© 2005 - Guy Donges
The speedometer was approaching 65 and the target was still a mile up the road. This was gonna be easy. After all, he'd been slowly killing himself for years, hadn't he? The cigarettes which he couldn't quit, the booze, the unprotected sex. One quick moment into the rock wall and it would be finally over. He'd even made sure the wall was far enough off the highway so that any debris would never be able to make it back to impede the progress or safety of travelers behind. Considerate asshole.
Five years is a long time but it sure didn't feel like it at this point. Five years, when compressed into this incomprehensible emotional morass he felt himself in now was a blink. A flash. A flash – that was a good one. How 'bout a boom? Or a smack? Ha!
The 'wet duck syndrome' is what everyone called his ability to let adversity roll off his back. “Nothing ever seems to get you down” they would always say. It was a point of pride for him that he was sooo mature and sooo above the lowly mortals who let things like anger, sadness and despair get in the way of their happy life. When, actually, all he really did was ignore. Anger? Repress it. Sadness? A happy face on the world made the day better. The divorce so long ago was proof of that. So stoic, nobody ever knew how much of a failure he felt. Instead, it was portrayed as a positive moving-on-with-the-next-phase-of-life event. Idiot.
70 now. At this rate he should be able to hit at least 95 before impact. Glancing down at the speedometer, he noticed that his seatbelt was on. Talk about force of habit. That would be fitting, though, wouldn't it? End up maimed but alive. Shithead. He unbuckled the belt and ignored the warning dinging from under the dash. Should have pulled that fuse along with the one for the airbag.
He turned up the radio to drown out the irritating chime. Talk radio. Change stations. Commercials. Change stations. Country. Seemed to fit the mood, but change stations quickly. Although he disliked country music, he thought the stereotype of it being downer music was wrong. Rock had its own share of tuneage celebrating the idiocies of being human. Should have burned a cd of favorites to bring along. Finally settled on the classic rock station, even though he was sick to death of most of their playlist. Had been sick of them 20 years ago and they hadn't gotten better with time. That was okay. Neither had he.
The job loss had been harder to take. Economy tanking. Not able to move because of the kids. Can't find anything. Suck it up and work as a contractor for the company that just fired your ass. No security. No benefits. But at least it was money coming in. Should have hired a financial manager to ensure that he took enough out for the taxes. The IRS has no sense of humor.
Hitting 75. His palms were getting sweaty. Should have brought a napkin or something. He wiped the moisture off on his jeans leg. Knees shaking. Should have taken a Valium or something but it had been years since he knew anyone who sold anything illicit. A couple of shots would have done it, but he hadn't driven after alcohol since the DUI. Another self-deprecating snort.
The fire hadn't helped his mood or his finances any. Sure, he had renter's insurance – it was cheap enough – but there are always things that slip through the cracks that you have to replace. Not that his belongings meant all that much except for the guitars. Still living like a bohemian after all these years. Mismatched furniture, cheap shelving units. It would have been better if the place had just burned to the ground and he could have just collected the insurance money and started over. But smoke damage is cleanable, so he got most of the same crap back. Worse shape than initially, to be sure, since vinyl veneered pressboard entertainment centers don't take kindly to more than one assembly/disassembly process. At least it hadn't collapsed under its own weight yet.
Wow. Up to 82. Who'd have thought that this little four-cylinder could handle this? At least the hounding creditors wouldn't be getting this back unless they had one helluva hot glue gun. Turns out that buying this had been another mistake although it had seemed reasonable at the time. Looked like he had found a job but it had a 90 minute commute; it wouldn't have worked to drive that old gas hog van at 3 miles per gallon. Too bad the job fell through after all. Should have waited for final confirmation.
The final straw was the breakup with the great love of his life. What finally ended it was not a huge dramatic scene where he could see himself as the victim again. Instead, it was the slow slipping away of love and togetherness. So preoccupied with the day to day problems, he had forgotten (again) what was truly important. A walking lesson in repetitive history. But god, how he loved her. The highs were so high and the lows so non-existent that it proved to him the true existence of soul mates. He should have been more attentive. But now after so much time he wasn't sure anymore if he loved her or the idea of loving her and the remembrance of the incredible happiness high. Was it just clinging to what once was? The wet duck would have known what to do but it had died a while back of overindulgence. In any event, they had gone through this too many times for her ever to trust his stability again. Shit, even he couldn't trust his stability anymore.
90 now. The granite surface looming overhead sheared straight and plumb to the ground. Would be a clean impact. The force should throw him through the windshield and flatten his skull on the smooth sheer rock.
91 Wonder if it will hurt?
92 and going up. But what if he doesn't get thrown but instead is impaled on the steering column to wait in agony for the police to get there? What if there really is an omnipotent superior being and this is not his day to die? What if reincarnation really is true and a lingering vegetative state is somehow tied up in what he's supposed to learn in life this time around? What if reincarnation really is true and he comes back as a salamander? Should have left a note.
A note? Didn't leave a note. How will anyone have any idea what drove him to this final act of desperation? And she'll never know how much he loved her and will always believe that it was the ending of them that caused this. When it was really the culmination of many things over many years. Can't do this now. Can fix this. Can get past the current problems and get life back on track again.
I Can't Fucking Do This!
He slammed on the brakes just as the road curved to the left; just where he had planned on plunging through to the bluff. As the highway guard rail rushed up he twisted the wheel to try to force the impact to the side of the car and hopefully stay on the road. For a brief moment, it almost worked but then the natural force of physics took over and started the car skidding then breaking free and tumbling end over end spewing bits of body and glass all over the tar-filled-crack decorated asphalt surface. Funny what is noticed at the weirdest of times, but as he careened over two thankfully empty lanes into the boulder strewn median strip, he read the word 'Lost?' written sometime in tar by some orange vested maintenance clown.
* * * *
Patrolman Caulkins was writing up the accident report and looked up to see the paramedics push the gurney with the zipped up body bag to the back of the ambulance. It had taken 3 hours to cut the poor sap loose from the tangled mess that used to be a small SUV. Why the airbags didn't deploy was for someone else to figure out. No seat belts, either. Why he hadn't been thrown out of the vehicle was anybody's guess. Might have been better this time if he would have been 'cause he had had no chance inside.
He took a bite of his tuna on wheat and chewed thoughtfully. For sure the dude had been going way too fast. But the curve wasn't all that sharp. He probably had had a lot to live for. The guy shoulda been more careful, that's all.
He took the last bite of sandwich, put the cruiser in gear and slowly pulled away behind the ambulance.
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