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Suicide Chronicle |
| Written by J. J. White | |
| Tuesday, 27 May 2008 | |
He counted the mile markers along the interstate to relieve the boredom of the long drive. It somehow seemed funny that he could be bored, knowing that in a few hours he'd be dead. Committing suicide wasn't something George Grainger planned in advance; it just seemed like all the stars and planets aligned in the right order, and that, along with circumstances, made it inevitable. No one would really miss him; certainly not his two ex-wives or any of the co-workers he shared office space with on the last twenty or so jobs he'd had over the years. Andrea might miss her father a little, but it had been several years since she had come to him, begging for money he didn't have. He imagined what she must have thought at the time, a middle aged man with no money to lend to his only child. Of course he had sent plenty of money to her mother over the eighteen years for child support, but when the money stopped, so did the visits from Andrea. Wouldn't she be proud of him now, though? Nearly sixty years old with no money or possessions. Well that wasn't entirely true. He owned the '94 Taurus he was driving and the new gun resting on the passenger seat. If Andrea had been a fly on the wall at the radio station a month ago, she would have chuckled to see a pathetic old radio disc jockey begging a 27 year old program director to keep him on at the station for a little while longer, just long enough to give him time to find another job. As he lost interest in the mile markers, his thoughts drifted back to his college years. He married Jean in his junior year, and they both worked hard at the college radio station until graduation. For the next several years, George worked at many on-air jobs in radio, and eventually worked his way into the television market. In hindsight, he wished he had stayed in one place. The life of a media gypsy was too hard of a toll on his family, and it contributed to the loss of two wives and one daughter. With his final paycheck, George paid the rent. The birthday parties and bar-mitzvah gigs dried up years ago but he couldn't blame the people for not hiring him anymore. No one wants an old man at your event. The program director said the station was moving in a different direction; looking for a younger market. George knew she was right so why fight it anymore. The day they fired him, he began his plans to end his life. With two hundred and seventy dollars, all the money he had left in the world, he filled the tank of the Taurus, bought some breakfast and a gun, and drove west out of Jacksonville on I-10, intent on only one thing. With all the attention to detail of an engineer, he calculated that the Taurus could travel 400 miles from Jacksonville to Mobile, Alabama on a full tank of gas. When the gas tank was empty and the car stopped moving, he would lift the pistol loaded with its one bullet, and end his life. He expected the police would find him leaning against the driver's side window, his head blown apart. And who would care? No one, except maybe Andrea, if she ever finds out. With his impending death looming, George felt a remarkable sense of freedom. For once in his life he could do anything he wanted without any fear of consequences. He bought nine pieces of fried chicken in Tallahassee. In the past, a sense of guilt and responsibility prevented him from littering, but now that fear had left him, he threw all the unwanted chicken backs out of the window at passing cars. He laughed out loud when he saw the look on the driver's faces as a piece of chicken flew by them. Years earlier, when George was a new driver, he had always wanted to move the car to the center line of the road, close his eyes, and see how high he could count before opening his eyes and grabbing the steering wheel. Normally he was too safety conscious to do something that dangerous, but it didn't matter now, did it? Near Pensacola, George waited until the traffic was sparse, and then moved the Taurus to the middle of the two lanes. He closed his eyes, lifted his hands off the steering wheel, and counted. One ... two ... three ... four ... He sensed the car drifting to the right, five ... six ... seven ... The anxiety was too great. He grabbed the steering wheel, opened his eyes, and saw he was closing fast on a tractor-trailer, parked ahead in the emergency lane. He jerked the steering wheel left, barely swerving the Taurus around the truck and back into the lane. Adrenaline pumped furiously through his body. He decided that his body acted instinctively, and didn't realize what his brain already knew, that he was near death. He figured, what the hell, why not try for a count of ten. He felt free for the first time in his life. One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... the car drifted, six ... seven ... eight. George recognized the sound of the pavement ridges on the emergency lane, clapping against the tires, nine ... ten. The car slid down the grass embankment toward the ditch. George carefully eased the Taurus back up the slope and merged seamlessly back into traffic. He felt ... exhilarated. He drove on until the gas dial showed empty, ten miles outside of Mobile, just as he had predicted. After sixty years of screwing up, he finally got something right. The car sputtered. This was it. The engine stopped and he heard only the hum of tires on pavement as he steered the car off the interstate and onto the emergency lane. George grabbed the pistol off the passenger seat and waited for the car to glide to a stop. Thirty-miles-per-hour ... twenty ... ten ... five. He placed the barrel of the gun to his right temple. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a glimpse of the white car, seconds before it smashed into the side of the Taurus, spun around and came to a stop directly in front of him. The driver jumped out of the car and aimed an assault rifle, first at George, and then at an approaching highway patrol car. Just as the patrolman stepped out of his car and took cover behind the driver's side door, the huge tattooed man let loose with a barrage of fire that decimated the cruiser. George watched the scene unfolding through his windshield as if he was watching a movie at a drive-in theatre. The patrolman rolled behind the trunk of his car just as two bullets smashed into his left shoulder. He cowered behind the patrol car desperately calling for backup on his mobile microphone. The assailant stopped firing the odd looking rifle, with its curved ammunition clip, and strode toward the wounded officer. As he walked by the Taurus, he smiled at George. George instinctively smiled back, as if the man was just some friendly stranger, passing him on the street. The man aimed the rifle at the bloody, highway patrolman. Without realizing it, George stepped out of the car and yelled for the gunman to stop. Startled by the yell, the man turned, aimed, and at close range, emptied his clip into the Taurus. It wasn't fair. George drove all this way, intent on committing suicide, and now a man had just fired numerous rounds of ammunition directly at him, and ... missed. It truly wasn't fair. At that moment, George hated the gunman more than he had ever hated anyone in his life. He hated the man, not because of what he had done, but because of what he hadn't done. Suddenly the gunman came to his senses, replaced the empty clip in his rifle with a fresh cartridge, and took aim at the patrolman, who had re-armed himself. With the calmness of an Olympic biathlete, George lifted his $110 pistol, with its one bullet, and fired at the gunman's chest. The gun recoiled as the bullet missed its mark and lodged into the gunman's forehead. George walked over and helped the wounded trooper to his feet. Although shaky and obviously in shock, the man wrapped his good arm around George and hugged him tightly. "Thank you," he whispered. George could barely distinguish his words over the sounds of the approaching sirens. "Thank God you were here," the patrolman said. It had been years since someone had actually hugged George. He cried, realizing how much he missed being held. He knew, that by taking a man's life today, he saved two others. Copyright 2008 J. J. White |
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| Last Updated ( Tuesday, 27 May 2008 ) |
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