Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

The point of this is that when I babysat for them again and the topic came up I just couldn’t quite bring myself to let him know that I found all this out. There was something about the way the challenge was presented to me or that smug look on his face or something that made me want to play dumb. The way he would ask me, as if he was already expecting that I still wouldn’t know the answer, pissed me off. It was as if he was just waiting to give me that smug look again and even if I told him that I did know, there would be a smug look of imparted wisdom. Lording that damn meal over me just didn’t sit right.

I’ve been sitting here by myself chewing this over and over in my head as if there was some important clue to my character in this story from my past, but I think I know now what it was that made me keep my knowledge a secret. It was my pride and the fact that I felt disrespected.

I will always look fondly on that time but it isn’t for the right reasons. I should have been the good older neighbor boy. I should have answered his questions and been curious about his life. I should have been his son in training until his children could suckle at the teat of his wisdom. I should have had the inspiration to follow in his footsteps, maybe even become a lawyer, right?

When I was pulled into court the other day, I saw Frank through the thick glass doing a day of probation work, nodding and planning with the other legal system workers. His eyes met mine; instinctively, I mouthed the words, “Help me,” to him. Knowing that a high dollar lawyer of this caliber knew me and was there created the sense of home that I could be set free. Desperate excitement flowed through me as I stood thinking, “This is my fate, this is my reward, my redemption.” Until he turned and walked away. Denied.

My friend Charles got out the other day. He sent me a book written by an incarcerated black man who taught himself to read and write while in jail. It was rudimentary but the images were so vivid and familiar when the author would describe his yearning for mere taste of freedom, that I could feel real pain. I was glad to get something from somebody who knew about where I was at and what I was going through. It meant a lot to me.

I realize now all the time I took for granted, even with the little things, out in the real world. Especially that little bit of time, most people block it out of their minds, which is set aside to masturbate. Everyone does it; it’s just a matter of frequency, location and style or preferences. I’m only writing about this in jail because it’s come to my attention that I am subconsciously tuning out the creative ways people find to isolate themselves and handle their business. They call it “killing” in here. It’s short for “killing babies”, a synonym for beating off, since all your potential “babies” just wash down the drain in the shower. Shower shoes are a critical necessity. The word “killing” is so universal that it has been shortened to just “kill” and if it’s said in ebonics it comes out sounding more like the word “keel,” like a boat.

The warden knows it too, or whatever they call the overseer of this county hell. With every meal we’re given a cup of juice, but it tastes nasty like it’s laced with something I can’t quite figure out. I’ve seen them making it in the kitchen and I know it all comes out of big bags of generic Kool-Aid but there’s an additive that’s rumored to be saltpeter in there too. I doubt it is saltpeter since that’s outdated, but I don’t doubt there’s something extra in there. I’ve had nothing but lukewarm water from the toilet/sink for the past 5 months now. They can’t make me drink their juice.

“I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who need reasons when you’ve got heroin?”

After six months of hopelessness and hell I was finally released from the New Holland facility and processed out of the Lew Sterrit Justice Center into freedom. I got out on her birthday. Oh God, it was all supposed to be so beautiful but now I’ve hit bottom and tonight I am going to do more than just passively try and kill myself.

I showed up on Jenifer’s doorstep like I did so many years ago when I was hoping to get her to like me, only this time I am sure of where I am at and that I belong there. I’m finally out of jail and I want to see MY girl. Milton, her father, answers the door and it was as if I could see the gears of outrage turning in his head. I watched as the anger started to seethe from beneath his skin and before it could be directed outward from him, I gave him the stone face stare that I have learned to give so many times while in jail. The look that says “you better not fuck with me old man or I will make you hurt”. And I meant it. I meant it with the same seriousness I would reserve for having to put a pet to sleep. A steely cold paralysis of seriousness that will forever be a part of me now.

“Where’s Jenifer?” I say. He slowly turns around and goes to get her without even an invite inside the house; I guess I should expect the cold shoulder. I stand on the porch for a while staring at the Lansing’s closed red doorway and eventually Jenifer wheels out and we’re happy for a moment. Milton sits in the house and seethes in his abusive off-kilter crazy way. Every once in a while he comes out to say something of unimportance to Jenifer, just so he can give me the disapproving glance. Whatever.

I’m sure at this point if I say anything he’ll go off on her or me. I’m almost hoping he does say something to me so I can fucking make his face all bloody and knock the teeth so far back into his mouth that they barely hang onto his bloody stumpy gums. I am pissed, focusing IT all—the accident, the jail terms, my parents and the whole fucking world—on him. Mess with me and get the brunt brutal temper of my situation.

Listen old man, I’m set up to fail. I’ve got one foot back in jail and a monkey on my back that weighs the fucking size of a gorilla and its whole fucking family. So fuck you, fuck your car, fuck your wife and your mom, fuck the Virgin Mary’s bloody womb and fuck your world. Fuck The World.

Just give me and your daughter a moment of peace and then I will leave yoube.

Like I said, it was her birthday, October 23rd, and I tried to make everything as special as I could, but fate intervened. Everything was taken care of, after scoring some “congratulations you’re out of jail dope.” We went to a Wal-Mart to return some merchandise from Jenifer’s car. I got picked up for suspicion of shoplifting (again) since I was poking around in the back of the store while Jenifer was busy gathering some women’s undergarments in another department. She saw them take me in the back and I guess she went out to sit in her car and wait.

Let me make this clear, I had been through the return line at the front of the store already to return an electronic organizer that somebody had already stolen. I was returning it for store credit, rather than cash, since I’ve already had more than three returns without a receipt there. I had not even chosen an item to exchange yet when a fat black guy started yelling and they pulled me into the interrogation room near the front of the store. In the room there was a plainclothes female security guard and the fat black employee who said he saw me stealing something from 100 yards away. I went through the motions and let them search me every which way they could think of but I didn’t have anything on me. By the time the cops showed up I was asking that they return the organizer I left behind the return counter, demanding the name of their supervisors and managers. With the arrival of the cops though, Ms. Plainclothes got her confident attitude back and with a twist of the story and the help of her colleague, the two of them pretty much convinced the officers that I was guilty of theft before I even had the chance to speak. So the police also went through the motions of searching me to their satisfaction and after that was over, I asked for my merchandise again so I could leave the premises. One of the officers asked how I got to the store and I explained how my paralyzed girlfriend went out to her car until this mistake was straightened up since Ms. Plainclothes was being an incorrigible bitch.