JACK AND THE BELT

JACK SAT READING and re-reading the textbook. It was the most boring writing he’d ever come across. “I’ve been unemployed for six months and I’m the insane person when this person has written the most dry thing in the world that no one could possibly enjoy or find useful and he forces students to buy a new edition of the damn thing every year to pass a course in life nonsense” he thought to himself. It was not the first time he’d thought something like this. He wasn’t even a student, and didn’t understand why he was really reading the book anyway.

There has to be some way around this. There has to be some way to learn things, to study, to be a man of letters as they say in all the old books. Was the gateway really to torture yourself endlessly reading this material not knowing what set of facts you might have to apply it to in an exam, under pressure, while you’re worrying about the five months of unpaid rent, an eviction notice, gas, electricity, broken vacuum, poor diet, drink, pills the doctor gives you, the good damn unfilled out census form from a year ago; and the audit letters from the tax office.

I mean, it was a little too much for Jack at times. He’d thought about killing himself once or twice over the past two days so he phoned up his psychologist.

“Wah?”

“Hey Joe, it’s Jack”

“Who? What?”

“It’s Jack, I should probably see you I’m considering ending it all”

“Oh yes, suicide ideation; a very bad thing – I’ll send you lecture on it”

“Yes, thanks Joe, I’m a little overwhelmed I think; a lecture might push me over the edge”

“Ok, two o’clock tomorrow at my office”

“No worries, thanks Joe”

The night was awful. Animals were escaping across paddocks in Jack’s dreams. They looked like zoo animals to Jack. Lions, tigers, elephants, crocodiles, giraffes. It was insulting to call any of them zoo animals. There were running free but Jack had a gun in his hand, that’s where he found himself; panicked holding it tightly for protection.

Someone came and shot an old lion and the creature fell to the ground; it’s mane still stuck up as if it were alive, but the hollow before it’s hind leg buckled as it fell into the grass and lay down for good. Jack glanced over and saw the other animals tied up. A group of townspeople had shot and killed the animals, and tied up the rest. Two tigers struggled in the grass with their legs hog tied, a crocodile next to them had a rope around its snout.

Everybody congratulated Jack on warning them about the animals. Jack stood there wracked with guilt, he’d said nothing and alerted no one. He’d just held a gun and watched the scene unfold. He may have been the first on the scene but he didn’t want this at all. This was a massacre.

A man came up to Jack and started accusing him of being an asshole for not standing by his decision. Jack maintained that he had made no such decision and had only ever been an onlooker. The man punched Jack in the face.

Jack woke up in a sweat. The blanket was too much. There was no fresh air in the apartment; he’d boarded it up in case a sheriff came around to kick him out. He didn’t know what his next move in life would be and if it were a chess board he’d have folded it in two and thrown it in the bin.

What was the point of any of this madness. How had Jack ended up like this again. It was a recurring theme in his life. It was the one he was familiar with and perhaps it afforded him comfort in a way. It was 5:00am, too early to get out of bed and he assumed he would have the bed much longer anyway so he might as well try and enjoy it. He got up, took some pills and lay down again. He didn’t want to wake up.

But wake up he did and he forced himself to look at his grey face in the mirror. Dandruff and red eyes with sleep stuck to his eyelashes. The phone rang. Jack let it ring and gave it the finger. It rang again, and then again, so he answered it.

“Jack man, it’s on”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Craz man, they me got those fuckers; I told ‘em fucking I’d fucking kill ‘em now I’ve got a charge sheet as long as me arm and they TOOK MY DAMN DOG”

“Your dog, what did the dog do? I assume we’re talking about the police here.”

“Nothin’ mate, Curly wouldn’t hurt a fly”

“Wait, why were the police bothering you?”

“Man, I just got this place and I was listening to the stereo. Loud man, I mean real loud – it sounded good. I like it that way. The neighbours complained and the police came around and told me knock it off so I told ‘em fuck you. Then they came back again later and I told ‘em I’d kill ‘em – then it got a bit argy bargy and they sprayed my eyes full of pepper and I don’t really remember much after that.”

“Jesus man, I can’t believe they took your dog” (Jack could believe they took this man’s dog).

“Yeah Curly’s in the lost dog’s home but he ain’t no lost dog man, how do I get him back? He’s my dog”

“I dunno, give ‘em a call?”

“I’m out on bail man, apparently threatening the life of several police officers is a serious offence”

“Yeah well, maybe” I replied.

“So I think they think I’m not fit to own the dog man, but I’m pleading not guilty to these charges man; I have a home man, I want my dog back”

“Look, I’ll help you write to them and ask what’s going on – we have to get everything in writing”

“Thanks man, Jack man; thanks – you’re the only one who believes me”

Jack didn’t know what Craz was referring to but it was probably something to do with merely listening to him.

The sun was out, Tuesday. All the twelve dollar bottles of wine were nine bucks on Tuesday down the road, to get customers in the door. Fifty four bucks for six bottles; that was good price on the $680.00 dole Jack received every fortnight for not being able to hold down a job. Jack showered and started walking; his wet hair brushed back over his scalp and drying in the sunshine. He walked past the tram depot and saw people in high visibility work wear coming and going and wondered how they get through life without offing themselves. He thought himself to be in a better position than them just because he could walk down the street at 11:00am without having to ask permission.

Six bottles plonked on the counter.

“Six again”

“yep, I’ll be back for the other six later”

“Ok”

Walking back past the tram depot Jack saw a rose, plucked in off the branch and felt the thorns prick into his fingers. Flowers and wine he thought; things ain’t so bad.

It was close to two o’clock so Jack dropped the bottles home and started off to the psychologist’s office. The visits were always free considering Jack didn’t have a job. Talking about not having a job might be more helpful than having a job in someone’s opinion at the dole office.

“Hey joe” Jack said as he walked in the door

“Jack, good to see you, it’s been awhile” Joe stood in the hallway, there were no other customers.

"Yeah”

“Take a seat”

Jack took a seat on a plastic chair and Joe started spraying something from a bottle into the air.

“What’s that?”

“Holy water” replied Joe

Jack stared

“No, it’s fragrance, the lunch room is next door and all I can smell is the food; it bothers me a lot.”

He continued “now, suicide ideation is not a good thing, I’ve been there; it’s not good at all”

“Yes, it comes in waves – I know things really aren’t that bad. But these ideas just keep popping into my mind – I keep thinking about belts and wondering how to attach one to a doorknob and…”

“Oh no” said Joe “strangulation, that’s no way to go. When I was going to do it recently I was going to fill up a backpack with rocks and drown myself – much better. Or, my other alternative was barbiturates – nice sleep. JFK used to take them. The side effects were depression.”

Well, I guess everyone’s got some way that comes to them when they want to end it all.