Nein
The fog off of the cold Atlantic Ocean resisted the dissipating rays of the early spring sun until well into the afternoon most days, giving the entire hamlet an overcoat of leaden gray. The local inhabitants’ personae lent them perfect camouflage against this setting. They were uniformly bland, without any outward trace of joy or of sorrow, no excess of excitement, no bounty of boredom. Clad in the regional dress of various combinations of wool plaid and blue denim, they went about their business with a minimum of fuss and muss. Whatever business that might be. Truth be told, in my short time in town I had not encountered many people who had what might be called steady employment. There was Tom Ottley, owner and sole employee of Mexico’s only cab and delivery service. Calling him for a ride put you at risk of being picked up in a truck carrying a load of manure, or else in his old Checker cab, sharing the seat with a lamb on the way to Doc Waters, the vet. Doc had given up steady employment back when the last working dairy herd in the county was sold off, over 15 years before. Since then he continued to dispense nostrums and wisdom to the assortment of pets and freezer stock of the surrounding county, at his pleasure.
I was strolling along the main street of town, named, with a lack of imagination which defined the character of the burg “Main Street”. It was a quiet avenue, despite being the busiest way in town, as any similarly named street would be in any similar town. The wide concrete sidewalks were shaded by tall Norway Maples. Currently these stately trees were leafless, but encrusted in a plaid patina of red and green florets, each bearing a single teardrop of foggy dew. In the slightest breeze each tree became a miniature rain cloud, soaking any unsuspecting passer-under. This morning was calm, and I walked under the dewdrop chandelier with the impunity of the unaware.
I paused to regard my reflection in the plate glass window of Sarah’s Beauty Salon (and Nail Emporium). As I was taking note of the various nicks and cuts I had incurred while shaving this morning, both of the middle aged ladies inside, the one in the chair having her hair curled and the one Sarah, I presume, behind her, burying curlers in her hair like a squirrel caching winter nuts in a blue lawn, smiled at me, and waved. I smiled back, then turned to cross the road to Bev’s Café for a coffee and a cruller.
“Do you think hanging is a good way to kill yourself?” The man who asked this completely uncalled for question slid into the booth on the bench opposite of me without so much as an “Excuse me”.
I lifted my eyes from the paper, yesterday’s Mexico Chronicle and Gazetteer, sixteen broadsheet pages of advertisements for boat trailers and news of local interest. The morbid stranger had found me engrossed in the report of a mysterious odor being reported on the west end of town. Mary Barnnett, homemaker, age 53 described it as a cross between wet dogs and spoiled luncheon meat. Whereas, John Tullman, tow truck operator, age 39, insisted that it was sour milk and diesel fuel. Whatever the case, the odor only appeared on Wednesdays, and then, only when the wind was from the west or northwest. Not taking any chances, a priest had been recruited to bless the site. And then, I was interrupted.
As I focused on my newly acquired dining companion, he was not paying me any attention, but trying to wave down the waitress. When he was satisfied, he turned to me, smiled to show a picket fence of teeth, thrust a sinewy hand across the table and introduced himself.
“Hi, I’m Ed. Katowski called and asked me to help you. Here I am.” His grin grew wider and eyebrows soared up his forehead with this pronouncement.
I met his hand across the formica. “I’m…”
He interrupted. “You’re Rick, I know, Kat told me.”
“Right…….But how did you know I was the one you wanted?”
He gave diffident shrug. “I know everyone in town. You are the only one I do not know, so you must be the stranger we are expecting.”
“Couldn’t I be a tourist?”
“No, you don’t look frightened.”
“Ah” I took a sip from my coffee. “And what was that about hanging?” This was my first mistake of the day.
“Hanging, do you think hanging would be a good way to die?”
“I could live with out it.” “Haaaa ha”
Ed’s smile faded. Apparently this was not a joking matter.
The waitress appeared out of nowhere, and slid a saucer and cup of coffee towards Ed.
“I am always thinking about it.” Ed took a sip of his steaming coffee. “Prob’ly wouldn’t ever do it. Keeps my mind busy while I drive around all day, I just like planning different ways to do it, rolling them around in my mind. The good points, the trouble spots. Just a hobby, I s’pose.”
I was wondering how I got into this conversation, and desperately looking for a way out.
Ed continued, without any encouragement from me. “The perfect plan is one hundred percent guaranteed fatal.” He was counting off using his fingers, lest I lose track. “It is pain-free.” Raising his ring finger in a good Boy Scout salute he continued. “And it does not hurt other people.”
Ed paused dramatically, and stared at me, upraised fingers waving. I forced a smile, nodded, then broke the tension with an unexpected coughing fit. Dabbing a wadded paper napkin to my limps, I made a limp-wristed rolling motion with my free hand as an indication that he should continue the thought I had so rudely interrupted.
My apparent distress had disturbed Ed greatly and he was completely befuddled, looking around wildly, calling out “Waitress!!, Water!! We need some water here!!” He grasped me firmly by the shoulders and looked deep into my eyes with terror in his. “Are you choking? Do you need a doctor?” Then, to the room, in general, “Does anyone know the Heimlich Maneuver?”
The waitress had by this time strolled over the table and deposited a small tumbler of tepid water on the table. Either the glass was scratched from years of use, or the water was cloudy, or both, but only the most dire of circumstances could have induced me to drink from or of it. I drained the glass in one gulp.
The water, and whatever else was in it, had worked its magic and doused the tickle in my throat. I was left flushed and tears sat perched on my lower eyelids, but otherwise I was fine. As I wiped my brow, I apologized to Ed and urged him to continue. It seems the coughing fit had affected my judgment,
Ed took a sip of his coffee, and slumped back in his seat. I think he was even more upset than I was. It was several minutes before he could speak again. Several quiet, blissful minutes.
When we had both recovered our composure Ed broke the silence. “Choking to death, that is my greatest fear, Of all the ways to go, it has to be the worst. You are fully awake, completely aware, and totally helpless. Choking, strangulation, hanging, all terrible ways to die.”
Something deep inside me, something I really must work on purging, urged me to interject. “I thought hanging broke your neck?”
Ed was on a roll again, holding forth on his very favorite subject. “If you are lucky enough to be hanged from a properly constructed gallows, by a skilled hangman, on one of his better days, there is a good chance your neck will be broken by the fall. But not a certainty. Far too many men were left dangling below the trap door, wriggling and writhing, eyes popping from the sockets, tongue slowly swelling out of the mouth, until they succumbed to oxygen deprivation. Not a pleasant thing to think of.”
I wanted to point out that none of this conversation was pleasant, but Morose Ed had regained his momentum, and would not be interrupted. He was becoming more animated as he described the torturous death, pantomiming the facial features as he described them. I glanced nervously around the café, but no one seemed to be paying any mind to his impromptu amateur theatrical performance. I suspected that I was not witnessing opening night.
“And trying to hang yourself is even worse,” he continued. “Tying a rope from a chandelier, standing on a chair, the noose around your neck, then, POW, you kick the chair out from under your feet, you fall for a fraction of a second, the rope tightens.” His expression grew more intense, his breathing shallow and labored. “Then you twist and turn and kick your legs and claw at the rope, try to catch your breath but it is all for nothing. Finally, blessedly, you pass out, and soon after that you die. It is not a good death.”
I have to admit that Ed’s distinctions of “good deaths” and “bad deaths” were somewhat lost on me, but I was loathe to press him for further explanation. Ed took my silence as encouragement and continued.
“Other common methods of suicide have problems, too, different problems, but problems none the less. I can give an example if you want?”
“Could I stop you.” Apparently not..
“Take a leap from a tall building.”
I suppose he had every right to be rude back to me.
“One hundred stories, perhaps.”
My mistake, Morose Ed was merely presenting his example.
“On to the pavement below. I am sure you will agree that will be fatal every time?”
I nodded. “I am sure that one time will be enough.”
“However, the downside, the fly in the ointment, the wrench in the gears of this scenario, is the long, terrifying plummet to earth. I can never get past this, when I lie awake at night, picturing the perfect death. Screaming as I gain speed, the sidewalk racing up to meet me. No, a plunge from a one hundred story building would not be pleasant.”
“Besides,” once again I was compelled by forces beyond my control to add my two cents worth. “ I haven’t seen any one hundred story buildings in Mexico. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
The quiet streets lined with Norway Maples, still leafless, but crusted in a fuzzy pink patina of florets, each bejeweled with a single dangling teardrop of dew. Poetic, ain’t it?
As I stood there in a catatonic reverie.
I looked at the unreasonably long list of warnings attached to such a seemingly simple product. The final one read “Do not take any long trips”. I repeat, “Do not take any long trips”. Instructions I might expect from my parole officer, or perhaps the grim reaper, but not from a laxative.
I was strolling along the main street of town, named, with a lack of imagination which defined the character of the burg “Main Street”. It was a quiet avenue, despite being the busiest way in town, as any similarly named street would be in any similar town. The wide concrete sidewalks were shaded by tall Norway Maples. Currently these stately trees were leafless, but encrusted in a plaid patina of red and green florets, each bearing a single teardrop of foggy dew. In the slightest breeze each tree became a miniature rain cloud, soaking any unsuspecting passer-under. This morning was calm, and I walked under the dewdrop chandelier with the impunity of the unaware.
I paused to regard my reflection in the plate glass window of Sarah’s Beauty Salon (and Nail Emporium). As I was taking note of the various nicks and cuts I had incurred while shaving this morning, both of the middle aged ladies inside, the one in the chair having her hair curled and the one Sarah, I presume, behind her, burying curlers in her hair like a squirrel caching winter nuts in a blue lawn, smiled at me, and waved. I smiled back, then turned to cross the road to Bev’s Café for a coffee and a cruller.
“Do you think hanging is a good way to kill yourself?” The man who asked this completely uncalled for question slid into the booth on the bench opposite of me without so much as an “Excuse me”.
I lifted my eyes from the paper, yesterday’s Mexico Chronicle and Gazetteer, sixteen broadsheet pages of advertisements for boat trailers and news of local interest. The morbid stranger had found me engrossed in the report of a mysterious odor being reported on the west end of town. Mary Barnnett, homemaker, age 53 described it as a cross between wet dogs and spoiled luncheon meat. Whereas, John Tullman, tow truck operator, age 39, insisted that it was sour milk and diesel fuel. Whatever the case, the odor only appeared on Wednesdays, and then, only when the wind was from the west or northwest. Not taking any chances, a priest had been recruited to bless the site. And then, I was interrupted.
As I focused on my newly acquired dining companion, he was not paying me any attention, but trying to wave down the waitress. When he was satisfied, he turned to me, smiled to show a picket fence of teeth, thrust a sinewy hand across the table and introduced himself.
“Hi, I’m Ed. Katowski called and asked me to help you. Here I am.” His grin grew wider and eyebrows soared up his forehead with this pronouncement.
I met his hand across the formica. “I’m…”
He interrupted. “You’re Rick, I know, Kat told me.”
“Right…….But how did you know I was the one you wanted?”
He gave diffident shrug. “I know everyone in town. You are the only one I do not know, so you must be the stranger we are expecting.”
“Couldn’t I be a tourist?”
“No, you don’t look frightened.”
“Ah” I took a sip from my coffee. “And what was that about hanging?” This was my first mistake of the day.
“Hanging, do you think hanging would be a good way to die?”
“I could live with out it.” “Haaaa ha”
Ed’s smile faded. Apparently this was not a joking matter.
The waitress appeared out of nowhere, and slid a saucer and cup of coffee towards Ed.
“I am always thinking about it.” Ed took a sip of his steaming coffee. “Prob’ly wouldn’t ever do it. Keeps my mind busy while I drive around all day, I just like planning different ways to do it, rolling them around in my mind. The good points, the trouble spots. Just a hobby, I s’pose.”
I was wondering how I got into this conversation, and desperately looking for a way out.
Ed continued, without any encouragement from me. “The perfect plan is one hundred percent guaranteed fatal.” He was counting off using his fingers, lest I lose track. “It is pain-free.” Raising his ring finger in a good Boy Scout salute he continued. “And it does not hurt other people.”
Ed paused dramatically, and stared at me, upraised fingers waving. I forced a smile, nodded, then broke the tension with an unexpected coughing fit. Dabbing a wadded paper napkin to my limps, I made a limp-wristed rolling motion with my free hand as an indication that he should continue the thought I had so rudely interrupted.
My apparent distress had disturbed Ed greatly and he was completely befuddled, looking around wildly, calling out “Waitress!!, Water!! We need some water here!!” He grasped me firmly by the shoulders and looked deep into my eyes with terror in his. “Are you choking? Do you need a doctor?” Then, to the room, in general, “Does anyone know the Heimlich Maneuver?”
The waitress had by this time strolled over the table and deposited a small tumbler of tepid water on the table. Either the glass was scratched from years of use, or the water was cloudy, or both, but only the most dire of circumstances could have induced me to drink from or of it. I drained the glass in one gulp.
The water, and whatever else was in it, had worked its magic and doused the tickle in my throat. I was left flushed and tears sat perched on my lower eyelids, but otherwise I was fine. As I wiped my brow, I apologized to Ed and urged him to continue. It seems the coughing fit had affected my judgment,
Ed took a sip of his coffee, and slumped back in his seat. I think he was even more upset than I was. It was several minutes before he could speak again. Several quiet, blissful minutes.
When we had both recovered our composure Ed broke the silence. “Choking to death, that is my greatest fear, Of all the ways to go, it has to be the worst. You are fully awake, completely aware, and totally helpless. Choking, strangulation, hanging, all terrible ways to die.”
Something deep inside me, something I really must work on purging, urged me to interject. “I thought hanging broke your neck?”
Ed was on a roll again, holding forth on his very favorite subject. “If you are lucky enough to be hanged from a properly constructed gallows, by a skilled hangman, on one of his better days, there is a good chance your neck will be broken by the fall. But not a certainty. Far too many men were left dangling below the trap door, wriggling and writhing, eyes popping from the sockets, tongue slowly swelling out of the mouth, until they succumbed to oxygen deprivation. Not a pleasant thing to think of.”
I wanted to point out that none of this conversation was pleasant, but Morose Ed had regained his momentum, and would not be interrupted. He was becoming more animated as he described the torturous death, pantomiming the facial features as he described them. I glanced nervously around the café, but no one seemed to be paying any mind to his impromptu amateur theatrical performance. I suspected that I was not witnessing opening night.
“And trying to hang yourself is even worse,” he continued. “Tying a rope from a chandelier, standing on a chair, the noose around your neck, then, POW, you kick the chair out from under your feet, you fall for a fraction of a second, the rope tightens.” His expression grew more intense, his breathing shallow and labored. “Then you twist and turn and kick your legs and claw at the rope, try to catch your breath but it is all for nothing. Finally, blessedly, you pass out, and soon after that you die. It is not a good death.”
I have to admit that Ed’s distinctions of “good deaths” and “bad deaths” were somewhat lost on me, but I was loathe to press him for further explanation. Ed took my silence as encouragement and continued.
“Other common methods of suicide have problems, too, different problems, but problems none the less. I can give an example if you want?”
“Could I stop you.” Apparently not..
“Take a leap from a tall building.”
I suppose he had every right to be rude back to me.
“One hundred stories, perhaps.”
My mistake, Morose Ed was merely presenting his example.
“On to the pavement below. I am sure you will agree that will be fatal every time?”
I nodded. “I am sure that one time will be enough.”
“However, the downside, the fly in the ointment, the wrench in the gears of this scenario, is the long, terrifying plummet to earth. I can never get past this, when I lie awake at night, picturing the perfect death. Screaming as I gain speed, the sidewalk racing up to meet me. No, a plunge from a one hundred story building would not be pleasant.”
“Besides,” once again I was compelled by forces beyond my control to add my two cents worth. “ I haven’t seen any one hundred story buildings in Mexico. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
The quiet streets lined with Norway Maples, still leafless, but crusted in a fuzzy pink patina of florets, each bejeweled with a single dangling teardrop of dew. Poetic, ain’t it?
As I stood there in a catatonic reverie.
I looked at the unreasonably long list of warnings attached to such a seemingly simple product. The final one read “Do not take any long trips”. I repeat, “Do not take any long trips”. Instructions I might expect from my parole officer, or perhaps the grim reaper, but not from a laxative.
