Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

I’m way, way behind on my rent now but my landlord’s cool and hasn’t evicted me. It is the dead-heat of summer now and I finally talked to him about staying there and arranging to pay him back. It’s so hot that it muddles people’s thinking and he agreed, probably thinking it’s easier to let me stay than moving my few belongings and re-renting the place. He’s a nice guy. I’m going to have to move out anyway though since there is no possible way I can realistically arrange to pay him back the rent I owe. Until then, I’ll stay and watch until the electricity and water gradually get cut off and he eventually forces me to leave. I’ve locked myself out a few more times, but I know that even after the locks get changed, if I’m desperate for a place to squat, all I have to do is push in the AC window unit and crawl through.

There are quite a few old abandoned houses along Fry St. that I can always stay in, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Most of those places are ok but some are too heavily haunted to deal with right now. There’s one old multistory house with four floors of rotting antique wood lovingly carved years ago. Drooping ceilings caving over looping staircases and incredible gaps in the floor that seem to fall forever. The third story porch is incredible, somebody loved it there. People don’t need to talk or tell me about the murder in the family at this house and how the parents abandoned it immediately after, leaving behind their only little girl who was unable to understand the transition her spirit made. Her mother’s grief kept her from ever returning to the house. She’s waiting around just in case, stay in one place, that’s what mommy always said. “If you get lost, stay in one place and I’ll come to find you.” It doesn’t fucking matter how I should know any of this I guess, but I do. Most of the squatters around town say the house is alright, and most have been inside it during the day, but none of them have ever managed to sleep there overnight like I did.

It was their little girl, she’s just scared now. I kept having to tell her to get lost. I don’t know how to explain to a six year old that after she fucking died her parents moved away and tried to start another family. How her mother’s grief was so overwhelming that she couldn’t conceive again, how her father started cheating with his secretary when the mother broke down and went to the institution. How do I explain that back then an institution involved lots of hard drugs and electro-shock therapy? How do I tell her that her mother died alone not even remembering what pushed her over the edge in the first place? She thinks it might help us both if I doused the first floor in gasoline and just let the flames lick their way up to us in the attic room. By destroying the house and taking away the last possibil-ity of hope it will likely free her spirit, but no matter how hard she wants to convince me to stay, burning alive sounds like a terrible way to die. In my craftiness (or desperation) I’m sure I could find a way to comfort her and still escape or maybe I could jump from the roof to reasonable safety.

Then again…I’ve got enough shit of my own to deal with in the land of the living. Some of these damn houses are just too haunted for my taste.

I finally went to court for that bullshit marijuana possession misdemeanor charge that Jenifer bonded me out on. While I was waiting, I saw my very first probation officer in the courtroom testifying against somebody with another violation case, he was very friendly and said “hi” to me, then asked how I was doing. I wonder if he remembered my face or just that I violated my probation with him when I got another case.

This time I almost had to go back to jail and serve 20 days. The District Attorney wanted to give me 20 days which I said would be “great” since I had already done more than 20 days in jail on the charge and that it meant I would get to go free, but the D.A. and even my own court appointed lawyer kept insisting it would be 20 additional days. I argued back and forth with both of them about the language in the paperwork and neither one of them would budge about crediting the time I spent sitting in jail waiting on a court date. Finally, when I saw they weren’t competent enough to understand, I quickly agreed that 20 days would be fine and signed the paperwork. I knew I couldn’t get the 3 for 1 trustee gig anymore, thanks to my prior “miscommunication” with Denton county, but 20 days seemed fair and easy enough. So I stood up in front of The Judge, respectably dressed for a change, and let him agree to the sentence and sign off on the official paperwork. Then just as he was about to order the bailiff to haul me off to start serving jail time, I politely asked The Judge if I “would be receiving any credit for the time I’ve already served in jail on this charge?” Everyone in the court looked at me with surprise for a moment, annoyed by my audacity to speak aloud, but then The Judge asked the D.A. to verify how long I actually had been incarcerated after the initial arrest. The D.A. and my own lawyer’s face turned bright red when the County Clerk looked my file up in the computer and confirmed I HAD already been incarcerated in the County Jail for almost a month before my bond was posted. It turned out that they actually owed me days! The Judge was furious with the D.A. and chewed him out in front of the court for not doing his homework, wasting the court’s time and (shock!) not listening to me. I was prepared to go back to jail that day and the sweet freedom I pulled off by the skin of my teeth tasted like ambrosia!

I finally had to move out of my apartment behind the Zebra Head Shop and the ruins of the Lodge since my landlord found another renter, but that’s ok. He’s still cool in my book for handling it all with dignity. I’ve moved a lot of my stuff over to Dan’s house but I’ve mostly been staying with various “friends” around town. I have a pretty solid weed business going now, based on Gabe’s old business model of quality service. I’ve got a pager and I’ve built up a fairly solid list of clientele that depend on me and prefer my fast, friendly and reliable service. It’s worked out well so far but handling all that cash has made my dope habit start to re-surface and so I mostly just end up breaking even.

Dan lives with this girl that he knocked up named Carrie. She’s a manager from Jersey that we used to work with at the Tomato. My actions with heroin (Dan always preferred “girl”) are driving Dan away and I feel bad about that. I’m sure he could use a friend to talk to since he’s got a kid on the way but I’m pretty much useless with regards to rearing young’uns and if I get too involved I’m sure to bring drama down around their heads. I’m happy for him and he’s scared but I always secretly wished Dan could have been my dad, so I know he’ll be a great father. He’s just a good guy. I also gave him Kirk’s rocking chair to store, it’s the only piece of furniture I salvaged when Bryce and Kirk abandoned everything after I fucked up their lives. Hopefully he’ll pass it back to Kirk if he ever sees him again.

I’ve started working the graveyard shift at the 7-11 on Oak St. down from the old Delta Lodge. It’s always been a dream of mine to wear the red and green smock and be a stern yet lovable 7-11 clerk, but the reality is extremely exhausting. At night most of what I have to do is count everything that was bought or stolen during the day and then send in orders for the new stuff. All the expiration dates have to be checked and it’s more like a supermarket stock boy position since there are hardly any customers to deal with after the bars close and everyone goes home. It’s nice to get a beep and have the people meet me up at work to sell a little weed though. I’m the only graveyard shift herb master in town that I know of. I envision a day when the American people can legally go to 7-11 and buy a pack of whatever flavor pot they prefer from the stern, yet lovable clerk behind the counter. I’ve heard a rumor that’s what Capri cigarettes were originally designed for back when legalization almost happened in the 70’s.