A Fine Day to Die. Or Maybe Peach Pie

"THE ALIENS ARE COMING TONIGHT, SAVE YR'SELVES!"

I wake up to a wild-haired homeless woman wearing a bright pink, soiled tutu screaming at the top of her lungs. She seems pretty convinced aliens are on their way to take over and enslave us. I chuckle to myself that if aliens did visit, they'd turn around and go right back home if That's the first human they saw.

Ugh. My head hurts from all the poison I ingested last night. I need to get more alcohol, quickly, before I get sick. I slowly emerge from my ratty, sparse sleeping bag. The smell of urine & misery surrounds me. This is my life now. I've lived under this dark, dank, lonely bridge for the last 6 months. Yep, I literally live under a bridge. Call me Grumpy Old Troll and cue Dora theme song.

It wasn't always like this. A year ago, I was on top of the world. I had a hot girlfriend, a golden retriever named Rocco, a big house in the suburbs, and a precocious, ever-happy 5-year-old son, Asher. I worked obsessively, excruciatingly hard most of my life to save up and become rich. And I almost got there. But one fateful day, I made one bad move, and it did me in.

Let's just say it involved a meme stock called GameStop, and a lot of money. All of my $200,000 in savings, all that I'd accomplished in my 35 years of life, Poof, vanished. 35 years of work, eviscerated in the course of 1 week. Where'd it go? No one knows! No trace of it, anywhere. That was a fun magic trick. Long story short, when my account balance whittled down to $140.37, that same day I walked out my front door, walked to the liquor store, bought $140.37 worth of Fireball Whiskey, and haven't returned home since.

Because I am a loser, to the core. No woman would ever want my broke ass. My son is better off without a disgusting loser like me in his life. Alcohol is the only friend I have. The only thing that gets me through the day. But even that's turned against me lately. Every time I drink, I have stomach pain. It just keeps getting worse every day. I really don't see why I'm living at all.

I head to the liquor store on 48th street, like I do every day. I panhandled enough yesterday to get a bottle of Smirnoff, so I grab one of those. I drink 3 big swigs and the nausea & headache subsides, but the pain in my stomach grows fiercer, like a burning knife in the pit of my abdomen. Why am I even living? This is utterly pointless. Even alcohol hates me.

I become even more steadfast in my suicidal convictions. Yesterday, when I was finished panhandling, I returned to my sleeping bag under the bridge to find even more rat droppings than usual. At that moment, I decided that today will be the day that I finally do it. Today, I jump of the 50th street bridge at midnight, and that will be the bloody end of me. Good riddance.

One caveat, barely worth mentioning...some superstitious, idiotic part of me decided to offer this cold black universe one last chance to save my loser soul. Here ya go, God, Allah, Creator or whatever the heck is out there... don't say I didn't give you a chance. I will buy 1 Hot Potato lotto ticket, for exactly $1. The grand prize for the instant win is $20k. If by some stupid fluke I win that, sure, I'll give life one more shot. So today, I either gain $20,000, or I die at midnight.

I take 3 more big swigs of Smirnoff. The alcohol begins doing it's job; the feeling of misery and doom that consumes me begins to dissipate, just a little. I walk into the Seven Eleven, grab my neon orange and green lotto ticket (decider of my fate) and...it's a win! $10 dollars. He he. Looks like I can afford to be good and drunk when I die tonight. Allah/God/Great Spirit 0, Josh 1. Sweet. I feel relieved. I still get to die tonight.

As I walk aimlessly along the grassy side street, rain starts pouring down. Hard, angry; in unison with my dark spirit. I like the rain. Ahh yes, it's a fine day to die. I am ready to be done with this B.S. So freaking ready.

As my sopping feet drag long the grass, I kick a pile of leaves defiantly, and feel something hard hit my sneaker. Hmm. I look down and see it's a black box. I carefully open it, shielding it from the rain. Inside the black box appears a perfect, sleek little black notebook. Inside, I see page after page of handwritten content. As I thumb through the pages, I feel a tingle run down my spine. Hmm. Whoa. That was weird...and kind of exhilarating. Anyway. Let's see what this book is about.

Page 1 says:

"what you are looking for is inside of you."

Page 2, continues:

"live this life with the heart of a child."

Page 3, in larger letters:

"the truest treasure lies within. Love and compassion are the answer to everything."

Eyyyye roll. Ookay, that's about enough of that. Heh. Great. A bunch of useless, new age spiritual mumbo-jumbo. I can't believe I wasted part of my last day on earth on this crap. Then, just as I'm beginning to think all I've found is a useless new napkin, I flip the book over. On the back, it reads:

"If found, please return to 4800 Main St. Apt 4. CASH REWARD. Signed, Mary M. Jones."

Well, well, well. Now we're talking. I like the words "cash reward." Could mean more booze money for me! Heck yeah, I gotta go check this out. I head to 4800 main, just a few blocks down.

I ring apartment 4, and the door immediately buzzes open, loudly. I skip up the stairs, ready for my reward, and am greeting at the door of apartment 4 by a sweet little old lady. The smell of peaches wafts heavily into my nose. It excites my brain with unexpected, unfamiliar feelings of comfort. Nevertheless, I try to ignore the lovely smell and the feelings this smell is sparking with in me, and focus on the task at hand.

"Hi, I'm Mary. How can I help you?," the old woman chimes.

"Um, My name is Josh. I believe I found something of yours, ma'am." I proudly produce the sleek little black notebook.

Mary's eyes light up, instantly. An adorable, child-like smile crosses her face. "Wait here," she coos, happily.

Mary quickly returns with what looks like a folded red, polka-dotted napkin in her hand, and places it tenderly into mine. It feels heavy in my hand. As I slowly unwrap, I see the most brilliant, shining, gold bar appear.

"Here you go, young man. It's worth $20,000, last I checked. I can't thank you enough for returning my book to me." Mary smiles brightly.

No. Freaking. Way. This is not happening. In shock, I awkwardly thank Mary, and am on my way.

As I walk out of the old brick apartment building, the rain has stopped. And so have my thoughts. In a daze, I slowly walk to the park down the road, gold bar tucked in pocket.

So. This means I have to start over? I have to try and live? I guess I did make a promise to Allah or Creator or whatever the heck is supposed to be in charge. But does that really matter? Isn't this just a silly game, and aren't I really just a loser? A loser that stumbled into $20k, but a loser nonetheless? I sit on the park bench. Stunned. Confused. Blank. Until I hear a child, crying, under a tree not far from me.

I don't know why, but I move towards the poor little girl. "What's wrong, sweetie?" I ask her.

"My, my best friend. My best friend is DYING! Mr. Pluto has been my best friend since I was 1 years old!" She manages to squeak out, between sobs. The girl shows me a picture of her hugging an adorable black lab.

The little girls' mother adds, apologetically, "we just received news that our family dog has come down with a rare kidney disease. It's really especially hard on Anya, she's been so close to the dog. Pluto would need a full kidney transplant and the cost would be $20,000. It's just not something her father and I can afford. So obviously, we are all just devastated."

Anya sobs more loudly and sadly.

At exactly this point, I am completely overcome with feelings. Words echo in my head, and move down into my soul, "the truest treasure lies within. Love and compassion are the answer to everything."

What in the world is this. Maybe aliens have taken over. I am clearly going nuts. But this little sweet girl reminds me of Asher. And this poor dog reminds me of Rocco. Inexplicably, tears begin to flow from me, as well.

"Miss Anya. What if I told you we could save Mr. Pluto? What if we could pay for his operation?" Anya's tears stop. Her eyes widen.

I hug Anya, hand her mother the gold bar, and simply walk away.

I can't handle this any longer. I am breaking. Something is happening inside of me.

In my mind flashes a scene: me, staring blankly at my laptop, my beautiful son tapping on my leg. "Daddy, I did a good 'struction with my blocks, I builded it tall and strong! Momma said it was high-five good. Daddy, come look at it, I want you to tell me if it's high-five good!"

"NOT NOW, buddy. Daddy's working. Now go on and play!" I roar, annoyed; heartless. Dejected, my sweet son leaves my office and shuts the door.

I weep harder. I weep for those that I've hurt. I weep for what I've done to myself. I see. I see that I've imprisoned myself with nothing but thought. Invisible, self-created chains. I see a truth so profound that it sets me free, instantly. I have never felt lighter. I have never felt more love than I do right now. I feel it filling me and flowing out of me into the world and people around me.

Suddenly, I open my tear-soaked eyes, and look up to find a familiar face. It's Mary, smiling her childlike smile, eyes twinkling more brightly than ever before.

"I saw what you did, Josh. And it warms my soul. I want to help you. Please. I never had children of my own, and I have hundreds of thousands of dollars I've stored for a rainy day. Please. Let me share it with you, dear sweet son."

I cry more, and graciously accept. We go back to her brick apartment. For the first time in 6 months, I enjoy a hot shower; and then, a heavily piece of fresh-baked peach pie. It tastes like angels, the first notes of a favorite song, and life.

Mary and I talk for hours about the nature of life, love, and how to change the world. Later that evening, Mary drops me off at my son's mother's home, along with a check for $200,000, and a plate of saran-wrapped peach pie, to-go.

When I arrive, dusk is setting, and Asher is playing in the yard. I swoop up my son, kissing him profusely. "Hey, buddy, can I see your latest drawing?" I say. He runs inside and comes out producing a drawing of 2 triceratops, riding bicycles.

"Is it good, daddy? Is it high-five good?" Asher asks, pleadingly.

"Yes, Sweetie, it is. It's actually 2 high-fives good." My son smiles. Multiple high-fives ensue.