or that Stephen King story that starts with a woman shoving a gun in her purse and she walks around with it while she’s shopping and getting coffee but you know sooner or later she’s going to use it on somebody so you keep reading because you want to know when and where and how but mainly who and why. Grab ’em by the nuts and run like hell.
Difference is: this is real death, and lots of it.
Can’t wait.
* * *
From: Mark Antonelli MDAntonelli@gmail.com
To: Rick Lee RickLee@retailtransitsales.com
Subject: Re: Bus pickup
Rick:
The mileage thing will not be a problem, thanks. Just need to get it and go. Will follow up via text.
Rick Lee RickLee@retailtransitsales.com wrote:
Hey, Mark—
I’m still cleaning it up a bit—the last owners weren’t exactly gentle. As tour buses go, this one’s a bit old and frankly she needs a lot more work than I can get done in the time required. The four bunks are as clean as they’re going to get, ditto the toilet in back. Biggest worry would be the bearings. Mileage wise they’ll need to be replaced at about 10K or you’re going to have problems.
* * *
The latest rejection:
Dear Mark Antonelli:
Thank you for submitting your novel to Eagle Publishing. Unfortunately, it does not meet our editorial needs at this time, and we are returning the manuscript. We wish you the best of luck in placing the book with another publisher, and thank you again for thinking of us.
Sincerely,
Tim Dunn
Editorial Assistant to Donna Lyons
I should rephrase: not the latest rejection. The last rejection.
* * *
Draft three of the release form. Part of me wants to keep tinkering with it, but I’m out of time. It’ll have to do. Art is never finished, only abandoned.
Congratulations! You’re one of the few to decipher the invitation hidden in the Personals section of HomepageAds.com and show up on time. You have officially joined the weirdest cross-country party ever. Our destination is San Francisco. Upon arrival, we will ditch the driver, find an appropriate seaside cliff with an amazing view of the ocean, then just as the sun kisses the horizon, we hit the gas and drive out of this world.
In return, you agree to the following terms:
1.) You are serious about killing yourself. No tourists or last-minute backsies.
2.) As the price of admission, you will write your story, upload it to the Wi-Fi hotspot on the bus, and periodically update it. It should include your name, age, background, your reasons for wanting to check out early, and any other salient information. The name of the portable server is getmeoutofherenow, and the password is boom427. Once you log in and create a username, you will have the option of linking the system to your email and text accounts to provide a real-time record of your thoughts and messages leading up to the Big Day. The system uses an app called RightWrite, which is great at fixing grammar and intuiting punctuation and conversations, and automatically backs up the files to an off-site cloud server. There are iPads on board for those with small cell phones and big fingers. You can choose to keep your entries private or share them with others on the bus. And no, I won’t peek without permission.
3.) In order to ensure that nobody’s relatives try to block distribution of the material, you agree to relinquish all claims to everything described in Section 2, which will be uploaded to the internet at the end of our journey. Consider it the world’s longest suicide note, a collective Last Will and Go Fuck Yourself. Nobody ever tells the truth because they’re afraid of what people will think of them, but since we’ll literally be speaking from the grave, you can finally tell everybody in your life what you really feel, no holding back.
4.) If at any point we get pulled over by the police, you will not discuss the purpose of our trip, and you acknowledge that any drugs or other contraband found on your person belong to you and are not the property of anyone else on the bus.
5.) You absolve myself and everyone else on the bus of any liability, civil or criminal, that might be incurred during our trip. This includes accidents or a decision on your part to check out prior to finishing the journey. You alone bear legal responsibility for whatever you do to yourself while you’re on the bus.
If you agree to these terms, please sign below and use the fingerprint scanner on your phone (or one of the bus iPads) to confirm your ID. Then take a screenshot of the agreement and upload it to the bus server.
If you do not agree to these terms, get the fuck off the bus.
* * *
* * *
From: Mark Antonelli MDAntonelli@gmail.com
To: Dy
lan Mack DylanMack@dylanmackservices.com
Subject: Re: Job Inquiry
Hey, Dylan—
Not a problem, totally understand. Meet me tomorrow morning at 11:30 at Retail Transit Sales, 21327 Via Capri Road, Miami. I’ll be coming in from Kendall, so if I’m running late with traffic, check in with the owner, Rick Lee. He’ll walk you through anything you need to know about the bus. Would love to be on the road by noon-thirty latest. Will have the letter in hand, signed, sealed, and notarized. See you then.
Dylan Mack DylanMack@dylanmackservices.com wrote:
I have to be honest, Mark, while I need the money, this job is a bit more complicated than I bargained for when I answered your Help Wanted ad. I did some research and the laws about assisted suicide vary a lot by state, and we’ll be passing through some of the riskier ones. I take your point that we won’t be doing anything while we’re in those states, and that I’ll be getting off before the end, but for my protection I’d like a notarized letter saying that I’m only working for you as a driver, that anybody who gets on the bus is doing so at your invitation, not mine, and that I’m not involved in any way with what happens later. I’m just there to drive the bus, period, end of discussion. If you can do that, I’m in.
* * *
Username: AdminMark
Five Miles North of Miami.
I was still switching over the last of my files to the cloud server, creating the admin account and getting the hotspot online as we pulled out of the parking lot. Hard to believe we’re actually on our way.
We’ve got about three hours before our first stop, so I may as well get the confession-ball rolling.
My name is Mark Antonelli. Twenty-nine. B.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Florida State College, which means I have zero qualifications for any job that pays actual money. My mom works as a paralegal and my dad used to be a security guard until a few years ago, when he got a job at an insurance company and his boss was also the pastor of an evangelical church and next thing you know Dad goes full-tilt Born Again and holy fuck has that been a shitstorm.
I was an only child, so my folks piled all their expectations and unrealized hopes onto me. I had to get A’s in every course or face the consequences. Nothing physical, they weren’t violent, but I would’ve preferred a punch in the mouth to Your mother and I are very disappointed or You hurt us when all we wanted was the best for you. Anger, yelling, anything would have been better than that soft-walled death sentence. Nothing I did was good enough. At twelve, I started showing signs of depression, so they put me on Prozac, then Zoloft. I hated what the meds did to me, so I learned how to hide what I was feeling. Smile and the world smiles with you. Frown and they stick needles in your arms. No thanks.
I first started having suicidal thoughts in high school, and spent most of my junior year researching ways to kill myself without it looking like I killed myself, because when that happens, everybody makes it about them and what they said and what they did or didn’t do and ohmygod if only we’d read the signs, we could’ve prevented this. When I die, I want it to be about me, okay? That’s how I found out that a lethal dose of potassium is both hard to trace and slow-acting, which would give me time to ditch the evidence. Took a while, but I finally got my hands on enough to do the job, and held on to it for months, waiting for the right moment.
To kill time (so to speak), I started writing a journal, just for myself, so I could express what I was feeling. The more I wrote, the more I discovered that I liked it, so I began writing poems and short stories that were good enough to impress my teachers and they told me to keep going.
I don’t think they had any idea what keep going actually meant at that point of my life, but it was enough to make me ditch the potassium, which to be honest wasn’t as big a gesture as it sounds since I knew I could always get it again. I just needed to see myself tossing it down the toilet as a symbol of I’ve got this, you know?
By the time I graduated high school, I’d pretty much convinced myself that I was going to be okay.
Then my dad said, If you expect somebody to give you a job as a writer, you have to get a degree.
And that’s when it all went to shit.
I wanted to say, Nobody just gives you a job as a writer the day you walk out of college like some kind of goddamned Cracker Jack prize and they don’t even give those out anymore because some stupid kid choked on a plastic toy soldier thirty years ago… wanted to say, I’d be better off spending those years hitchhiking across the country or building shelters in South America than sitting in a room for the next four years listening to some guy who’s never sold a thing in his life tell me how to write.
But I didn’t say any of those things. I nodded and smiled and deferred and agreed and enrolled and took notes and tests and Adderall and wound up right back on the Potassium Highway. Because like everybody else in my demographic, I fell for the Big Lie.
If you’re over thirty and reading this, you don’t understand that the road between Get a Degree Avenue and Here’s Your Job Boulevard broke down a long time ago. But that’s not your fault. You don’t understand because you can’t understand, because that’s not the world you lived in.
The Civil War was stupid lethal because the generals weren’t living inside the war they were fighting; they were living in the last one. During the Revolutionary War, muskets were shit. You had to get up close, closelikethis if you wanted to hit anything. So when the Civil War came along, the generals used the same tactics they’d used in the Revolutionary War: they ordered their soldiers to line up in rows, elbow to fucking elbow, so close to the enemy they could see each other’s teeth before opening fire with weapons that were a hell of a lot more accurate than muskets. They fought the next war using the strategies of the last one, and six hundred thousand soldiers died because of it.
So when our parents said, Go to college and get your degree so you can get a job, we did it even though we know it doesn’t work that way anymore because we wanted to make you happy, because we wanted to believe what you believed, that the rules still applied, that you walked out of college with a degree in one hand as a recruiter shook the other, offering a job and a salary and a desk and maybe a pension plan that they’ll take away before you get to actually use the goddamn thing but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right? But that’s not true anymore. We will never, ever have the same opportunities you did. Full-time jobs are fading fast, replaced by part-time jobs where you get paid shit money to work long hours that are constantly being shifted around so there’s no stability, no benefits, and no backtalk or you’re fired, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And the American Dream of owning a home someday? How? With what? Everyone I know who graduated college came out $50–80K in the hole for student loans they’ll never pay off, which by the way also shoots down their credit rating, so there’s no savings, no loans, nothing to invest, nothing to buy a home with, and the planet is frying and in thirty years most of us will end up climate refugees, so yeah, there’s that to look forward to. And in return we get shit upon from On High for living at home or not having ambition or putting experience ahead of owning stuff because in case you weren’t paying attention we can’t fucking afford anything.
And that’s why you don’t understand. Not your fault. Not your paradigm. It’s just what it is.
So when I graduated with a degree in writing, my parents expected me to start making a living as a writer rightdamnitnow. What followed instead was seven years of part-time work and full-time rage, sending out short stories and novels and This doesn’t suit our needs and Come back another time and Sorry we can’t help you and Get the hell out.
After a while I stopped kidding myself that the writing thing was ever going to work out. So what was left? Spending the next thirty years of my life flipping burgers for minimum wage and making up the rest with food stamps and welfare? Going back to school so I could come out with another useless degree, crushed by more loans that I’ll never repay and a credit score that’
ll keep me from renting anything bigger than a litter box for life? No.
Looking down the barrel at thirty, I finally accepted once and for all that there was nothing I could do and nothing I could write that would change things, so I said fuck it, I’m outta here.
That’s why I’m doing this. That’s why I used the last bit of cash I socked away after college, my I-can-live-on-this-for-a-while-if-everything-else-goes-to-shit emergency fund, to buy an old, beat-up tour bus off a government surplus website.
Because the only good writer is a dead writer, right?
* * *
This is the notice I uploaded last week to the Personals section of HomepageAds.com:
If you can’t carry this weight anymore… if you want it to stop, REALLY stop… then you’ll understand what this ad is about. I’m not here to talk you out of anything. That’s BS and we both know it. So let’s do this right. One big party, one last drive, flat-out, right to the edge and no coming back. Looking for 10–12 people who GET what this ad means and can commit to seeing it through. If that’s you, respond with a text number. Burner preferred. Don’t want or need to know details. Will get back to you ASAP with a pickup address.
The notice went live two days ago in every big city between here and San Francisco. Once I had enough convincing responses, I pulled down the ad so the police couldn’t find it or, if they knew about it, trace it back. Everything after that will be done in texts, the language vague enough to be safe, but clear to anybody who’s ready to check out. It’s funny how we can dog-whistle this stuff with each other when we decide it’s over.
First stop is Orlando, because fuck Disney.