Prick of the Spindle: Fiction: Smith: A Man Left Alone with His Thoughts

A Man Left Alone With His Thoughts Can Be Dangerous, or:
How Whiskey and Radio Changed My Life, or:
The Tragic Fall of a Potential Cult Figure

by Kevin G. Smith

When things got too heavy, I drank. When the world became too big, too trivial, like a list of items to buy at the supermarket, I drank. When the choice between Skittles, Starbursts and Jolly Ranchers became so pointless that I couldn’t choose, I drank.

My room, and that is as much as it can be called, is on the corner of Maple and Elm in a small everytown suburb. Treenamed streets, strip malls, middle aged jogging women. On this night, a conversation with an old love interest had sparked this particularly pressing need for drinks. She had called “to check up,” I, not feeling a need to check on anything at the moment, hung up. A man on television with modeled hair said something about the president catching a seven pound wide mouth bass. News. I stared into the TV, past it, or through it. Staring at the talking man, I started to see his perfect hair begin to hold weight that his words could not. His hair gave him an air of supremacy. He was not susceptible to the ‘bad hair days’ that are part of being a living being. His hair was unshakable. I became extremely angry at this blatant condescension. It isn’t enough that he is on TV, telling me what the ‘news’ is, but he transcended the laws of hair. I forced myself to look away and drain the last gulp of whiskey out of my glass.

The television was too much for me at the time, so I turned on talk radio and refilled my glass. A woman called in. “Hi, Steve, my name is Mary, first time caller, long time listener.” The radio honked obnoxiously at the virgin caller. “My question to you, and your callers, is: what they do to keep from the fear of death.” It was as if all technology was involved in some sickening conspiracy to drive me to extremes. Why, at this moment, did Mary feel the need to ask that one question? Did she know that I was sitting in my room, hoping, praying to the lord god radio that she did not ask that question? Is she so depraved that she takes some sort of sadistic pleasure in forcing me to sit in this room in silence? If so, she was happy. I turned off the radio and sat in the dark.

The need to take a drive washed over me in a wave of newfound purpose. I quickly finished the rest of the whiskey that I had poured out for myself and got into the car. A fine machine. Its terrible condition was a point of pride for me. A way of snubbing my nose at the rich fuckers who are so busy driving nice cars and spending money that they never had a night like this. I was both above and below that type of material lifestyle. Of course, recognizing it at all, even if it is just to live in opposition to it, was a way of acknowledging its relevance. I was acutely aware of the paradox. As the engine struggled to turn over I wondered whether my choice to deliberately not try to be wealthy was a wise one. My ambivalence passed when the car turned over and I began to drive through the town. 24 hour Wal Mart, 24 hour Walgreens, 24 hour Wal life. Is obsession with time a global epidemic? An American one? A personal one? One hour photo. I prefer to not take pictures.

Death haunted me around every corner. I drove faster, more recklessly, in order to try to confront the sick bastard. Death. A single word. Like pancake or can or anything else, but different. So many people see death on the news every night. It surely does not haunt them the way it haunts me or there would be a lot more traffic and reckless driving at 3:48am. The birds would be singing soon. I wasn’t sure I was properly prepared to handle that situation, so I tried to outdrive them. Drive west, cross time zones, quickly, regain an hour, 12 minutes, anything.

The curve was in sight long before the decision needed to be made. Construction on the bridge over the river caused them to close the right lane while the guard rail was taken out, presumably to be replaced later that morning. As it neared, the question entered my mind without surprise. Was it really any different than choosing between Colgate, Crest or Mentadent? If the choice is made, does it not follow that you have agency over the forces involved? Namely, if I chose to drive off the bridge into the river, wouldn’t I be more powerful than death? This is not how Death wanted me to die. He wanted to sneak up on me the moment I stopped worrying about Him. This was a choice, not suicide exactly, but just a conscious choice when to die.

As I drove off the bridge I immediately regretted it. While my car plummeted in slow motion towards the water I began to second guess my logic. What if this is what He really planned all along? What if I played right into His trap? I should have waited for a different opportunity. They would do an autopsy and say that I was drunk and didn’t see the curve. How terrible a legacy to leave. I wanted people to know that I was not just another dead person that the hair talks about on the ten o’clock. I had outsmarted Him. I was more powerful than an abstract force. I should become a cult religious figure, inspiring orchestrated mass suicides in order to follow me in my transcendence. This would not happen if no one knew what exactly it was I was doing. I decided I wanted to live.

When I hit the water, the radio came on.

Kevin G. Smith was born in 1987 in Chicago, Illinois. He is currently an English major at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. This is his first published piece.