A Night Out

by Winston Mayo
(Marietta, GA, USA)

They always say when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. But who would have thought that drowning would have taken as long as it was. I guess I should of went with my first instinct, but the amount of paperwork involved in buying a gun and a license wasn’t something a person of my standing had time for. Also I didn’t want Martha to have to bear the gruesome scene of my cranium splattered on the couch or in the bedroom. A lethal combination of alcohol and painkillers was another notion, but a man of my caliber had to die with some finesse, something that would at least make the front page of the local back and whites. So a burial by sea would be the best way to go. Personally I hoped my bloated body is found by a father and son on a fishing trip. Man oh man, wouldn’t that be a fishing tale for the ages. I guess on that trip they really did catch The Big One.
I don’t think suicide gets as much adoration as it should. People always refer to it as a coward’s last act, but they probably don’t know the amount of guts it takes to kill yourself. Like think about it. It begins as a thought, but there are so many other voices around saying that suicide is not the way, or life is worth living for, or some other public service announcement nonsense. So I am just standing up for what I believe in, and that takes a lot of bravery in my opinion. Plus, it’s not like I am doing something like running my twenty year old Vega in my garage with the windows down. Nope, I am going out in the way of a nobleman. An action where I am held responsible for every moment of my death, and that takes a lot of courage in my book. To feel every gallon of salt water move from an area of high concentrate to an area of low concentration, pretty much makes me a blue ribbon science experiment on osmosis. And such an undertaking should not be scorned by those who hate what they don’t understand.
All the greats of history were underappreciated during their times. Galileo was imprisoned. Picasso was misunderstood. Even Hit---


Accidently ending your life isn’t much of a story to tell, but it was Richard Spew’s story nonetheless. In all honesty Richard didn’t hate himself just enough yet to end his life, but he would always bring up the thought anytime an art curator didn’t like his asking price for one of his pieces. I guess a guy has to die before any of the real money starts to roll in, was his go to phrase to express his displeasure. But what he would always tell himself whenever he encountered rejections or spans where no one would buy his art was, people always hate that which they don’t understand.
This span of no sales was one of Richard Spew’s longer ones. And to forget about this recent drought of funds Richard Spew began wetting his whistle with a little liquid courage at about 3pm. He would have started earlier, but he still hadn’t regained consciousness from the binge of the night before. This marathon of vodka and whiskey lasted about seven hours, but with no income for a decent meal, all he had to defuse the situation was a bowl of microwave Ramon. Once both bottles were finished he had newfound energy and thought a stroll to the pier would get his mind off of the towering stacks of bills on the coffee table, and the ringing of bill collectors calling which forced him to yank the phone jack with the greatest amount of prejudice.
Richard Spew came to the end of the pier and gazed at the darkness of the sky as it contrasted with the darkness of the waves. This sight made him feel like Ahab out on the high seas, so much so that he began to dance around and sing a sea shanty. “Captain I think I see the white whale”, Richard said as he climbed to the top of the railing to get a better view. But as quickly as Richard Spew had stood upon the railing, his intoxication pulled him forward and he fell to the waters below. The combination of Richard Spew cramping in the ice cold waters and the fact that he never learned how to swim made it easy for him to come to terms that he couldn’t save himself. Underneath the water time moved slowly and Richard Spew’s last thoughts were about how the news of his death would be taken, and his ficus, Martha.

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