Penni Jones - Suicide Souls

My dad would never, ever eat Gouda. Far too exotic for his Velveeta-loving pallet. But there’s no use saying that. There’s work to do.

“We need him to turn on the TV or radio,” I say, even though Naomi knows this. Edgar told us the same things at the same time.

We can’t turn on the TV or radio ourselves, but once one of them is on, we can manipulate the energy. So Edgar says, anyway.

“I grew up in a house with Jesus on the cross pictures, too. But my parents didn’t drink.” Naomi stands up.

“Only my dad drinks. The Jesus décor is my mom’s touch.” The battle to save his dad’s soul rages on long after my demise.

“They raised you with two theologies: Christianity and alcoholism.”

“It’s almost like we were a multi-cultural family.”

Dad grabs three beers and kicks his shoes off in the kitchen. His worn leather recliner accepts his droopy fat ass easily.

“Which will it be? The TV or radio?” Naomi asks.

“TV. He likes to drink and doze off in front of Fox News.”

“Did you have a roommate in college?”

“Yeah. A pothead named Donnie. We moved from the dorm into an apartment together about six months before I died.” Trevor and I had planned to live together in college. That plan changed when he didn’t live long enough to graduate from high school. Donnie was a decent compensation prize. He shared his Vonnegut books and Buddhist ideals. I looked up to him in that way a man recognizes a more experienced man.

“Did you do it here or there?”

“There.” Dad grabs the remote from the plywood end table next to his recliner. “Donnie and his mom had to scrub my brains from the wall.”

“Did you have to watch?” She looks almost excited by the idea.

“No. I listened as he described it to his therapist.” Dad turns on Fox news. Now we have to figure out how to do this. “Donnie kept talking about the smell. He was really hung up on that.”

“I’ve never thought of brains as having a smell.”

“It was my blood and tissue and all that stuff that’s supposed to stay inside the body. Donnie said he could taste the smell for a long time.”

“How long?” She puts her hands on the TV.

“I don’t know.” I put my hands over hers. The pleasant warmth follows.

“Manipulating energy, right?” she asks.

“That’s what Edgar said.” The Shadow moves across the living room floor, waiting for me to fail.

“What’s it going to be?”

What show, what commercial, what jingle? What will shake my dad out of this apathy over my premature death?

“I was learning to play guitar in high school. I played ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ about a million times. He hated it.”

She smirks and says, “Oh, Luke. You didn’t live long enough to stop being a cliché.”

“Like a pretty girl choking down a fistful of pills isn’t a cliché?”

“That’s a fairly subjective question.” She looks down to the TV and looks back to me. “I’m trying to save your ass. You better be concentrating.”

Both of us with our hands on the TV, thinking about Nirvana, trying to bend airwaves to our own demands. I don’t know how long it takes because I don’t know how long anything takes these days. But something happens. But it’s not from the TV. The song blares from outside. It’s a car radio, tinny and distant. The car is at the stop sign in front of our house. Kids with the windows down, blaring their music with a complete disregard for the residential neighborhood. Or maybe they’re self-absorbed enough to think that they’re doing these people a favor by giving them a great song in the middle of their mundane day.

But it is a favor, isn’t it? They’ll just never know what type.

My dad stands up faster than I’ve seen him do since I was ten and threw a baseball in the house that sailed through the bay window. At least I tried to be sporty.

He walks over and pulls up the blinds so quickly they make a ripping sound. He sees the car full of teenagers and puts his hands flat on the glass. His forehead follows, leaning against the hard surface that’s probably cold but I don’t know for sure. Dad’s body starts to jerk, small spasms in his back and shoulders. Plump tears roll down his face.

“That’s how you do it,” Naomi whispers in my ear, and I can feel it. Actually feel what seems like breath down my neck. “Kiss this dump goodbye.”

The pull starts, this time in my ear where Naomi’s breath is still warm and moist.

We’re in a mobile home now. A trailer with plastic on the windows to seal out the winter.

“Wow. This place is a disaster. Is this Violet’s house?”

“Daisy. Her name is Daisy. And I don’t know.” I scan the room for photographs or anything that will tell me.

There’s one photograph hanging on the wall. It’s her. Older and thinner, but her. She’s sitting with two little boys in a fake-smiling pose that looks like it belongs in a church directory.

“Whatever.” She’s looking around, too, both of us adjusting to the sudden change in location. “God, I hope this is last one.”

“Do you believe in God?” I don’t know why I haven’t asked her before.

“That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t actually talking to God.”

“But do you?”

She’s prettier here in a room with more light. But maybe I’ve just been alone too long.

Naomi scrunches her face up a little and says, “I believe in the idea of God. There’s obviously more than just life on Earth, right? We’re doing that shit right now. But a god who is involved in our daily lives? No way. Wouldn’t we have met him by now?”

“I think so. But it feels like we’re all a part of something bigger. Even now.”

“If you really believe that, why were you so willing to disappear forever?’

A boy walks into the mobile home, which isn’t even a double-wide, before I can answer. I don’t know what I would have said anyway.

He’s young, maybe about eight or nine. He’s dragging a baseball bat behind him.

“Mom?” he calls out. No one answers.

“Is that her kid?” Naomi asks.

“Must be.” He looks a little like Daisy. He has the same round blue eyes and reddish hair.

The boy drops his baseball bat on the floor. He pulls a jug of chocolate milk from the refrigerator and pours some into a plastic cup. Chocolate milk splashes on the floor and the countertop. A fiercely ugly mutt appears from a back room and licks the milk from the floor.

“This could have been your life if only you’d hung in there.”

Another shit-box, but hopefully the last. Then I can be alive again. This time, I will not base my self-perception on how many friends I have on Myspace. Hell, I probably won’t even have a Myspace account. I will be complete within myself, and validation from others will be meaningless, no matter how much therapy it takes to get me there.

And I’ll take the little yellow pills prescribed for me even though they lower my tolerance for alcohol. I’ll use my ambition and drive to their full extent, never being distracted by men and the attention they offer.

Maybe I will have a giant goiter. Maybe I will be excessively scarred or have the metabolism of a sloth. Who knows? Maybe I will have learned to shed the mortal coil for something more important. I obviously didn’t learn all I needed to know from being attractive and physically complete. But I would appreciate the chance to try again.

Why did I let Luke get in my head with that unattractive stuff?

Luke stares at the little boy with fascination. Is that how I looked at Jamie’s baby? I don’t think so, but no one was observing me to tell me for sure. Maybe it’s just the reminder that life has continued without him. Even the girl he was fucking had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.