Why I Committed Suicide

by sam paul

  I had to prostrate and humble myself to my parents to get them to help me co-sign on an apartment here in town. It was not a pleasant experience trying to deal with them again; there’s still so much animosity between us about money, but I desperately needed a place to stay and I’ve always been good about getting a job and paying my rent on time before all of this. To say they were reluctant to help me is putting it nicely. I’m really trying to be good though. I’ve got food stamps to help me get back on track with a balanced diet and my bicycle gets me around town now. My wrecked bug was towed and then sold by the city in an auction before I could reclaim it, which I think is the same as stealing since they didn’t wait the required 3 months before selling it off as salvage, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. Stupid city.

  The new apartment is just a one room shithole behind the head shop where the Delta Lodge used to be, but at least it’s MY shithole although it always feels hot and awkward. I’ve locked myself out of the apartment several times already (how could that happen?), but by using all my strength I can push the air conditioner into the wall and crawl through the hole to get back in. Now I’m not a large guy but that should give an estimate of the dimensions of my ineffective AC unit.

  While I was in jail, the Lodge burned completely to the ground and even though it makes me sad to see it gone, at least I have an alibi that clears me or more than likely it would be one more thing I might have to take the (literal) heat for. When I was homeless I spent more than a few nights on the third floor couches of the house before I finally roomed with Kirk. It’s sad because I loved that house as much as anyone and now it’s gone. All that’s left from there are people flinging crap at me.

  In the past month or so I’ve already had to face a trial of my peers at the Delta Lodge because some bitches accused me of stealing money while working at the Fry St. Fair this year. I think it was to divert attention away from themselves since they didn’t show up to the trial where I had to go and address the entire house in person. I guess the worst part is that they didn’t actually see me stealing anything; they just speculated I did because I had money to buy drugs, from them, later on the same day! It’s a fucked up, bizarre rationale but regardless, I’m now on the outs with a lot of people from the Lodge. My habit and drug of choice have become apparent in this community and rumors circulate like wildfire through this new(er) group of guys. I’ve lost touch with them all. I vividly remember my own reaction of revulsion upon meeting my first old “Sammy” alumni who came to the house with these crazy old stories, right out of a seventies rock band cliché, filled with coke, heroin and theft. Well, now I’m that guy in the Lodge, and this new group, which has mostly formed while I’ve been pissing my life away and getting tossed in and out of jail, doesn’t think very highly of me. Somebody even spread the rumor that I was dressing up like my mother and going into the bank to cash her savings bonds, so I had to try and quash that also, but lies based on partial fact are always more believable.

  Basically, since I showed up to the Monday meeting and made a convincing plea of my case (the girls didn’t show) I was vindicated. Mostly because the girls that I was getting the drugs from are already not very credible with them either. Delta membership is for life, so after I said what I had to say the whole situation ended with the guys saying “fuck it” and a murmured chant of “karma cash.” “Karma cash” basically means, “We can’t prove you guilty or innocent, so if you did wrong the energy of the universe will boomerang and bite you in the ass later.” I hadn’t heard of that phrase before but it made me feel empty inside knowing I really am guilty of a whole lot more. A curse like that doesn’t bode well for my future because by now I have certainly abused any of the good karma I ever created giving out free food and beer, if that doesn’t count against me also. Words and phrases in everyday conversation now wrack me with ulcer-ish guilt that nearly drives me to my knees. I can’t turn this brain off and it’s so fucking hot.

  Disposable pop music and peppermints are all that seem to permeate the air today. The summer heat is pressing in and the trees are dropping those nasty green things that stick to the bottom of my socks and make a green-ish paste on the bottom of my bare feet. I sense humid growth and the ever-present smell of vegetation coupled with fast food scents drifting from the Tomato and Chinese place across the street.

  Do I write too much about how hot it is? That’s because it is so fucking hot all the damn time. My body feels like a solar cell when it gets out of a cold environment, storing and internalizing the heat for later use. Must have something to do with my Minnesota roots.

  I see Jenifer a lot now that it’s the dead heat of summer. Her habit has gotten really bad, about as bad as mine was while she was in the hospital, but I still need her love even if she can’t perceive it. Every morning I wake up and realize that I live about 100 yards from where I first met and fell in love with her that one fateful day on Fry St. So long ago. Every waking day, I am reminded of what I have done. We’ve just got to see how everything turns out.

  How can I describe freedom to people who’ve never had it taken away, people who’ve never lived without it? It’s just not enough that the cops always win, why do they have to make somebody lose in the process of doing it?

  I was settled nicely in my new job, new apartment and I was having a mid-morning toke with the screen door open to let in some of the early morning breeze before the heat got too stifling. I was comfortably nice and warm, taking a nap in my only chair after a long night of working at the medical supply company, when I woke up to the cops walking into my place. I heard the squeak of the screen door as it opened and as soon as I saw them, I told them to “get out of my house.” They walked in anyway, saying they saw me napping in my chair and wanted to check and see if everything was ok. I assured them I was fucking “ok” but by that time they were already in my apartment despite my repeated requests not to enter.

  The police philosophy is to never pass up the opportunity to search something or somebody around here, whether it’s legal or not. They just always seem to find some fucking excuse to do what they want to do and damn the constitution. I requested to see a copy of their warrant when they had both had stepped foot inside my little room but they just laughed saying that they didn’t need one because they “thought they were responding to a medical emergency.” As they started looking around I clearly indicated that I was not having a medical emergency and that they were not welcome in my apartment, but by then it was too late.

  The cops found half of a joint behind my TV and now I’m in fucking jail again with another marijuana misdemeanor and while I was in handcuffs I bitched those cock sucking bastards up and down as they stood and collaborated on their story to say they could see I had marijuana in the house before they entered the front door. This was because the half-joint they found was behind the damn TV and my TV was off to the side behind the door, which would make it impossible for them to see without entering the premises. So it looks like I’m going to get screwed over again because the cops always support each others’ “plain view” story and I have a prior criminal record. So what if it goes against the FOURTH AMMEDMENT TO THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES! Denton County is so corrupt and this is just another reason why their 99% conviction rate is currently under investigation by the federal government. It’s a fucked up system. You can wait six months in jail to go to trial and be proven innocent or plead Nolo Contendre, do thirty days and go home. It’s pathetic how easily they’ve psychologically worn me down and I HATE THEM for it! I’ve learned so much in the past year. All I had was a one-fucking-percent chance, baby! 1%!

  Jenifer is taking it personally that I’m in here again, she feels abandoned and that’s the hardest part. With the money she got from the insurance in the accident she now has a brand new Saturn equipped with a special handle that let’s her drive it around town using just her hands. She got about $100,000 from the wreck and that was only because of the extra
insurance my parents had bought protecting against paralysis due to an auto accident. If it hadn’t been me driving she wouldn’t have gotten anything extra, but that’s small consolation given the big picture. I think she got scammed and could have sued them for more but that’s another thing I was left out of the loop on. I’ve pretty much been removed from her life by everyone else that’s close to her now. Even the dopeman won’t see me anymore without her there.

  I was so happy to hear she got a car, it means some sort of freedom for her and things at her house are bad with her Dad. He’s actually using her injury to try and control her when he should be trying to encourage her to use her freedom. It is more bad news and now she doesn’t have the same confidence in herself that she always used to say “fuck it” and move away from him. Even her mom who should have left him by now is staying to be with Jen. Jen is Jen. Still feisty and I want her so much. Her habit’s gotten so bad that when I get out this time I reallywant to stop, I have to stop for her sake.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Intake into jail is the worst part of getting arrested. There is so much uncer-tainty—so much unpredictability. Anything can happen. Drunk men wake up next to stainless steel toilets with a black man’s dangling penis pissing inches from their face. Drugs, fights, broken bones and just the waiting. The hurry up and waiting.

  I wrote this down on a scrap of paper while I was going starting to go through withdrawals in the 72 hour tank. Sorry if it’s not very coherent:

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I saw a kid come in while I was in still the holding tank. He was still trying to find someone to bail his ass out, but finally coming to accept he might be staying awhile. Like I mentioned, the holding tank is a very smelly overcrowded place. Young kids in for piddly shit are mixed in with all the big boys who violated theirparole and are going back down south to Hutchins, Tennessee Colony or any one of the other farms. I guess if you know you’ll be out relatively soon and you are young, jail seems alright at first. You can complain about how much it sucks and then go home after a short stint, but the other long-term guys are quiet. Staring and keeping to themselves. Wondering if maybe this is the time they go down for good and don’t ever come out.

  So while I was in there, one of the old timers is on the floor (overcrowding) on his mat, sleeping and snoring his ass off. Well I guess all the snoring is bothering this one young kid or he’s still on drugs or something because he walks around waking people up to tell them they are snoring and asking them to stop or rollover on their side or whatever, who knows? I’m watching as he does this a few times and a couple of people do wake up, mumble an apology, roll over and go back to sleep.

  Note: a lot of black people sleep on their back and snore like crazy.

  Note: a lot of people snore.

  Anyway, the kid finally gets around to this grizzled old white guy snoring on his mat in the corner and he’s reaching down to shake him awake (the guy is still sawing logs, dead asleep) when the guy suddenly grabs the kid around the neck in his sleep and shoots a fist right at him. The guy was instantly awake and didn’t hit him, but the kid nearly crapped his pants right there. I could actually see the look in the kids eyes go from good natured, to this is serious, in a fraction of a millisecond. It was kind of funny but I knew enough to stay out of it. The old guy talked some pretty serious shit to the kid and then went back to bed, snoring just as loud as ever and the kid found someone to post his bail first thing in the morning.

  Jen went ahead and bonded me out for the marijuana arrest even though I asked her not to. I mean I secretly wanted her to get me the hell out of there of course, but after about a month in general population, having already kicked the worst of the withdrawals from heroin, I didn’t see much point. I figured I would be going to court soon and that I would just get time served or a few more days. Jenifer went through so much to get the bit of money that she has, it just isn’t worth wasting it by bonding out a bum like me.

  I can see in her eyes now that she doesn’t trust me, but that might be for the best since apparently I can’t even trust myself to do the right thing anymore. I just wish she would stop doing dope, we’re another Orpheus and Eurydice and I can’t help but look behind me to check on her. I mailed her a lot of letters from jail, just like before, but I can still tell I’m losing my “Azami flower.” For some reason most people have to have direct contact with me to be reminded of why they love me, but I don’t want my personality to be defined by my presence any longer. Whatever empathic “ability” I have to charm, talk, or get through to people isn’t worth shit if the substance of my essence doesn’t last. Every girlfriend I’ve ever had has been surprised that I can actually think coherently once they get to know me, but now I feel that the same abandonment issues and the “being the butt of all rumors” thing that happened with all my friends is now happening in Jen’s mind too.

  Her car is cool, it has a sunroof and everything. The special hand control that allows her to use it like a regular car—Saturn installs it for free if you need them and the contraption still lets a non-handicapped person get in and drive it like a regular car without having to adjust anything. Very cool.

  Jen has made friends with this girl named Lori who I don’t particularly care for. Lori’s a stocky Mexican girl who kind of slowly became Jenifer’s new partner in any shoplifting endeavors and anything else that makes quick cash. Lori sees me as an intrusive asshole ruining the good thing they have going together and I just see her as another innocent getting lured into the perils of the H lifestyle without knowing it. While I’ve been away, Lori and Jen have developed their own pattern of going to score and now that I’m out of jail I’m not really included. It’s a blessing for me in a way but very bad juju for Jen in the long run. While I was in jail, Jenifer wrecked her white Saturn while she was fucked up with Lori and by the next week her insurance company already got her a brand new red replacement. She thought it was funny trying to explain to the ambulance drivers that she couldn’t move her legs but that it was okay because they already didn’t move. It was a funny story, but it is also was a sad reminder to methat nobody’s really there watching out for her anymore. Oh Jenifer, don’t do what I’m doing, please stay alive for me, even if I’m being hypocritical.

  I’m way, way behind on my rent now but my landlord’s cool and hasn’t evicted me. It is the dead-heat of summer now and I finally talked to him about staying there and arranging to pay him back. It’s so hot that it muddles people’s thinking and he agreed, probably thinking it’s easier to let me stay than moving my few belongings and re-renting the place. He’s a nice guy. I’m going to have to move out anyway though since there is no possible way I can realistically arrange to pay him back the rent I owe. Until then, I’ll stay and watch until the electricity and water gradually get cut off and he eventually forces me to leave. I’ve locked myself out a few more times, but I know that even after the locks get changed, if I’m desperate for a place to squat, all I have to do is push in the AC window unit and crawl through.

  There are quite a few old abandoned houses along Fry St. that I can always stay in, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Most of those places are ok but some are too heavily haunted to deal with right now. There’s one old multistory house with four floors of rotting antique wood lovingly carved years ago. Drooping ceilings caving over looping staircases and incredible gaps in the floor that seem to fall forever. The third story porch is incredible, somebody loved it there. People don’t need to talk or tell me about the murder in the family at this house and how the parents abandoned it immediately after, leaving behind their only little girl who was unable to understand the transition her spirit made. Her mother’s grief kept her from ever returning to the house. She’s waiting around just in case, stay in one place, that’s what mommy always said. “If you get lost, stay in one place and I’ll come to find you.” It doesn’t fucking matter how I should know any of this I guess, but I do. Most of the squ
atters around town say the house is alright, and most have been inside it during the day, but none of them have ever managed to sleep there overnight like I did.

  It was their little girl, she’s just scared now. I kept having to tell her to get lost. I don’t know how to explain to a six year old that after she fucking died her parents moved away and tried to start another family. How her mother’s grief was so overwhelming that she couldn’t conceive again, how her father started cheating with his secretary when the mother broke down and went to the institution. How do I explain that back then an institution involved lots of hard drugs and electro-shock therapy? How do I tell her that her mother died alone not even remembering what pushed her over the edge in the first place? She thinks it might help us both if I doused the first floor in gasoline and just let the flames lick their way up to us in the attic room. By destroying the house and taking away the last possibil-ity of hope it will likely free her spirit, but no matter how hard she wants to convince me to stay, burning alive sounds like a terrible way to die. In my craftiness (or desperation) I’m sure I could find a way to comfort her and still escape or maybe I could jump from the roof to reasonable safety.

  Then again…I’ve got enough shit of my own to deal with in the land of the living. Some of these damn houses are just too haunted for my taste.

  I finally went to court for that bullshit marijuana possession misdemeanor charge that Jenifer bonded me out on. While I was waiting, I saw my very first probation officer in the courtroom testifying against somebody with another violation case, he was very friendly and said “hi” to me, then asked how I was doing. I wonder if he remembered my face or just that I violated my probation with him when I got another case.