Every one wants to go out like the finale in a fireworks show.
But in the Gutter, just wanting something doesn't make it happen.
But in the Gutter, just wanting something doesn't make it happen.
Black Swan Song by Peter Beckstrom
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For someone so shrewd, Francis had a
foolish plan to get the attention he was due: kill himself. Not one for the
fervor of religion, Francis knew he would be unavailable to enjoy the attention
his death would rouse. Nevertheless, he
would enjoy this final, perverse snub while still above ground. In every office, one person is singled-out
from the others to project their frustrations upon. Francis was this person. They projected by ignoring. For Francis, being ignored was worse than
being insulted. His coworkers did not
harbor a malicious hatred toward him, no, it was an aloof kind of a simmered
resentment. Francis was the type to
share each triumph, discover every flaw, and know something about
everything.
Francis bore crooked lips (the result
of a glass blowing mishap at fat-kid summer camp) that gave him the appearance
of grinning even when he was not; he fought the gravity of his obesity with
good posture, and; he wore pinstriped, tailored suits the same way an angrily tossed
brick would wear broken glass. Francis
advertised for attention—unsuccessfully—because he was above asking for
it. It would be on his terms or not at
all.
Despite his many irritating idiosyncrasies,
Francis gleamed through in his thoughtful, studied approach to his workload; when
filing taxes for his neighbor, the yoga instructor, without charge, and; when bringing
garbage to the curb for his elderly landlord each week. What people did not know—and Francis did not
advertise—was his hobby: he collected suicide notes. Of everything we say or write— in the
entirety of our lives—no words entice more attention than our first and last.
A suicidal person’s concern is
not the variety of stationary to pen their final thoughts upon, but simply to write
them down. Consequently, they are
written on whatever is within arm’s reach: crumpled napkins, a torn label from a
square of Jack Daniels, or even the back of an electrical bill. When Francis decided to bestow his final kiss
to the gum-dotted pavement beneath the top floor of his building, he would
leave not only his own note, but also every note in his collection.
Francis made this decision shortly
after Thursday’s bi-weekly meeting. He’d arrived early (foregoing his 10:15
snickerdoodle/Sudoku break) with a yellow legal pad and two blue, crystal Bic
pens (one of them was nearly spent and he feared it may run dry at any
time). Francis slid his mass into the chair
opposite to the door of the conference room.
One-by-one they entered and one-by-one, deftly—like flies dodging a
swatter—they avoided eye contact.
Crestfallen, Francis spent the remainder
of the meeting scratching at the yellow pad with the tip of his blue pen hoping
it would run dry so he could ceremoniously uncap his extra (this would surely
gain an involuntary glance). The ink
flowed without interruption. Thursday’s bi-weekly ended. Everyone filed out. This had been the final
wrong for a man whom things just went wrong too many times.
Francis flipped back five pages
on the legal pad (his pen scratching had marred the overlying pages) and wrote
his final words. Those words were as forgettable as they were profound. It was
a worthy addition to his collection, the capstone of a seasoned suicide
scholar.
The following morning, sobbing,
his face pumping sweat and tears into the aqueduct creases plowed into his
cheeks, Francis carried a ream of mismatched paper bound in a pale, green
rubber band down the central aisle of cubicle row. It was his collection of suicide notes and on
the top was his. The rubber band—taut and saddled by what it contained—had lost
its’ color and now resembled the snot channeling down Francis’s slack jowls. For
one so burdened, it would be the last thing he would carry. Francis scraped his feet across the beige Berber
in an attempt to garner a glance, a nod, a sneeze, anything to assure he was worth
a mere scintilla of headspace. Nothing. Alone, he took an elevator to the
building’s crown.
At the lip of the crown, quivering,
never to be ignored again, Francis wheeled the ream of suicide notes into the
space over the busy avenue below. Absorbed
in the solemnity of his act, he had forgotten to remove the rubber band. The notes threaded through the moon roof of a
Range Rover scudding west over the avenue, the glass yielding with a pop and
peppering the driver with crumbs of tempered glass. The Rover’s tires hissed as
they slithered to a stop along the asphalt.
The driver exited, and snapping a hand salute over her eyes, squinted upwards. A crowd begins with a single, attentive
person thought Francis—relieved.
