Why I Committed Suicide (18 page)

We both wished we had a few hits of acid so the walls would melt a little more than they naturally do but that might have been a little too overwhelming. I don’t know how I can describe the enormous caves or the sheer size of the underground complex or the complex murals of limestone splashes dripping and forever changing. We only saw a fraction of the actual caverns and there were areas where we could see branches of the cave that seemingly stretched off into eternity. The only complaint I could voice was that everything was so beautiful that it dwarfed the details. Millions of drip sculptures molded by persistence and time surrounded us at every turn. It was like being at the Met in New York, where every wall contains a timeless masterpiece making my life seem so insignificant and transient. It’s a place you really have to see to believe. Hopefully these descriptions will be enough to trigger my memories as I move on in time, as if anything could make me forget the time I’ve spent with Jenifer.

There’s a restaurant and gift shop about a mile or so underground where park rangers sell all kinds of tourist shit in the middle of a big cleared out cavern. I thought it was tacky and cheap exploitation of Mother Nature so I stole an official Carlsbad Caverns penlight to vent my angst. Then, surprise of surprises, Jenifer and I ran into one of her old roommates from when she had her apartment on Stella down in Cement City. One of the same roommates that sent me in to see Jenifer fucking Kristoff that one time. Phaedra and her boyfriend Johnny were there with her family on vacation. Of all the weird places to run into an old roommate that stiffed you on some bill money, I would have to wager that a mile underground, 600 miles from home, has to be one of the most unlikely. When Jenifer and I are together the laws of chance and physics bend to incorporate us. We said awkward hellos and exchanged pleasantries and then departed, marveling at the astronomical odds and remembering what jerks they were.

When we finally reached the surface again and drove down the lonely desert road out of there I couldn’t help but look at the desert hills as if they might crack open like an eggshell at any moment. So much of what we actually perceive is such a surface illusion. I had to go down to appreciate what was on top. It’s all wayyy too much like life.

Since it’s so close, we’re going to squeeze in seeing Sand Dune National Park too. Personally I’m not that enthusiastic about seeing a lot of sand, but if it’s inspiring enough to be a national park then there must be something worthwhile and interesting about it. Hopefully it won’t be a lot of drunken rednecks on four-wheelers. I’ve always been more interested in the water than the sand on the beach so I’m at a loss to explain what people do with sand when there is no water there. Maybe play volleyball? Do you think the other park rangers make fun of the guy in charge of sand dunes at their annual park ranger meeting? “So, Earl I heard you got that forest fire under control in Yellowstone finally and Carl you’ve kept those wild housecats from pooping on your dunes right? Ha ha ha. Excellent work gentlemen!” Seriously though, I’m just looking for an excuse to extend our vacation this time. I think we both are. We’re tired but this is our last big trip before the spring semester swamps us and we needed the together time to bond. Like Bob Dylan said “If you’re not busy living, you’re busy dying” right?

“Plucked his eyebrows on the way, shaved his legs, then he was a she, said hey babe, take a walk on the wild side.”

—Lou Reed.

I am home again, which fills me with a feeling of relief but also an underlying melancholy. Here I am back in my own microcosm of familiar surroundings and I have achieved a satisfied place in it. I’m settling back into home life routine but I’m thankful there are still a few more vacation days left before school starts. Maybe staying busy with work and school is what I need to stay happy for a while. I’ll let pointless busy work replace the idleness that lets my mind brood and hope it works out better than before.

I’m just kind of sad for no reason at all. Even having symptoms of clinical depression doesn’t mean I want drugs to treat it. Jenifer and I have both become jaded and we lean on each other when the feeling of being boxed in by the world is too much. We want to understand our depression not just make it go away. For some reason God and genetics created my mind to have a cynical view and perceive things differently than Joe-Blow frat boy and I can’t dismiss what I think and feel as being mere symptoms of a disease. If I were gay my feelings wouldn’t be treated as a disease (anymore) so how is this any different? Does that even make sense? Maybe it makes me gay, I don’t know. Jenifer and I are both smart and we’ve taken psychology classes and I’m even technically a manic-depressive, but what the hell does that really mean? Who cares if I don’t want to get out of bed and go to school or work because I’m depressed? Not my boss or professors. Is God trying to control the population by inserting a suicide clause that activates whenever a certain number of McDonald’s restaurants go up in any given neighborhood? I guess I’m asking for answers that are not even defined by logical or legitimately proposed questions.

Who am I to complain that I exist? What gives me the fucking right and audacity to be a thankless bastard? Maybe I should take the Zoloft and be chemically happy and balanced, but right now I would rather die than be a robot. It just seems more natural, more normal, almost like leaving it up to fate to take my chances with reality.
Their
drugs take away my depression and worthlessness but also my passion, creativity and true enjoyment when things are special. Having quirks and problems gives me inspiration and helps me grow to overcome obstacles. I’m not ready to let government-regulated drugs take care of my insolent thoughts. Although when the big problems come along I might have to reconsider. Life or death? Awake or aware? Aristocrat or plutocrat? Decisions, decisions.

Sorry, I even said I’m feeling melancholy huh? What’s weird is that I’m happy and sad at the same time. I think I’m sad because I want something more than I have but I can’t identify it close enough to make it an obtainable goal. A dissatisfied happiness? If I don’t know what’s missing then it could be anything or everything and what kind of fucked up situation is that to be in? Am I really having a twenty year old midlife crisis? It’s enough to make me reconsider my values and I’m thankful for that because at least introspection puts me in touch with a higher power and reminds me of what’s important. There is no God on anti-depressants. I’ll repeat that for the parents and pharmaceutical companies; unlisted side effect: There is No God on Anti-Depressants. No fucking morals either. My brain thinks about killing somebody and nothing is there in my head to tell me that killing is wrong when I’m taking Zoloft. How fucking scary is that? How many millions of people are out there right now thinking the same fucking thing? It only takes one.

Right now Jenifer is the most important thing in the world to me. I have to stop and gnash my teeth together when I think about how much I love her sometimes. I sense she knows my intensity and maybe even feels the same way but my attempts to communicate the depth of my feelings just look silly and worthless to me. There is no gift or trifle to symbolize the depth of my passion. I just pray she understands.

We are dirt poor but so happy in our run-down house. I’ve got great friends; Dan and I are getting closer as our interests overlap. Jenifer and I are truly part of a strange family. We all live together, work together and look out for each other. We even bond while doing drugs together. I can freely smoke pot everyday and feel safe in my home doing anything at all. My relationship with my parents is more tolerable than ever and my little sister is growing into a good friend. Hell I even get regularly laid and have more than the occasional vacation with the love of my life. So everything is great right? People pass me in the street and say “How’s it going?” and with a glint of my teeth and click of my heels I automatically reply “Great!” But as I write this I still feel like something is missing. I don’t think my life can (or will) get any better than this and I really don’t see any way to keep making it exponentially better. There will always be little things to work for of course, more money and overseas vacationing come to mind, but I doubt material wealth will ever make me feel any more complete. I’ll be able to say that I’ve got a lot of money and opportunity but inside it will still just be me. I’m worried that I’ll have high school football player syndrome, where I constantly look back and regret that my favorite time of life has already passed on. Gone. I don’t want to look back and wish I were still here and I don’t want to look back and wish I was still where I was. Capishe?

Nugget of wisdom for the day: If your pot dealer has a gun he’s a coke dealer.

Today was the official “welcome back to school” Flying Tomato Christmas party. I volunteered our house because I was anxious to have our first balls to the wall, get shit-faced party. The Tomato provided us with the beer and some food, but once the keg got in the door that party was ours. My boss, Ski, didn’t really have any idea about the enormity of this brouhaha we planned to host. In the past they have always thrown quiet subdued parties where everyone from work gets mellow drunk sitting around listening to classic rock and half of the keg is usually leftover the next morning. When Ski showed up before dark with his kids and some videotapes to watch I almost laughed. For one night it didn’t matter if I got fired. If I had my way, all the magical parties I ever envisioned in my youth, sort of a combination “Animal House”, “Sixteen Candles” (Long Duck Dong!) and “House Party”, were going to be a reality. We invited everybody and I mean EVERYBODY, from random people in the street to cute girls on campus, and anyone who’s ever been to our house. Even Andy, the freaky albino-looking guy who lives in our garage out back, got an invite.

The furniture was moved to secure locations, leaving just a basic empty house and a lot of beer to drink. A lot of pot was smoked and a lot of drugs were done in my back bedroom because it was just off the kitchen and shut off from the party. After the first 30 unrecognizable people came through the door, my boss gave up his effort to guard the keg for the employees and went home in disgust. His wife Becky stayed though and we got her to do a bong hit later that night in front of everyone, which brought cheers from all her workers that were still conscious. We even got enough cash together later to get a late-night keg of crappy beer from Griggs, the dickhead who runs The Corkscrew across from the Delta Lodge.

Dan got laid with somebody from work, but he always pulls the ladies. The house was totally trashed. Moving the furniture out was a good play because the floors and walls got covered in spilled beer, ashes and other shit. I was almost ashamed we still had leftover beer in the keg today but it got to the point where I couldn’t drink any more and I was walking around in a smoked out haze trying to jam nothing but loud Beastie Boys songs on the sound system. If we owned a lampshade I would have been wearing it. Our good friend Jack Valentino passed out early in the morning but fortunately he had his usual doting concubines to take him home. Thankfully Kirk came back over this morning to help clean up and we systematically killed the rest of the warm keg over the course of the day.

All in all it was a successful mission: only one window got broken. I took lots of pictures, nobody got hurt, the cops didn’t show up, I shot at the mailbox with my BB gun, everyone in the southern half of North America got fucked up (seemingly) and I still have my girlfriend despite making quite a fool of myself on several occasions.

Yes, my name is Sam and I am a hung-over fool, fear me…passively. Party antics are pretty universal across the globe I guess, but it felt so good to cut loose for one night in the familiarity and safety of our own home. I doubt any of us will get fired; I still have a picture of Becky taking a bong hit.

Note to self: If we throw a party in the summertime the spilled beer is going to stink very badly. The sun unmercifully amplifies that sick smell of ash and beer. I’m still feeling pretty nauseous.

The whole house spent the morning in an early round of drinking in preparation for the big game. Because of this we just happened to be in the bar (college tip: when you work on Fry St. and give out free pizza, you can drink underage!) when one of the regulars came around looking for another sucker to fill in the last square on his betting grid. I didn’t have hardly any money but Kirk and I scrounged together $2.50 each and bought the very last square. It actually turned out to be a great game and Dallas rallied from behind to win 30-13 and turn our (Dallas 0, Buffalo 3) number into a winner for the last two quarters! We each won an easy $125 just for being in the right place at the right time but since we didn’t watch the game at the bar the ‘regulars’ were pissed when I came back to the bar just to get our cash because the other winners had been buying drinks for their buddies during the game. I guess they really didn’t expect the last minute filler money Kirk and I put down to actually pay-off any outsiders. Fuck them and their bar, fuck them and their fragility. In this case fragility is my euphemism for them being asshole
jerks.
It doesn’t take a Holden Caulfield to know they’re all phonies.

But I was happy despite the curmudgeons, it’s a human condition and I love it in all its falseness. I felt so strong, so invincible, so good and drunk on spirits and hedonistic luck. My mind actually cringed because I badly wanted to take Jenifer forcibly—that came later and of course I was gentle and honorable.

I maliciously plied Dan and Jim and myself with so many shots it should have been illegal. I guess technically it was illegal in my respect. Of course Dan was hardly affected due to his high alcohol tolerance and I had adrenaline to counteract my poison, but Jim, the reluctant drinker of the evening, was my prime target. I love him so much as a good friend that I must have wanted him to have a really good time. He had been drinking all through the Bowl and I pushed him too far because the last time I saw him he was hanging out the passenger window of Simone’s new car and vomiting as she drove down the road.