Too Late to Step In

To be aware that no soul on this earth gives a fuck whether you live or die. To scream for attention and hear only the rustling of the wind. To cast about for a kindred spirit, only to realize that all the spirit in the world is dead. These are the things that can drive a man to suicide. And that’s pretty much where I’m at right now.

Ready to pack it in and call it a day.

There’s just one thing that stops me. It’s funny how one person can mean so much to you when the rest of the world can just go fuck itself, but that’s how I feel about my old girl Sally. She’s the only thing keeping me going, honest to God. And for whatever God only knows why reason, she feels the same about me.

I’d die for her. It’s a little ironic saying that since I’d pretty much like to die anyway, but I’m talking about violent, lay down on the tracks dying. The kind of death nobody but a Japanese schoolkid would wish for. I’d suffer for her, walk through hell and back for her if it would help. But the help she needs, I can’t provide, because I’m the problem. Her only connection to insanity is loving me, and everyone’s entitled to one stupid vice I suppose.

I know I’m no good for her. That’s something I really can’t escape. I know—and this is a serious realization, not some melancholy bullshit—I know she’d be better off without me.

That’s a fact, nothing to do with pity or angst.

Deep down I think she knows it too, though she’d never say so. If I died tomorrow, she’d weep and she’d mourn, for a while, but in the end she’d know she was better off. I could only hope she wouldn’t beat herself up over it too much, but she probably would.

I haven’t always been this tragic. Fuck, I used to be downright optimistic. Before the world shat on me and reminded me what a big nothing it all is. And it’s mostly my own fault, really. I had the world by the balls for a while, but even then I couldn’t appreciate what I had. Now all I have is broken promises and regrets. The real nightmare is that I still dream about that past, as though the years have melted away, and I’m right back where I mattered.

Where life had promise.

Where I had ability and worth to spare.

Where’s all that now? Lost at the bottom of a bottle, I guess, even though I don’t even drink anymore. How funny is that? The one thing that ruined me and I can’t even enjoy it anymore. Not that I can afford to get drunk either. I gave that up along with all my other vices, and still I’m dead broke.

Oh, yeah. There’s that too. I don’t have a pot to piss in. No prospects, no reason to even get up in the morning except to enjoy the daily news as George Costanza would say. I’m kinda like him, in some ways, except at least he had his good days. Not me. My days just eke by, one miserable slog at a time. Never good, never fun.

Sally’d have fun if it weren’t for me. As it stands, she’s just as bored-stiff tired as I am. With no friends between us, and family can’t stand us, we’re completely alone. Work is just a way to pay the bills, she keeps her nose to the grindstone and avoids any friendships or entanglements. The only reason she works at all is ‘cause I’m too depressed to do it myself. I try, but the energy it takes to get through the day is just about all I’ve got, and even then it’s like I’m running on fumes most days. I feel guilty making her take all the heat, but there’s nothing much I can do about it. I’m medicated to the gills, so it’s not a clinical thing. It’s just that the world is a big nothing, like I said, and I’m circling the drain waiting for the inevitable. Wish I had the balls to pull a trigger, but that takes energy too.

Up to her eyeballs in my shit, Sally autopilots through the rest of life. Working her ass off every day, she staggers home and zones out in front of blogs, or youtube or whatever other white-noise infotainment she can find. Anything to ignore her life, and who can blame her? I’d want to zone out too, if I were her and stuck with me. She acts like it’s no biggie, like she’s perfectly happy and content, but the reality is as plain as the disjointed nose on my craggly face.

“Don’t you ever want to go out?” I ask for the umpteenth Thursday. I always ask on Thursdays, in case she’s interested in going out for dinner over the weekend, or a movie or something. Not that I want to. I say it out of a sense of obligation, plus I knew she’s not going to take me up on it anyway. She knows as well as I how fucked we are financially, plus ninety percent of the time when we go out I do something stupid to ruin it, so why in hell would she want to put herself through it.

“Maybe next week.” was her usual canned response, which was fine with me. Next week might as well be next year the way time plods along, and I can’t possibly be expected to worry about that when the simple matters of the day have got their hooks in me. All I’m doing is pushing through moments, hoping for blank ones. That’s it. And next week I may be dead anyway. Here’s hoping.

Except this time she doesn’t say ‘maybe next week’. Instead she goes all quiet, and from behind I can see her shoulders are shaking. This makes me freeze up, because Sally is never emotional when it comes to our lot in life. That’s one of the reasons I love her, I think. Since I can’t do any better by her, at least I know she’s strong enough to take it. But here she is, shaking. I can’t tell straight off whether it’s a cry, or a sob, or maybe a complete breakdown. That makes me nervous, just because I know I won’t have the energy to handle it. If it’s crying and she tells me to forget it, that I can handle. But if she’s going off the deep end, I’m not confident in my ability to cope, much as I wish I could.

“Awe, Jesus, I’m sorry. We don’t have to worry about that now.” It’s a weak attempt, but it’s all I can think of off the cuff. “I’m sorry. Really.”

I reach out to give her a pat, but she shakes some more and shrinks away, and that’s when I realize she’s not just upset.

She’s pissed.

In my typical passive-aggressive haze I handle this by setting her off, in turn giving myself permission to retaliate. Once I get on an anger jag, I can usually hold my own, since it feeds on itself and seems to be about the only way to summon up extra energy. I feel like shit afterwards, but in the moment I can go toe-to-toe with anyone and not back down, Sally included. Thing is, I can’t do it if I’m aware of that, and at the moment I’m hyper-aware of pretty much everything psychologically going on with us, so I can’t force her to blow up. I mean, I could, but she’d see through it.

All this amounts to nothing when she gets up and stumbles before finding her footing. There’s a sharp intake of breath, almost a grief swoon, so powerful it forces her head back so the sound hits the ceiling and echos for a second or two. Then she recovers herself, puts a hand to her face so I can’t see anything but hateful eyes, and bolts for the room.

I take the door slam as an indication I’m not welcomed in there, which is fine because at this point I’m completely at a loss. Not that I didn’t expect this sometime, but what triggered it is a mystery, and without that information I have no idea how to approach her.

She’s not in there ten minutes before I hear something heavy thump against the door. Then she’s grunting from effort and I hear her fumble at the knob twice before turning it and flinging it open again. It hits the far wall and she swings her suitcase into the hall. That’s the heavy object, I surmise, and from the heft of it I’m guessing it’s got most of her clothes in there plus bathroom supplies.

The sight of the suitcase fills me with sudden dread. This is really happening, and I’m not even sure why. It occurs to me that the proper thing to do would be to ask, but I can’t summon up the courage to do anything but stare, jaw on the floor, at this bizarre ritual unfolding in front of me. A sick, twisted little part of my brain is enjoying the show, and I realize that’s probably the part that wants to speak up, too. The honest part of me knows that, whatever the immediate reason, she has good reason to do this, and I have no right to stop her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The twisted part had to win. “You could at least give me some sort of explanation.”

She stops, chest heaving, and stares at me like I’m some kind of zoo exhibit. Her expression says ‘you seriously don’t know?’, even though I can see the wheels turning.

I know better than she thinks.

My argument sense is well-tuned, and I know the question’s legit. So does she. She fills her lungs with a deep, stuttering breath, then blows it out. She sort of kicks at the suitcase for a minute, then walks slowly back to the table. When she slumps down into the chair, she looks me straight in the eye, and I know in that instant that we’re totally, irrevocably through.

I’ve been known to make a pathetic ass of myself when begging lovers to stay after it’s over. I have no shame in that regard, probably the self-loathing makes such displays a bonus option most wouldn’t even consider.

And I have to say I was tempted this time, too. I mean, it’s a natural reaction for me. It’s all wrapped up in my abandonment complex, that plus the fact that I’m pathologically incapable of ending a relationship like a mature adult, and most of my targets are similarly crippled.

But I didn’t do it. I don’t know if it was because I knew she deserved better, or because I’d finally grown up. Or maybe given up is more like it? I couldn’t say, but anyway I let her go. I sat there for like a half an hour, recalcitrant muscles mindlessly jerking toward the door over and over, each time getting ignored by my rational self so that I stayed put. My mind, habitually and constantly winding through countless negative scenarios, was unusually quiet. I guess I really had given up, even my neuroses had abandoned ship.

Finally I stood up, and even as those muscles urged me to run out the door, I ignored them and walked to the window instead. The chilly air blew the curtains around as I slid it up and looked down the eight stories to the pavement. Even in my numb state I didn’t want to see it coming, so I turned and sat in the windowsil. It was in that instant—leaning back too far to recover—that I saw her shocked face, her hand still clutching the key stuck in the doorknob as she let herself back in.