Suicide Notes From A Wedding

by Joaquin Emiliano

  i was engulfed by the black. cold waters peeling my skin back to the bone. hardly the solid spiritual kick to the face i desperately needed, but i stayed under for a good while. content to be disoriented. enjoying the vacuum. floating at the cusp of total collapse.

  thought about Korben’s friend.

  the one who had taken that brief road trip towards suicide.

  i imagined myself in the afterlife.

  underwater.

  bare-breasted mermaids urging me to remain below, beneath.

  somewhere beyond the ocean.

  and somewhere in that very ocean, a face i once met at the corner table of a New York bar.

  i surfaced to find fresh smiles on their faces. Korben was laughing. true, Korben had been known to laugh at socket wrenches, but it never made the melody any less welcome.

  “you all right, Lucky?” Chester asked.”

  “i'm a fucking national treasure.”

  Joyce crouched low, ran her fingers through the water. “how is it?”

  “colder than a witch's tit.”

  Korben shook his head. “you’ve never touched a witch’s tit.”

  “my friend, you couldn't be more wrong…”

  Chester cackled madly, hands clapping. “hey, Lucky! do Gilbert Gottfried, in the movie Malcolm X, while doing the breast stroke.”

  i gave it my best shot. seemed to go over well.

  the requests began to fly.

  “Christian Slater, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, dog paddle.”

  “Chris Rock, Dirty Dancing, back stroke.”

  “Barrack Obama, Goodfellas, butterfly.”

  “Matthew Fox, Mel Gibson’s Hamlet –”

  “sorry,” i interrupted, spitting water. “never seen the Mel Gibson version.”

  got me booed right out of the water.

  the night air swarmed, frozen locusts, and i began to shiver. “the owners have Goonies on VHS. i’m not sure anybody under twenty knows what either one of those things are, but if anyone can make a drinking game out of it…”

  everyone agreed it was probably the greatest proposal i had ever come up with.

  the accuracy of their compliments absolutely terrified me.

  ***

  i traded my wet rags for some comfy pants and an undershirt. it took a few tries. every few seconds, the house would lurch dangerously, throwing me against a wall or the dormant radiator.

  5 minutes and one bruised hip later, i was downstairs. the rest had gathered around the television. i nestled into an armchair. had 3 large gulps of wine.

  “all right!” Chester brought the meeting to order. “Goonies: The Drinking Game…” he sat on the couch, got cozy with Joyce. “let's lay down the ground rules”'

  i raised my bottle… “every time something racist happens, drink.”

  “oh, well,” Korben said.. “it's only a 1980s Spielberg movie, so that alone won't possibly get us drunk.”

  “any time anybody uses any ‘80s slang,” Chester said.

  “any time a Cindy Lauper song plays,” Joyce added. “or any time any piece of the score is derivative of a Cindy Lauper song.”

  Chester gave her an adoring kiss, full on the lips.

  “any time you're not entirely sure why something is happening,” Alley said.

  “any time you realize Lord of the Rings is a far superior Sean Astin film,” i said.

  “ok.”' Chester raised his arms, signaling the close. “at this point, i don't see how any of us makes it through this alive, so unless anyone else has something that is absolutely essential –”

  “any time Brandon sweats?” Korben suggested.

  so it was agreed.

  Chester punched play. got the movie started.

  we all leaned forward with childlike anticipation.

  2 minutes in, something racist happened.

  we all raised our drinks: “GOONIES!”

  20 minutes after that, i was passed out. draped over both ends of a strange bed. chased down the rabbit hole by visions of pirates and little Asian boys…

  ***

  i stirred from sleep, briefly, at what appeared to be dawn. saw Korben lying on the other bed. sprawled across the comforter, arms outstretched. Jesus trapped in amber.

  with raspberry bile fighting its way to the surface, i shut my eyes against merciless stomach cramps, and let the wild things lay waste to my mind.

  ***

  my eyelashes fluttered, contributing their bit to a hurricane some 30 years in the future. coughed into my pillow. gagged, tendons tightening. took the world by the reigns and sat up.

  “Bobby?” i mumbled, still chased by certain dreams.

  Korben’s bed was empty.

  i clomped down the stairs. found the rest milling about the living room and kitchen. thumbs busying themselves with emails and status updates.

  glanced at the grandfather clock, face displaying an ornate 10:30.

  we all mumbled hasty mornings to each other. bleary-eyed, no interesting stories to tell.

  i extracted a blueberry smoothie from the fridge. downed it in a few stalwart gulps. took what was left of my pomegranate juice. rinse, repeat.

  Korben eyed me from the threshold. “getting a little glimpse into the life of the alcoholic i once knew.”

  “he says hello…” i tossed the bottle onto the counter. “what’s the word, thunderbird?”

  “there’s a…” Korben paused, wanting to get it right… “People’s Olympics somewhere out on the course today… not sure what that means.”

  “sounds like a lot of people doing a lot of things that don’t involve remaining perfectly still.”

  “yeah. you’re not going, are you?”

  “anybody know if there’s a gym anywhere on the premises?”

  “probably.”

  i shuffled into the living room. Chester, Alley, and Joyce still toying with their smartphones. “i’m probably going to go see if i can sweat any of this alcohol out of my body.”

  “aren’t Laura and Milo coming in soon?” Chester asked, streaming his latest music video.

  i shrugged. took a look around, remembered something… “oh, shit.”

  solidarity had dulled in the wake of morning sunlight, and nobody took notice.

  “well, be that as it may,” i said. “heading off to the party house to get my bookbag.”

  “some of those kids had a pretty late night,” Korben agreed. “there should be one or 2 of them still there.”

  “had a late night?”

  Chester looked up from his phone. “oh, you didn’t know?”

  “that’s the 7th sentence anyone has said to me since i got up, Chet. how am i supposed to know anything?”

  “well, if the garbage around our pool is any indication, some of the party kids decided that hanging out at our place wasn’t such a bad idea after all.”

  i pressed my thumbs into the bridge of my nose. “wait…”

  “yeah,” Korben nodded. “we’re the very old people with a pool, who went to sleep while other people crept up on our house and used that very pool.”

  i heard Alley giggle from her chair. whether at us or a hungry internet kitten, who knew?

  “someone help me out,” i said. “after insult, there’s injury… what gets tacked on after that?”

  “acceptance,” Alley said.

  “no sale…” i ambulated my way upstairs and threw on some dress pants. gathered my damp, Diesel Something jeans, socks and shirt. went outside and hung them on the railing. the world shone with a pastel pop. slight touch of humidity. i turned towards the pool and scowled at the water with longing reproach.

  glanced down to find a dragonfly had landed on my arm.

  “hello.”

  off it went, darting towards the sky.

  i popped my head into the house. “i’m going to get my bag back. anybody want to come with?”

  all i got in return were a collection of Facebook murmurs.

  “enjoy the Olympics,”
i said.

  let the screen door hit my ass on the way out.

  ***

  the sunlight was something fierce, but i had certainly experienced worse.

  worse situations, longer roads, and far less beauty.

  i walked up the driveway. cigarette butts beneath my feet, little fiberglass weevils. breadcrumbs leading to the screened porch. i stepped in. approached the door and knocked. traced my finger along the doorbell. shrugged, and pressed. waited.

  a golf cart drove by. occupants decked in prep, chomping on dual cigars. clearly pleased with their shared direction.

  the electric hum faded, and i gave the bell another press. gave it another minute.

  press, press, press.

  i peered inside. the sepia remains of a ransacked room stared back at me.

  from deep within where my soul had once take residence, a switch flipped itself on. let loose with a mighty rush of angry endorphins.

  “yeah, pool’s good enough for you so long as you don’t have to actually associate with us bums…” i reached into my back pocket. pulled out a plastic key card. one of many collected in the years since countless hotels, motels, holiday inns had turned digital.

  this particular one dating from the last so-called vacation Misty and i had taken together. a cheap motel on the strip, some 5 miles from the coast. it had rained all weekend, and the 2 of us contented ourselves with air conditioning and getting drunk at the Hooters across the road. watching the girls go by and sharing coy observations.

  if i hadn’t been there, i honestly believe Misty could have scored with 2 or 3 of them.

  if she had never met me in the first place, the number might have been high as 5.

  “and those were the days of roses…” i sang to myself, as i slid the card into the doorjamb. “poetry and prose and Martha all i had was you and all you had was me…” i caught the latch, began to wrestle with the lock. “there was no tomorrows, we’d packed away our sorrows and we saved them for a rainy day…”

  for a brief moment, i wondered if married Nicky would ever listen to Tom Waits in the same way, ever again.

  and bingo.

  the door swung open.

  the plastic card torn to pieces, but it was an acceptable loss.

  i had a whole lifetime’s worth in a meaningless little drawer. each one long since deactivated and waiting to serve some higher purpose.

  i stepped in… considered calling out, but ultimately couldn’t bring myself to care. i maneuvered past plastic cups, various sneakers, slippers, pumps. scanned the room. had to be my bookbag was hiding somewhere among the ruins of this roman empire.

  nothing.

  i went to the kitchen. shot glasses and bottles, beer cans and half-empty highballs were stacked across the counter. tribute to a crumbling skyline. caught sight of a fifth of Jack. the slightest hint of butterscotch colors languishing at the bottom.

  back through the living room, into the hallway.

  further signs of the zombie apocalypse.

  and there was my bag, slumped against the wall. staring blankly at a closed bedroom door.

  i drew close. noticed the front pocket hanging open.

  dangling from beyond the zipper was a chain of condoms. plastic wrap glinting like a golden tongue.

  i crouched down.

  looked as though someone in a real hurry had gotten real lucky.

  glancing towards the door, i spied a pair of pink, lacey panties.

  just kind of resting near the bottom hinge. shrapnel from a sudden, heavenly encounter.

  i sighed. shoved the condoms back into my bag.

  somewhat glad that someone, somewhere had benefited from my non-latex, polyisoprene prophylactics.

  “suddenly my services don’t seem so insignificant,” i muttered.

  stop, my brain ordered. don’t be bitter.

  my mind and body settled on a treaty that did the both of us some good.

  i stopped by the kitchen. raised the bottle of Jack, and killed what was left. right down my throat. replacing the ire of my thoughts with fire in my belly.

  lit a cigarette, and licked the glass rim for any vital remains.

  locked the front door and soldiered back to base.

  ***

  The War Admiral was empty.

  i thought about working out, the long walk over to the lodge.

  more than a little cagey about who i might run into.

  turned on the TV.

  flipped to the SOAP network. an episode of Beverly Hills, 90201 was playing. something involving pimps and roofies. i did a few pushups, a few sit-ups. just enough to remind my heart that, as far as circulation went, there was at least one person on this planet still needed it.

  took the final scraps of kale and wolfed them down.

  spied a lone blueberry on the rug.

  picked it up and popped it in my mouth.

  curled up in front of the television and let my mind drift.

  alone. on a couch. in a strange house. on a mountaintop. in a temporary state.

  all told, it was a familiar throwback to the minutes before falling asleep.

  ***

  when i awoke, the click of a ceiling fan was joined by the sound of rubber tires.

  i sat up. peered through the window. saw Milo and Laura hopping from their rental.

  without thinking, i peeled down to my underwear and posed on the couch. ready for them to walk in, catch me lounging with a seductive smile on my face. imagining the comedic implications.

  then decided that probably wouldn’t be very fair to their eyeballs.

  last time i had thrown on clothes with such swiftness, the prior activities had been far more satisfying. the cost of being caught far more significant. no matter. my past trials had done me good. 12 seconds, tops, and i was out the door.

  Milo Blue and i had known each other since 3rd grade. lost track ‘round about 7th. rekindled in the 10th. stayed true through college. had a serious falling out soon after. we found our way back, eventually. now settled as friends who hardly spoke, but that 2nd hand seemed to wash the other well.

  and throughout the years, for whatever reason, we had never abandoned our predilection for swearing like motherfucking sailors.

  i trotted down the steps, yawning.

  Milo was a 5’2” powerhouse. a Caucasian-Mexican mix with perfect skin, and a sly grin of crooked teeth. thick hair of an anime warrior. grew up poor as fuck, street-smart as anyone I had ever known.

  time was, we had a lot to teach each other.

  nowadays, we made do with comparing notes.

  Milo flashed a tiny smile. “hey, bones.”

  “hey, bones.” i gave him a hug. gave the patch beneath his lip a bit of a tug. “so you finally trimmed that horrible piece of shit, did you?”

  “that was a test…” he said. “i thought to myself, fuck it. i’m going to grow this out, out, out. eventually, i figured my real friends would do me the favor of telling me, no, fuck you. get rid of that horrible piece of shit.”

  “well played.”

  “the only people who passed the test were Laura, Chet, my brother, and you.”

  “no need to thank me.”

  “scrumps.”

  my fist met his with a tiny bump. “dimples.”

  “dimples and forest help.”

  it was exactly, but not really, like old times.

  Laura threw her arms around me, kissed my cheek. “hey, Lucky.”

  “correct, as always.”

  Laura was undoubtedly the best thing to happen to Milo in a thousand years. the 2 of them had been together for less than 3, but math was never my strong suit. she reigned supreme as a consummate shape-shifter. joyous anomaly. all within one same instant, she was a beauty queen, plain Jane, a wallflower, an upstart. tense and vulnerable, then, in just 2 blinks, every bit the Tae Kwon Do black belt.

  “are any of the others here?” she asked.

  “they’re attending some travesty dubbed The
People’s Olympics.”

  Milo blinked. “the fuck?”

  “come inside, and i’ll tell you all about it.” i took Laura’s bag. “anybody want to see the giant confederate flag in the basement?”

  “no,” Laura said.

  “no,” Milo said.

  no, they did not.

  felt as though they had somehow passed a test all their own.

  ***

  Milo and Laura had driven in from New York City. cameo appearance for the wedding, the dinner, then plans to make tracks for Newark and catch a flight to Mexico.

  “how’s the restaurant business?” i asked.

  “you learn to hate a little less with every passing day…” Milo sat on the couch. rubbed his eyes, and squinted at the television. “are you watching the SOAP channel?”

  “yes. and now, so are you, so fuck off.”

  Milo pointed in my direction. ‘”yes.”

  Laura shot up from touching her toes, ponytail flying. “so the wedding is when?”

  “don’t quote me on this one, because on this one, i’m quoting Nicky, but… 5:30 PM seems to be the going rate.”

  Milo and Laura checked their phones.

  it was 1:45.

  “ever seen one of these fuckers?” Milo asked, shaking his iPhone in my face. “they’ve been all the rage for the past millennium.”

  “my current location is Skytop, Pennsylvania. kittens are adorable. and somebody’s brunch, somewhere, was tastetacular. there, i just saved myself several hundred dollars. hashtag, fuck you.”

  “boys…” Laura stepped over the coffee table and squeezed between us. “can we have a plan?’

  “i have to be at the lodge at 3:30 for reasons i’d rather not say…”

  “so what do we want to do until then?”

  “threesome?” i suggested.

  we all decided that was a terrible idea, and settled on leaving the resort to see what life had to offer outside the gilded cage.

  ***

  long before love, money and professional implosion had left me stranded in Verona for 8 or so years, my travels had impressed upon me a single golden rule: if a local tender don’t serve you at least one drink, don’t bother telling anyone you were ever there in the first place.

  as we pulled up, Milo nodded. “any town, city, or principality worth its salt has at least one bar called The Pour House.”