LIFE.

It was a cool late November evening, about 10:00, when the thoughts of the daily grind and minutia crawled there way into my mind. So I went for a walk. There was a place about a quarter of a mile away where I liked to go when the thoughts of suicide and despair crossed paths. I guess I liked it because if I ever did want to kill myself, it was a place of opportunity.

I walked in the cool night air enjoying a light breeze on my face, turning my fat cheeks a rosy red color. About 65 degrees, it was a cold California night. The walk never does much to lift my spirits. People say running makes you feel better because it releases endorphins. Well those people are fucking dumb.

My destination is the underpass of the main road near my house, leading to a park. It is a private dark place to collect my thoughts in peace. Sitting on the dirt thinking is probably a bad thing for someone thinking about, among other things suicide. I should have probably called a friend or something but none of my friends know or even care.

Sometimes the utter pain of existence is too much for ones soul and it is in cases like this that the overpass becomes my only close friend. It is here that I question the decisions I make in life, it is here that the real thinking gets down and if the decision I come to is death it is only a short walk away.

I heard the rustling of footsteps near bye and turned just in time to catch a bright light in my eyes. "Whatcha doing up there son," asked the voice from behind the light.

"Nothing much," I replied "just think about jumping off the overpass."

"Very funny," the man laughed "very funny." As the man walked closer I could see that he was a cop. He wasn't wearing a uniform or anything, just a grey sweet suit, but he had cop presence and not to mention the Tom Selleck mustache. "Do you need some help?"

"Just fine," I said very quickly. "So, are ya out for a jog officer?"

"How did you..." he sighed. "It's the mustache, God damn it. Just get home son, it's too lat to be hanging out down here." He jogged off into the darkness and soon he became a flicker in the distance.

After sitting for a good hour I come to the conclusion I always do. If I jump out into the road the car will swerve, the overpass is only twenty feet off the ground and I am a pussy when it comes to pain and life is hard for everyone. So I head back how.

Work is a pointless part of existence, I am much happier broke. However, I do need a few dollars to get through the next few months. Sometimes I hate life but I always love food. A thought always occurs to me when driving to work though. It is probably a bad idea to let anyone who wants to die drive a car, more dangerous than a drunk driver.

If you don't believe zombies exist than you haven't opened your eyes wide enough. I'll help you, first take your hands and pull your eyelids open. Next walk into any nation wide chain store and look at the employees there. Then slap yourself, across the face, in amazement.

I work at a place that is well awful. Let's call in the-thing-that-holds-up-your-house-mart. Life at the-thing-that-holds-up-your-house-mart consists of taking money from people that should use their money more wisely. First scan the item, then take the money, then I eat brains like a good zombie in a blue apron. I never thought I could hate a smiley face, but it is apparently possible.

The ironic thing is that when I am at the-thing-that-holds-up-your-house-mart, I never think about offing myself. One would think that that is a strong driving force but it is not. Killing myself over wa- the-thing-that-holds-up-your-house-mart would just mean they won. And I feel that I am better than that, if only a little better.

If you asked anybody I worked with they would probably tell you all the same thing. "Oh that Guy, he is so cheerful, a real go getter. He has upper management written all over him" And that is because I am good at faking it, all of it. You name it I can fake. Happiness, sadness, thoughtfulness and what I am personally proud of sincerity. Oh sincerity, you have gotten me out of so much.

"Hey Guy!" said the cheerful voice of Jonathon from appliances. Jonathon is twenty-eight years old but he looks like he is about forty with his receding hairline and died black hair.

"Hey John, how's the wife and kids," I said with a laugh.

"About twenty years away, how's life as the only sane person in the store?" I laugh loudly so everyone can hear.

"Take it easy." John and I have this running joke about how he looks like a family man, even though the fact is John lives at home with his mom. John calls me the only sane person in the store, oh how wrong he is. It may sound stupid to the outsider but for me it is as close to social interaction as I come by.

Some things in life are unforgivable, like naming a child something horrific. Like who the fuck names their son Guy? My dad says it was because he loves the book Fahrenheit 451, but that is such shit. I never saw him read it once in my life. I think it is because he was lazy and my mom was a drunk. And if he is telling the truth here, which he isn't, what is that telling me to do? Should I become a fireman or should I burn books? What's the deal here?

"Son that Ray Bradbury is a genius," my dad used to say "he really knew what was going on. You're lucky I didn't like "The Catcher in the Rye" or you might be named Holden."

He thought he was such a reader, but all he did was blow smoke up your ass. We where all bull shitters, a family who was good at looking smart without ever being smart, all you have to do is through the name of an author and idea you heard on T.V. and call it your own.

"If you really what a good look at history you have to read "A People's History" by Howard Zinn. It's a must read," I said to my boss who was talking about the correlations between the current war and Vietnam. If you look at my book shelf, I do own the book but have never even cracked it open. The line itself is a forgettable line from "Good Will Hunting" and the book is so long that no one would even read it to call you on your shit. It's pure genius.

"I'll defiantly check it out," said Rachel, my boss, in an "it's never going to happen" tone.

Outside of the name thing and the bad genetics, I can't think of anything to bad about my parents. They never beat me or anything like that but on the opposite end of the spectrum they never did anything good for me either. There was no catch in the park for me and dear old dad. Mom never made dinner or yelled at me for playing with my food. Growing up I was lucky if what I had for dinner wasn't frozen or from a can.

My parents, Jacob and Margaret Lindsay, are the most plain and under achieving people around, perfect for each other in everyway. Neither of them are ugly, you would never say that but they are not attractive. They both maintained a straight B average all the way through college and both came out with business accounting degrees, oddly enough I can't understand even rudimentary math.

They met each other while applying for the same job, which neither of them got. Not because they weren't qualified but because, and I will quote here, "They are both as interesting as a chick with no tits." You gotta love the vulgarity of it all.

So you might ask, what do to uninteresting people do with there lives? They stay in a dead end 60,000 dollar a year job and have a couple of kids. Stay with each other forever, and fuck maybe twice a year until his penis stops working. After that you read the newspaper every morning and watch CNN until death comes knocking. Those kind of joyless life sacks live until they are 130 and suck up all of social security.

I always winder if they would consider their own lives worth living. Probably yes, sadly enough, they love the emptiness of it all. I ended up asking the old man one day what if he thought his life was a good one and his answer was classic dad, "I wouldn't change a thing," he said it in his superior dad voice. "Having you two kids was the best thing I ever did." Well I feel sorry for you dad.

Aside from the fact he had me he had another fuck up of a kid. My younger sister Jessica, one year and eight months younger to the day, is what most people would refer to as a "coked up whore." All she does is put coke in her nose, heroin in her arm and cock in her mouth, a wonderful combination in my book. You may think I am unsympathetic and that I should love my sister. Well of course I love her. I just wouldn't share a needle with her.

I probably see Jessica once a year during the holidays; never on thanksgiving or Christmas but sometime, in the month of December, she will crash on my couch to get out of the cold. I always give her a few bucks; I don't really care what she buys with it just so long as she is able to stay alive until she needs to ride the couch again.

I remember one time she came over in July to ride the couch for a week, which surprised me, until I realized what she was after, money. When I didn't give it to her she left for three years, she eventually came back and the cycle started again.

The both of us left home on my eighteenth birthday. I moved out into a studio apartment, which is the same place I live at now, six years later. She went to L.A. to make it as an actress or model or something, I don't know exactly. What I do know is that the only movie you can see her in is a little video called Barely Legal Babes Take it in the Butt; I think its number 10 in the series. I haven't personally seen it but I hear the production values are surprisingly low, even for porn. I think my Dad would be sad if he found out. Not because of the porn itself but the fact that Jessica didn't even bother changing her name for it.

When I get to the end of my week, which is a Tuesday because I work Thursday thru Monday, I don't do a little dance or anything like that I just take my shoes off and lay done in bed until Thursday rolls around and I have to start the whole process over again, I dislike change or variation in this schedule. It is why I don't have many friends. The only person I can call friends is a guy named Jeff; we went to high school together.

Jeff is charismatic, he is attractive and he is fun. There is no reason for us to even get along let alone hang out together but for some reason we do. We grab the occasional beer after work or baseball game if it is that time of year.

Other than his chiseled good looks, Jeff has one thing I do not, the ability to talk to women. It is the one thing I can not fake. He is constantly telling me to grow a pair and get out there but I can't do it. I am a fool when it comes to women. I stumble and get dry mouth, I end up saying things like "Hey, you look nice," to which they respond "Thank you" and I reply "So…yeah." That is the way I work it.

Yet Jeff can walk up to any woman and look her in the eyes and say "Hey, you look nice," to which they reply "Do you want to fuck me." I just don't get it. Though I do strike out all the time it is not a big deal. Most women I meet are, well, horrific. Not in a physical appearance way. In that fact they are most good, or at least passable. I am speaking on a purely internal level.

It is my opinion that nearly ever women is completely insane. I have never heard more people say that they are just "trying to find my passion." What kind of answer is that? Well I suppose you need to question don't you. What do you do for a living? That was the question. So I say again, what the fuck kind of answer is that? I am trying to find my passion means I am looking for some guy whose dick is small enough and his wallet is big enough to do anything I want him to. I mean my dick is probably small but not that small.

Jeff, somehow, can look over the fact that he might as well stick is dick in a pile of hay. I told Jeff that one day and his response was "I think hay would be better, it wouldn't want a call the next day and I wouldn't have to ware a rubber." I envy such a sense of whimsy for life. I don't think Jeff would be sad if life ended tomorrow or if he never died. He is the kind of guy with no regrets but still if he could keep on living forever, he would. Not me though, I need to die.

Some days are harder than others. Today is one of those days. Usually I can fake what needs to be faked but when push comes to shove and I need a little boost I look to the bottle of Smirnoff for help.

For a man who wants to die I am unusually responsible. It is against my nature to purposefully drink in drive. Sure, sometimes I am really really drunk and I get behind the wheel, but that is drunk me that decides that. Responsible sober me waits until I part in the parking lot at work before I crack open the bottle. I poor a black sports bottle full of vodka and nothing else today will all be a blur.

I take a long drink form the bottle, the vodka burns its way down my throat. The pain feels good. After a few minutes of basking in my buzz I walk into the building carrying my sports bottle with me. "Just come from a Jog," asked Steve. Steve is the manager of the receiving department at the-thing-that-holds-up-your-house-mart. He is a relatively attractive man in his late 30's. His hair is starting to gray but in a way that is more to his benefit than anything else. Despite is good fortune in looks I rarely see him flirt with the, what I am told are attractive, women that come into the store. The only people that catch his interest are moms that come in with there little girls.

"What do you mean," I asked him in my work voice.

"You're sweating and your face is red, plus the sports bottle is a dead giveaway." Well if Steve was a little more perceptive than maybe he would realize I am hammered but I suppose jogging is as good as an excuse as any.

"You know me, Steve, I love to run." We both share an awkward yet necessary work laugh and park are ways. There is something about Steve that makes me uneasy. One day I swear I count him masturbating to an advertisement for a blow up pool.

I walk to my area of the store, I work in the front end with the cashiers, the lowest part of the totem pole and I am their fearless leader. No where else in life does anyone ask me anything. I have a good deal of power over them all, I mean they can't even pee without permission from me and if I wasn't so god damn drunk I might take advantage of that.

I don't know how long had passed, I was pretty out of it. You don't have to pay much attention to be in charge of a bunch of 18 or 19 year old cashiers at a place like the-thing-that-holds-up-your-house-mart. So I guess it had been a few hours when I heard the announcement over the P.A. system.

"We have a code Adam in the store, I repeat code Adam," said the voice in a booming baritone. For all of you unfamiliar with a code Adam, I will explain. It is, at least at this store, the code for a missing child. Which means no body goes in or out of the building until we find him or her.

I don't know what came over me but I had the urge to get up and walk. My legs knew where we were going before my head. I was in the back of the store, the receiving department and that is where I saw it. An eight-year-old child completely naked crying in the corner, and there was Steve with his dick in his hand. A huge, awful and disturbing smile on his face soon turned to surprise when he saw me.

Before I knew it my hand had broken his nose and my foot had crushed his balls. He was on the floor in agony and there was nothing he could do about it because I was drunk and he was fucked up in the head. I kept kicking him and kicking him until his body fell limp on the concrete floor.

I turned to the sweet little girl in the corner. I found her cloths in an office near by and gave them to her, and then I turned away so she could change. I didn't even know what happened, not really until much later. I picked up the phone in Steve's office and called the manager, trying to explain to her, gently, what happened.

The manager, Rachel, and the parents arrived into the back quicker than I thought but it is possible that time just passed by quickly, due to the adrenaline rush combined with vodka. The parents where so happy to find their little girl, they barely noticed the man bleeding on the ground with his dick out. The mother, who I latter learned was named Meredith, turned to my crying and said, "Oh God, you must be the one who saved my little girl," I could barely understand he with all the deep breathing and Crying, "I am so grateful, I don't know how I can ever repay you."

"Don't worry about it," I replied in my normal, not at work voice. "I was put on this earth to help people." Now not even I know why I said this, of course I was not put on this earth to help people. I wasn't even put on this earth by anyone; I evolved from a monkey, or something. But I did say it and that fact kind of scarred me. Meredith grabbed onto me tightly and didn't let go for a very long time.

While Meredith had a death grip on my body I looked over at the little girl. Her father was trying to consol her, but what could he do. She was likely raped and it would take a while for her to deal with that. It is completely possible that the suicide club just added a new member.

Meredith and her husband insisted on taking me to dinner, which I kept denying. So, in order to get them off my back, I gave them my number to call me about dinner. It was never going to happen but at least now they felt like it would.

I think the father was in shock because the entire time this was going on he never said a word. To this day he has never said a word to me, which in my book makes him a really good guy.

There is one thing in life that every man should be able to experience. He should see himself deck another man on video surveillance. It is quite the empowering experience. I probably watched my self punch Steve about a thousand times just that evening. Watching him hit the floor, his dick still held tightly in his hand, was like watching America's Funniest Home Videos. It was, well among other tings, hilarious.

There are many things that I don't understand in life, that I don't expect an answer for, but one thing that I need to know is why Steve did it. He knew there were cameras in the receiving bay; he couldn't have thought he would get away with it. So why would he do it?

I never did get an answer from him, mostly because he committed suicide the next day in prison, add one to the club, but I can speculate on the matter. And fuck you to all who say I shouldn't. I don't think Steve is a bad man, inherently, I don't think anyone is but he was, obviously, capable of doing bad things. It is probable that we all are.

So why did he do it? Because he had too, it is that simple. Not because he liked it or because he wanted to but because the voice that we all have in our heads telling us to do bad things was too loud to ignore. So he had to. The incessant nagging of that voice will eventually becomes to much for everyone, just hope that when you finally listen to it, you don't get caught by a drunk guy who works at the-thing-that-holds-up-your-house-mart.