Spring plowed winter aside, and still my spirit felt paralyzed. Then one day, in one of my darkest hours, something happened that, even when I think about it now, I have trouble believing it even happened. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe it was fate, maybe it was God, I really don’t know for sure. What I do know for sure, is that it was as close to a miracle as anything I’ve seen.
~~~
I woke one morning in the town of Buxley, Tennessee. Spears of light jabbed at my eyelids through the cracks in the shades. I rolled over, away from the light, and tried to fall back asleep. There was no way I wanted to face the day. My life was so unbearable I wanted nothing but to sleep until it ended.
The sound of snoring kept me awake, and I remembered that once again, I’d woken up in a cheap motel, beside a cheap woman that I wouldn’t be able to pick out of a police lineup by the next day. I hated myself. All my efforts to simulate pleasure or happiness in my life had fallen flat. Joy and peace were no longer things I even thought about striving for. It was enough for me to have my mind preoccupied with something other than the past.
I rolled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom.
After sitting on the toilet for 10 minutes with my head in my hands, I got up and shuffled over to the sink to wash my hands and face. The reflection in the mirror almost startled me. Bloodshot eyes looked back at me beneath a disheveled tangle of overgrown hair. The stubble I’d neglected was becoming a bird’s nest beard that added a half dozen years to my face. It was hard to believe the face was mine. There was something foreign about the bleary-eyed reflection that looked back at me with dead man’s eyes. Something about it that wasn’t me, or at least wasn’t what I remembered myself to be. Yet, there was an unsettling familiarity about it as well.
I washed the sleep out of my eyes and dried my face with a towel. Grasping the edge of the sink, I leaned forward and stared closely at the face in the mirror. It wasn’t my face that stared back at me. It was the face of Moses.
Every boy wants to be like his old man as badly as the young man he turns into does not. I suppose I wasn’t the only man to set out in life determined to become anything but his father. They say an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but I doubt there were many men that were as committed as I was to falling as far from the tree as I possibly could.
There had been times I’d made decisions by asking myself, “What would Moses do?” After I had figured out what path Moses would take, I’d make damn sure I hightailed it down the road in the opposite direction. There’s just something in a young man that can’t stomach the thought of stepping in the same footsteps as his old man, so he decides he’ll follow his own path.
But, life’s trails aren’t straight, and there are switchbacks, intersections, and forks in the road. Before a fellow knows it, that damn son of a bitch is looking back at you in the mirror with a little smile that says, “I’ve been expecting you. Where the hell you been, boy?”
The realization that I had become my father hit me like a punch in the gut. I glared at the face in the mirror with so much hate it was a wonder the mirror didn’t splinter to pieces. Every line in my face verified a decision I’d put off too long. The familiar look of defeat in my eyes confirmed what I’d known for months. There was no denying the obvious now. My soul was dead, but for some reason my body hadn’t been notified that its presence was required as well. It was an error I intended to personally rectify.
I threw my towel into the sink and stormed out of the bathroom.
“It’s a good day to die!” I muttered to myself as I pulled on my pants, fished the room key out of the pocket, and tossed it on the bed stand.
“The key’s by the lamp, Violet—uh, Katie? Kathy?—whatever the hell your name is,” I addressed the lump that snored under rumpled sheets, trying different names like a drunk with a ring of keys attempts to find the one that fits his front door in the dark. She didn’t even stir.
The late morning sunshine almost blinded me as I stepped out the door.
“It’s a good day to die!” I repeated as I unlocked the car.
Committing suicide was something I’d thought of a lot of times, but I hadn’t given much thought at all as to exactly how I’d go about it, so I drove around Buxley for a while, thinking about my options. I finally pulled into a quiet back alley behind a tire shop and parked. It seemed to be as good a place as any to put a bullet through my head.
I rummaged around in the bag that sat on the passenger’s seat and found an open bottle of cheap wine and the Luger I’d taken from Karl Heinz in Normandy. The gun had never been fired or unloaded in all the years I’d had it. I handled it with moist palms.
After taking several gulps from the wine bottle, I got down to business.
“This one’s for you, Karl,” I murmured as I put the muzzle to my temple, took a shaky breath, and prepared to pull the trigger.
Two boys on bicycles turned into the alley, so I lowered the Luger and placed it in my lap. They didn’t need to see what I was about to do. As they passed, they stared at me and waved. I acknowledged them with a nod, and followed them in my rearview mirror until they disappeared. They looked so carefree and innocent. I sat for a few minutes and thought back to a time when I went to bed excited about waking up the next morning and finding out what experience life would be serving that day.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, kids,” I murmured as I raised the pistol to my head once more. I started squeezing the trigger when I remembered I’d forgotten one crucial thing—a suicide note.
I placed the Luger down on the seat beside me, found a pen and a napkin, and thought about what to write. Or who to write. There was really no one I could think of that would give a damn about whether I was dead or alive.
Finally, after thinking about what to write for a half hour or so, I remembered a little poem I’d scrawled on the back of a motel receipt several weeks prior. I opened the glove compartment and rifled through the miscellany until I found it.
The sun shone warmly through the window, and so I moved the car forward into the shade of a tree. I unfolded the paper and quietly read the poem out loud to myself:
My affliction is my sole companion,
Desperation is my only friend,
My soul begs for the certainty of suffering,
The one thing I can count on in the end.
I say I’d like to kick the dog named Sadness,
But leave an open door into my home,
And once he’s in, I just extend the madness,
I pat his head and throw the mutt a bone.
It was good. Incomplete, but good. It summed up how I felt about life and myself as well as anything I could think of off the top of my head. I took the pen and wrote “Dedicated to Johnny Snarr, the only friend I ever had” at the top of the paper. I set the paper down on the seat beside me, and resumed attempting suicide.
As it turned out, I did not have a knack for committing suicide. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying. I told myself that I’d pull the trigger after I took the next swig of wine. Then, I promised myself that once I’d finished my next cigarette, I was surely going to do the deed.
Well, the wine turned to piss, the cigarettes went up in smoke, and there I sat, alive as could be. So, I had to resort to other stalling tactics.
First, I decided it would be foolish to proceed before I’d determined whether it would be most effective to fire a round into my temple, or if a shot through the mouth or forehead would be best. Then, I questioned whether a 9 mm Luger was really an efficient killing device, or if perhaps I should hold off until I could procure a shotgun or rifle. After that, I worried that the pistol might be too powerful and blow through my skull and cause some sort of collateral damage.
As I dithered and dallied, I began to feel angry with myself. I hated my life, and I hated myself. Why was I finding it so difficult to just end it all? It made me feel like a weakling, and I hated weaklings.
Finally, after the afternoon was far spent, I realiz
ed that I’d never be able to do it sober, so I shoved the Luger behind my belt and started walking to the nearest watering hole.
The sign on the front of the bar said “Vern’s.” Aside from Vern, the bar was empty when I walked in. That was fine with me. I usually drank alone, and preferred it that way. I was in no mood for company.
I found a table in a corner where the light was the murkiest, lit a cigarette, and began drinking. The Jack Daniel’s was fuel to the fire of rage and self-loathing that burned in me, and my inner agitation grew by the minute.
As afternoon gave way to evening, patrons began trickling in. Someone fed the jukebox, and strains of Tex Ritter drifted through the smoke and chatter. “You Two Timed Me One Time Too Often.” “ I’m Wastin’ My Tears on You.” Between old Tex and the Jack Daniel’s, it didn’t take long before I was ready to shoot myself right where I sat.
When the bar was almost full, I told myself I’d go back to the car and finish things after I was done my next drink. I’d said that before, but this time, I knew I meant it. The whiskey had done its work.
With trembling hand I lifted my glass to finish the last few precious drops. I set it down, pushed it to the middle of the table, and began to rise, when a familiar tune from the jukebox planted me back in my seat.
“Hand in hand we’ll walk along life’s pathway, you and I,” the jukebox quavered. It was Clyde Daniels, singing “Blue Eyed Girl.”
“You give me the kind of love that gives me wings to fly,”
The music carried me back to a dirt road, a young bride, and a time when life had been beautiful.
“When you smile like sunshine all my cloudy feelings flee,”
Tears rolled down my cheeks and into my beard as I remembered singing those words. I had meant every word I’d sung.
“I was meant for you, my love, and you were meant for me.”
The irony of the lyrics I’d once sung to Ellen cut my heart like a hot knife. A sorrow that only the loss of something beautiful can create welled up in me. Tears poured down faster than I could wipe them away.
A woman laughed loudly nearby. I looked around. It seemed no one was listening to the song. Everyone was talking and laughing, as though being alive was a real good time. It infuriated my alcohol-drenched mind.
“Blue eyed girl you have my heart, don’t ever let it go,” the jukebox crooned on.
“Stop it!” I yelled as I lurched out of my seat, so drunk I could hardly stand. The room fell silent as though someone had hit a universal mute button, but the jukebox played on.
“I will never wander, dear—”
“Turn off the goddamn jukebox!” I shouted. Tears still trailed down my face. Everyone looked at me like frozen, wide-eyed statues.
“Turn it off!” I screamed. No one moved.
I pulled out my Luger and pointed it wildly with one hand at the jukebox. Those people close to me remained rooted to the spot, while others across the room bolted for the door. A pretty young brunette in a short red dress screamed and dropped the cigarette that she held between her painted nails.
Bang!
“Even through the stormy seas—”
Bang!
“—I know we’ll never part,”
I grasped the pistol with both hands and held it as steady as I could.
“You’ll be mine forever ’cause I loved you from the start.”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The jukebox sparked, crackled and fell silent. The girl in the red dress stood up and shrieked as the cigarette she’d dropped in her lap began to smolder through her dress. The fresh-faced lad she was with looked at me as if he had a notion to come after me.
“Don’t you even think it, short pants!” I drawled, pointing the pistol at him. He had second thoughts, and took a few hasty steps back.
“Party’s over, ladies and gents,” I announced, my tongue thick and lazy. “Time to go home.” I felt tired, weak, and very drunk, so I leaned up against my table and waved the stunned customers toward the door with my Luger.
“I should do you all a favor and just shoot you, that’s what I should do,” I told them. The girl in the red dress tittered nervously as she passed by me.
“Yeah, you think that’s funny, don’t you, you fuckin’ slut?” I screamed. “I should shoot you first! There’s nothing worth living for, you’ll see!”
“That’s right, keep movin’,” I encouraged the last few stragglers with the end of the gun. One portly redhead had mascara smeared all over her face from wiping away her tears.
“Don’t cry, miss, it’s your own damn fault!” I shouted at her broad back. “Next time someone tells you to turn off a jukebox, get off your fat ass and turn off the goddamn jukebox!”
The bar was now empty except for me and Vern. He was a short, wiry fellow, probably twice my age. I turned to him, and he looked like he was wondering if he was supposed to vacate the premises as well. It was obvious he wished he could be elsewhere.
“Not you, pops,” I slurred. “Get me a drink.”
The room swirled, so I sat back down and put my head on the table. I heard him set a glass down in front of me and I lifted my head. He walked back to the bar and stood there. I held the glass up, but didn’t drink.
“This—this will be my last glass of whiskey. Ever.” I told him. “When I’m done this glass, I’m going to blow my brains all over the wall. The table. The floor. Wherever.” I waved my arm around floppily at all the possible things the poor bartender might have to wipe my brains off of. He looked a little pale.
“Cheers,” I mumbled as I raised the glass to my lips.
I was looking for a cigarette when I heard the front door open. I looked up slowly. It took a minute for the room to settle down. It was the sheriff. News travels fast in a small town. It was obvious he wasn’t stopping in for a drink, because I was already looking down the barrel of a .45.
“I heard there was some shootin’ goin’ on here,” the sheriff said quietly.
“Aw, sheriff, everything’s fine!” I assured him. “I’m just fixin’ to shoot myself in a minute here, so why don’t you just run along and come back in five or ten minutes when I’m through here,” I reasoned with him as I picked up the Luger off the table.
“Put that down, son,” the sheriff said calmly. He was a big man, but he moved fluidly toward me like a cat.
I quickly pointed the gun at him, thinking maybe I could provoke him to shoot and save me the trouble. He kept his finger off the trigger.
“Come on, shoot!” I taunted him as he took another step. “Shoot, ya pussy-ass motherfucker!” I yelled, jabbing my gun toward him, but he was unfazed. Instead of shooting, he put his pistol back in his holster and continued to move toward me.
“Stop!” I ordered, flustered by his nerve. “If you take another step, I’ll blow your head off!” He didn’t seem to hear me.
“Put it down,” he said, his tone stern, yet sedate.
“I’ve killed more men than you could cram in this room,” I blustered drunkenly. “I could slit your fucking throat with this fingernail,” I held up the little finger on my left hand.
“Put it down,” was all he said. He was seven paces from me now.
“Sheriff, I would just as soon kill you both as shake your hands,” I said, mistaking the double vision I saw of him for a sidekick I’d overlooked until then.
“Put it down, Robert,” the sheriff said from an arm’s length away. He stopped and looked down at me. His arms dangled harmlessly by his sides.
“Sheriff—” I began. I sputtered to a stop. It took a moment for my inebriated mind to process what had just happened. The sheriff had just addressed me by name.
“Do I know you?” I asked, squinting curiously up at him. It took a few moments for my eyes to focus on his face. Then, I couldn’t believe what I thought I couldn’t possibly be seeing. When my eyes finally convinced my mind that their claims were real, my jaw and my pistol both dropped to the table with a clatter. The sheriff held out his
hand.
“Sam Mattox, Bourbon County Sheriff’s Department,” he said.
“Well . . . fuck me!” was all I could say.
~~~
Before I even opened my eyes the next morning, my first thought was that the motel bed I was lying in had to be about the worst I’d ever slept on.
Then, I thought about the fantastically absurd dream I’d had, where I was going to commit suicide, had shot a jukebox, and found out Moses was the sheriff in a town called Buxley, Tennessee.
I opened one eye reluctantly and saw a drab concrete wall and a window covered with bars. It was no motel room, it was the Bourbon County Lockup. It wasn’t a dream! Moses was a sheriff! I couldn’t have been more astounded if I’d seen a juggling snake. The thought of it almost made me laugh out loud as I sat on the edge of my cot. Shaking my head in utter disbelief, I stood up and walked over to the cell door. My mouth and lips felt very dry. Outside my cell I could see a pair of shiny black boots underneath a desk.
“Hey!” I called out. “Hey, could I get something to drink?” The boots didn’t move.
“Just a minute,” an unfamiliar voice replied.
“A beer would be a nice way to start the day,” I hinted jokingly, surprising myself with my lightheartedness. A snort was the only response I got to that suggestion.
After a minute, I heard a chair scrape back from the desk and someone walk across the room and fill a cup with water. As I peered through the bars, I saw it was the deputy sheriff bringing me my water. He handed me the paper cup, and I sized him up as I gulped down the water. He was about my age, round-faced, and kind of soft-looking. He struck me as a straitlaced, by-the-book type of fellow that took his job and himself seriously.
“Could I bother you for another cup of water, sir?” I asked politely. He nodded, and went to refill the cup. I looked around my cell as I waited, and noticed vomit on the floor.
“Would have been nice if you could have put me in a cell without puke all over the floor,” I jested as he returned with my water.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 26