The Last Friend

A note sits atop the parlor table. It is not really much of a note, just the obligatory apologies and good-byes. I didn’t really feel like writing at all but it seemed like it was something I was supposed to do. I say I didn’t feel like writing but the truth be told, a part of me felt like writing pages and pages and draw out every little thing that I was sorry for, every misstep, every transgression, all the hearts I may have touched and those I wish I had touched more. In the end I realized that no one was interested in my final score and I kept the note brief. Apologies to my kids and thanks to a couple ladies I wish I had done better by. I added a p.s. at the end to the person who finds the note.

I sit crossed legged upon the blanket that I had laid upon the hardwood living room floor. A ragged and threadbare woolen blanket that was every bit as old as I was. I had used it as a kid and, later, each of my kids would use it as well, but for the past fifteen years it had sat stored away in a closet. It seemed like appropriate blanket to use for this as it has been with me throughout everything. So I got it down, washed it and spread it upon the floor. Sitting on it now, my mind tumbles back to Captain Kangaroo and oatmeal and sugar toast at my grandmothers. An easier time before everything went to shit.

I am unusually calm inside which makes the tears streaming down my cheeks all the more confusing to me. I think it is the promise of peaceful release that pulls them from me. So very many tears kept bottled up for far too long and now, with no reason to hold them back, they just pour unabated from me. I almost want to smile in spite of it, but I refrain.

My eyes stare down at the revolver in my hands and my fingertips stroke the cold metal. People talk about the ‘cold’ steel but it isn’t a reference to the gun's temperature. It is cold because it doesn’t care. It will do this thing for me with no regrets. Today it is my only friend.

Something moves out of the corner of my eye. My German Shepherd has inched closer to the living room archway and slid her front paws into the room. She knows she isn’t allowed in here but occasionally she pushes her luck. I snap my fingers and point into the parlor and order her back. She makes me repeat myself but, in the end, acquiesces, circling the floor before finding a place to lay down. All the while, a scolded look in her eyes.

She is a good dog but I never wanted her and she is too often on my nerves. I had bought her for the kids but they all left home and left her behind, thinking they were doing me a favor. Most people find an animal companion useful for calming their anxiety. For me, it is the opposite. Every time she moves it breaks what little relaxation I am trying to enjoy, especially at night when I struggle so hard to catch some sleep. Today is a poor day for her to test me as I haven’t the strength for it.

I breathe in deeply and return to my contemplation. The midmorning sun casts long rays over me and across the room. The warmth does feel good and, somehow, reaffirms to me that this is the right day for this.

Tomorrow people will speak of how cowardly or selfish I am. They simply do not know. It takes a strength they cannot relate to, to do the right thing, to stop being the one constant sorrow for everyone you care about. If I had done this forty years ago it would have saved so many people so much pain, heartache and disappointment. If had only been this brave back when I had first contemplated this. My selfishness was in sticking around and injecting myself and screwing up all their lives. A moment of pronounced self-loathing and I rub my thumb hard against the gun's handle.

I tip the gun down and reexamine the cylinder. Six bullets, each filling a chamber, but this will only take one. I methodically spin the cylinder, listening to each round slowly click by. The smell of gun oil waifs up. I have never been a ‘gun’ guy but I do like the smell of gun oil.

A drool covered tennis ball bounces into the room and rolls across my blanket. My head falls in exasperation. I look up and the dog is, again, in the archway, a little further into the room this time. I resist the urge to wind the ball back and instead I beg her to not test me today. I just do not have the strength for that. I order her back, and again, and she backs into the parlor. Not doing something with her was poor planning on my part.

I inhale. recovering my resolve and I stare back at the gun. I breathe. Images start flooding my mind. Holding my daughter for the first time. Dancing with her at her prom. Watching my son become a man. Camping with them. Holding their mother’s hand. Looking into her blue eyes. Holding the women who came after her, all special in their own way and all deserving much more than they got from me. Seeing my grandkids and watching them learn with the eyes I didn’t have when my own kids were growing up.

And then the pain hits me. All this and at every turn I screwed it all up, every damn bit of it. Every mistake enunciated. Every hard word. Every hurtful reaction. Every failure to do what was right. Every failure to put someone, anyone, before myself. Too many sins and transgressions. It is no wonder we fight all the time now. No wonder I seldom see any of them. No wonder I am alone. So friggin alone. I don’t want to be around me either.

Tomorrow we will all be free.

I raise my hand and press the gun under my jaw and inhale. I concentrate on the angle. This is the one thing I cannot afford to get wrong. I softly close my eyes. My breath hitches in my throat.

A weight presses against my lap. I sigh deeply and exhale, my breathing labored, as I try to push dog from me. Of all days for her to blatantly defy me and come into the living room. I wish I had put her outside.

Without getting to her feet, she squirms back onto my lap. Lacking the strength to fight with her I resign myself to her presence. ‘Fine, but you are not going to like the next few minutes’, I say to her. Her eyebrows twitch as if she somehow understands.

I hold the gun in both my hands and stare down at it.

My thoughts quicken from one failure to another, I lifetime of them. Why had career come so hard for me? Too much ego to work obediently for someone else, yet not enough ambition to work for myself. They will, undoubtedly, enjoy interviewing someone for my position. The obligatory card will make its rounds, of course. My coworkers will sign it and send it to my kids. How stupid, I think. We worked for years together and not one of them actually knew me. Or they knew me well enough to know they didn't want to know me.

My teeth grind together and my eyes feel 'steely'. More self-loathing as I wring the gun in my hands.

My eyes adjust past the gun and I notice my dog’s eyes looking up at me as she lays on my lap, her eyebrows twitch up and down. I grimace and shake my head. Stupid dog.

I regrip the gun and press it hard against the soft underside of my jaw. The tears which had been streaming down my face have stopped and my world is calm and peaceful. I put my thumb on the hammer, ready to pull it back.

Suddenly, somehow, the dog on my lap feels heavier and she presses her head against my belly. I lower my hand and push her back. She resists and presses against me with more earnest. I put my hand on the back of her head and force her down. ‘Stay’. What the hell is up with her..?

I inhale and shake the distraction from my mind. I pull the hammer back, listening the metallic click and then click again. I put the revolver back to my jaw and close my eyes. My cheeks are soaked with tears but my hand is steady. My eyes roll back behind my eyelids. I count down in my head. At one, everyone will finally be free.

Three. Two.

A dog’s head presses between the crook of my arm and my head, forcing the gun from my jaw. She begins licking the salty tears from my face. I hug her head and try to twist her down out of my way. She persists and rubs her muzzle into the side of my jaw.

I lay the gun down on the floor and grab her by the fur on either side of her neck. My irritation meets her eyes. There is something in them that disarms me. I release her and she puts her head on my shoulder and presses her weight against me and sits there motionless. I start shaking inside. suddenly, so very, very tired, as though I had just finished some strenuous workout.

I force her head to the floor and I stretch out beside her on my blanket, my arm under her neck. My other hand is on her ribcage and I can feel her heart beating beneath. We both lay there motionless in the morning sunbeam. Occasionally, her tail thumps softly on the floor. I whisper, reminding her she is a stupid dog, but not really meaning it this time.

I feel sleep overcome me, there upon a childhood blanket on the hardwood floor. Just me and my dog. I guess she and I will see what tomorrow looks like.