Mr. Suicide

by Nicole Cushing

  So you put the magazine down. Wandered around and strolled past hundreds of books wrapped in tacky plastic dust jacket covers. Sometimes, you’d pull one off the shelf and look inside. There was a biography of a Russian composer, written sometime in the ’80s. You flipped through it and saw a receipt for a liquor store, dated June of 1995. You didn’t know why, but you kept it. You felt a little mischievous, like you were stealing a piece of someone else’s life. If it wasn’t for the fact you weren’t even born in ’95, you could have pretended it was yours.

  You looked through a few other books in that row, skimming them to look for other receipts that had been used as bookmarks. Finding none, you went to the bathroom, took a piss, got a long drink from the water fountain, and went back into the heat.

  You walked past a big church, a little church, an abandoned church and a bar. You walked past a soul food restaurant and a McDonald’s and a Chinese place. You started to walk toward a hospital, but then turned around. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, really, but you knew it wasn’t a hospital.

  You walked some more and started to get hungry. You paid four dollars for a hot dog and pop. It was a ripoff, but the vendor had no line at his cart and at least you didn’t have to be in a restaurant with people. The hot dog looked and tasted like a turd on a bun.

  Then you sauntered over another few blocks west and discovered something far more interesting: a row of strip clubs with names like The Taj Mahal, Daddy-O’s, and RazzMaTazz. You walked past them and tried looking in through the window, but men guarding the entrance said you needed to show proof you were eighteen to get inside.

  “That’s fuckin’ bullshit,” you told one of them (this dude with a comb-over and a gut and five bazillion earrings). “I turned eighteen today. I just don’t have a license to prove it.”

  “Well,” comb-over dude said, “we don’t want losers in here, no how. Stop botherin’ me.” And then he went off to basically harass this businessman walking past there to come in.

  Then a new voice: gravelly but pleasant. “Shit, I can tell you’re eighteen. C’mon over here, sir.”

  It was coming from a little hole-in-the-wall joint three doors down. A tall, muscled Mexican dude stood outside the entrance. An elegant black snake tattoo coiled around his thick, tight upper arm. “Hey,” you said. “You talkin’ to me?”

  “Damn straight,” the Mexican said. “C’mere.”

  As you approached him, you noted the name of the place: The Border Crossing. You remembered you only had a few bucks left. “How much does it cost to get in?” You started to dig into your pocket.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” the Mexican said. “Your money’s no good here.”

  “For real?”

  “You’re kidding me, right? My boss would tan my hide if I charged someone as fascinating as you to come in here.”

  You nodded. Walked in. It was cool in there—almost cold. The scent of gasoline lingered around the place, as though it had perhaps been a former repair garage remodeled into a strip club. You smelled fresh sawdust, too. Not far from the entrance, there was a stage. An act was already in progress. A naked, elderly woman was sitting on a stool, removing her artificial leg. A tattoo of a black spider curled around her belly button. A second stool next to her was empty, except for a carton of Crisco. A pair of ancient stereo speakers were positioned on the stage (one on each side). They were playing an old jazzy rock song from the ’70s. No vocals (in this part of the song, at least). Just guitars and drums and sometimes an organ, too. Not a bad tune, at all. You started bopping your head to the beat.

  You took in the rest of the scenery. Fluorescent lights hung in long lines on the ceiling. Half of them were off, perhaps in some hope of fostering atmosphere. The Border Crossing had about as much floor space as your high school gym (but with a much shorter ceiling). It had been partitioned into three separate rooms by thin slabs of plywood masquerading as walls. The plywood had been crudely anchored to the floor with multiple pairs of cinder blocks. One of the rooms, on your left, off in the distance, was full of purple light. The other, on your right, off in the distance, was pitch black. That room was cordoned off with a red velvet rope and guarded by a bouncer.

  The bartender (also tall, but Caucasian; bald, but bearded) smiled when you walked in. He had a tattoo of a black horse on his neck. “Hey, my man, great to see you! Welcome to The Border Crossing! Go ahead and have a seat. Ms. Francine was about to show us her little butt-fucking trick.” He jerked his head in the old woman’s direction. “Weren’t you, bitch?”

  Her head wobbled as she tried to work up an answer. “I… I… I…”

  The bartender walked up the three short stairs leading to the stage. They creaked as he climbed them, and you realized at that point that the so-called stage was actually more akin to a backyard deck and had been only recently constructed. (Thus, the sawdust smell.)

  Then, over the speakers, men started adding lyrics to the jazzy rock music. They sang about noise and confusion, about glimpsing something beyond this illusion. They sang about a wayward son. And about peace. And said there was no need for him to cry anymore. It was an odd choice of accompaniment for the events on the stage.

  The bartender walked right up to the old woman, grabbed onto her skinny-saggy teats and twisted them. She squirmed, grunted, and lost her balance. Her plastic leg fell out of her grasp and landed with a thud against the stage. If she hadn’t braced herself with the stools, she would have toppled over and broken a hip.

  “You’re a horny bitch, ain’tcha Francine?” the bartender said.

  She looked down. You thought she was trying to glance at the floor, but instead her eyes locked onto yours. She seemed confused and afraid and powerless.

  “Tell this nice, fascinating gentleman what a horny bitch you are.”

  She started to speak, and her voice trembled. “I… I… I’m a horned… I’m a horned…”

  The bartender laughed. The wooden boards creaked once more as he walked back down the stairs. “She’s a hoot and a half, ain’t she?”

  So damned gorgeous.

  “Hey, Mr. Fascinating. Didn’t you hear me? I said, ‘She’s a hoot and a half, ain’t she?’”

  And the stirring in your groin verified that she was, in fact, a hoot and a half. Two hoots, even. But you weren’t quite ready to admit it to a stranger.

  “Hey…” the bartender said. “You still didn’t answer me. I said, ‘She’s a hoot and a half, ain’t she?’”

  “She’s luscious,” you confessed. You coughed after saying it. Choked on the words.

  He slapped the table with his palm and giggled. “Damn straight. That’s just the word for her… luscious. Ha! You a college boy or something? I mean, to come up with a word like that, so quick an’ all?”

  “Yes,” you lied. “I’m on the Dean’s List at the University of Louisville.”

  He nodded. “Good man. Fascinating and studious. Ain’t that a combination!”

  “Hey,” you said. “You keep calling me ‘fascinating’. My brother called me that, too.”

  He smiled. “Well, sheesh, kid! What do you expect to be called? You’ve been Chosen.”

  “But for what? By who? That’s the part I’m not clear about.”

  “Chosen to come into this place, make yourself comfortable, and check out all the stages. Not just this one, you know, but the stages in the Purple Room and the Dark Room, too. You’ve been chosen to visit all three, in time. I mean, there are rules about how fast you can visit ’em. Regulations, you might say. But you’ll visit ’em. Ain’tcha ever heard of the Three-Fold Path?”

  You shook your head.

  The bartender sighed. “This is one,” he said, pointing to Francine up on the stage. “The Purple Room’s the second step along the Path. That’s the one you need to visit next. And since you’re a gifted and talented college kid and all, I’m sure you’ve already deduced that the third step along the Path is the Black Room. Experience all three of these places, and you
can emigrate.”

  “Where?”

  The bartender looked at you like you were joking. Giggled, then let out a huge belly laugh. Laughed so hard he started to cry. He had to brace himself against the table and take deep, stabilizing breaths. He eventually regained his composure. “Where? To a momentary communion with your Master, before He devours you. That’s the whole attraction, right? That’s what you want.”

  You started to get up. Felt a little sick to your stomach. Stammered when you spoke. “I d-don’t know what you’re talking about…”

  The bartender stood now, too. Put his arm around you. “Hey, hey, hey chief. Calm down, it’s all right. When I said ‘devour’, I didn’t mean in any way that would hurt. The whole point is to avoid any more pain.”

  “So, what, in the Black Room there’s a noose and a ladder? You think that’s badass? You think that’s something I haven’t already considered a hundred times before?”

  A strange expression overtook the bartender’s face. He took his arm off you and put his hands on his hips. Gritted his teeth. “Blasphemy? Really? Right here in the Temple, out of the mouth of the Chosen?”

  “You call this dump a ‘Temple’?”

  The bartender reared back and slapped you. His palm was meaty and callused and heavy as it landed on top of places where just the night before you’d scratched yourself. The blow stung and burned your face. Nearly toppled you over. You swung at the bartender’s ample belly in retaliation, but he grabbed your arm and twisted it behind your back.

  “Mr. Suicide’s the peasant. He’s the king. Confusing the two is blasphemy. And if you don’t know that, then I reckon you’re not as gifted and talented as you think you are.” The bartender wrenched your arm farther up your back. “Now ask for forgiveness.”

  “Fuck you!”

  He wrenched your arm up higher.

  You wailed. Began to cry. “Okay… okay… please, please forgive me.” You heard those words coming out of your mouth and felt like a weakass piece of shit. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This… king… I just don’t know who you’re talking ab—”

  The bartender shoved you. You lost your footing and ended up on the cement floor.

  “Here? In His temple? You’re asking who He is?”

  “Don’t be mad… Nobody’s told me. How I am supposed to know?”

  “Well, then, let me be the first to lift the veil a little higher than it’s been lifted so far, chief. He’s gone by lots of names. Some call Him ‘Kuk’. Others ‘Erebus’. Others ‘The Great Dark Mouth’. He was the formless void who existed before time and will exist after it. People have tried… oh… for centuries to come up with rituals to harness Him for their own purposes. Usually noble purposes, in a sense. They wanted to make the world go away… to make it dissolve into nothingness. But here’s a secret that not everyone knows: He doesn’t want to work that way. He only takes us one at a time. He talks to us: says that if everyone was granted the relief of nonexistence, it would be unfair. Not all are deserving of such a reward and relief. He says we’re all like fruit, and He’ll only swallow the ones who have rendered themselves sufficiently ripe with experience. Only they will serve as pleasing meals.

  “You see, if you walk the Three-Fold Path, the Great Dark Mouth will devour you whole—meaning He’ll eat your past, your present, and your future. That’s a trick Mr. Suicide can’t beat. All he can do is talk you into killing yourself. The Great Dark Mouth, on the other hand, can make it so you were never born in the first place. Just think about that for a moment… no need to injure yourself. No pain or discomfort of any kind’s involved. You won’t experience any guilt, the way you would if you had to fret about the people you’d leave behind to mourn you, because there will have never been any ‘you’ to mourn. You won’t be dying, you’ll be un-born. You need only step into the Black Room, here at The Border Crossing, and He’ll un-birth you.”

  Slowly, you picked yourself up off the ground. “So He makes it like I never existed? Gobbles me up and leaves no trace?”

  “Well, mostly no trace.”

  “Mostly?”

  “As with any meal, sometimes there are a few crumbs left behind. It might be an identification card or scrap of clothing that belonged to you. It might be a lock of hair or a knuckle bone. We call these Impossible Objects—things that shouldn’t exist, given that someone was un-born, but do. There’s something quite thrilling about holding one of these relics. To look at a driver’s license that belonged to a man who never existed, well, you can see how that would be kinda cool, don’tcha chief?”

  You nodded. “Where do these Impossible Objects show up?”

  “At the place of the devouring. When the Mouth devours you, there will be some little thing left over in the Black Room. Maybe a fingernail, maybe a shirt. Whatever it ends up being, we’ll save it. Venerate it.”

  “And my parents will never see it? My brother will never see it?”

  “If they did, they wouldn’t recognize it, because the rest of your existence had been eaten up. I heard you say to the doorman that you don’t have ID, but let’s say—just for argument—you did. And let’s say—just for argument, chief— that it was the crumb left behind after devouring. If, after you were devoured, we mailed your driver’s license to your parents’ house, they wouldn’t recognize the photo, although the family resemblance would tantalise them. They would be baffled that the person on the license had the same last name and the same address as them. They would look at the date of birth and find it didn’t resonate with them at all. They would think whoever mailed it to them was playing some sort of mean trick on them. If they thought about it long enough, they might just start to go crazy. If they took it to the BMV and tried to get more information, the BMV would confiscate it as a fake ID. They wouldn’t have any record of it being issued. And that would be the end of that.”

  “How do you know that, for sure?”

  “Because one time when the Impossible Object was a driver’s license, we tried it—just to see what would happen. Surveilled the relevant players to observe their reactions. All of us here at The Border Crossing have thought about these sorts of things for a long, long time. Lots of books have been written about the Mouth. Not books like you’d see at any bookstore, mind you. Slim little things, made cheap. We circulate them among ourselves. At The Border Crossing, we sometimes perform investigations for these journals. For those of us who aren’t Chosen, the closest we can come to salvation is assisting the Chosen and learning more of the Mouth’s mysteries. That make sense, chief?”

  “So by learning the mysteries, like this Three-Fold Path, the Great Dark Mouth can be made to do what you want Him to do? He can be… you know… controlled?”

  The bartender raised his eyebrows. “You want me to kick your ass again?”

  You shook your head.

  “Then listen up and listen good: the Great Dark Mouth devours whoever He hungers for, at any given time. He’s not confined by rules. If He chose to devour someone who hadn’t gone through the Three-Fold Path, then He would. I repeat… He’s not confined to rules. We have no control over Him. We are at His mercy. The Three-Fold Path isn’t a way to make Him do anything. It’s not a set of rules for Him, it’s a set of rules for the Chosen. A sort of worship designed to make the Chosen ready for un-birth. It may not be the only path to being devoured. There are rumors of other rituals—one called the Rite of Unmasking and another called the Rite of the Naked Night (just to name two). But this is the path that those of us here know. Does that make sense?”

  You opened your head and heart to what the bartender was saying. Nodded.

  Things made so much more sense, now. No wonder you never gave in to Mr. Suicide. It wasn’t that you wanted to live, it’s that the variety of oblivion he offered was incomplete. Substandard. Part of you knew you deserved something better. You thought about how two of your older siblings abandoned the family—abandoned you. You thought about the insanity of your third sibling. The way
he’d sucked his thumb in your closet. You thought about your mother and your father and Mr. Chin and detention and jocks and the bus stop and Andrew-in-the-park and Cressida. You imagined all of them as nothing more than elaborate sandcastles that could be easily enough washed away by the tide of un-birth.

  You thought about how—given the age difference between you and your siblings—it was likely you were a mistake. With The Border Crossing, you could undo that mistake. And you weren’t the only person who would be better off. Maybe (you weren’t sure, but maybe) Cressida would have been better off if you’d never been born, too. In any event, you felt relieved that you—out of all people—had been chosen. You weren’t exactly sure what you’d done to deserve the honor. Were you really that ripe in experience? Perhaps, for your age. But you thought that if the Great Dark Mouth had wanted to feast on experience, He would have chosen an old man. Still, why look a gift horse in the mouth? The truth was, you were uniquely monstrous. There was no other student at your high school quite like you. That must be it: you were one of a kind, and that’s what led the Great Dark Mouth to consider you ripe.

  “I’d like that,” you told the bartender. “I’d like that a lot.”

  He smiled. “Of course you’d like that. Who wouldn’t? None of us asked to be born. We all suffer too much pain and humiliation in life for it to be worth living.” Then he turned back to the old woman on the stage. “Ain’t that right, Francine?”

  “I… I’m a horny bitch,” she said. While you’d been chatting with the bartender, she’d coated her artificial leg with Crisco. She then proceeded to juggle it between her two trembling hands, before dropping it on the stage. It made a loud thud. She pouted. “I’m… I’m a horned… I mean, a horny beach…”

  You looked up at her again. Smiled. Picked up the artificial leg. Felt the oily Crisco cling to your fingers. Turned around to the bartender. “Hey, you mind if I help her with this?”