Chapter 1
I went up to the White Mountains to kill myself. It seemed like a good place to do it, as far as killing yourself goes. There were thousands of acres of untouched forest all around me; little valleys, rivers, caves, and everything else the wilderness could possibly include. So if you picked the right spot, no one would ever find you. And that is exactly what I wanted—to never be found. It seemed to me that suicide was the ultimate admission of failure, like saying to the world, “I can’t handle what life sends my way.”
I was standing on the edge of the highway, looking up at the massive slope of one of the mountains. Dusk was setting in and the details of the landscape were starting to blur, making the mountain look like just a point going up into the sky—a shadowy spike reaching for the heavens. At the base I could still make out the towering pine trees. But disturbing thoughts started to bother me; what if some bear or wolf started chewing on me after I was dead. Maybe my nervous system would still be active. Then I’d feel every bite tearing me to pieces, and I’d lay there comatose in excruciating pain. What if I still felt things for awhile after I was dead?
All of a sudden, I felt like I needed to go to the bathroom. I had eaten a big bowl of chili for lunch, and it was looking to make an exit. Someone had once told me that when you die all your muscles and sphincters completely relax. What if I killed myself and a big old crap came out? Then a few days later some hiker accidently stumbled upon me. The ambulance guys and police would be really pissed. I could envision them standing around my body, looking down and saying, “You would think this guy had the decency to take a dump before he did it! Let’s just say we couldn’t find him, and let someone else deal with this.”
Eventually, everyone you knew would find out. They would be standing around the water cooler at work, saying, “Did you hear about John? He killed himself up in the mountains. They found him with a big old turd hanging out of his rear end, poor bastard. He should have taken a dump before he did it.”
A car went by and the passenger glanced at me as they passed, curiously eying this stranger standing on the road looking up the side of the mountain. I was glad they couldn’t read my mind, because they would probably want to be a Good Samaritan and pull over. They’d give me a bunch of bullshit as to why the world was so wonderful.
I felt a huge fart coming, but I was afraid to let it out. There are farts, and then there are chili farts. Chili farts are always risky. If you’re lucky, you’ll just spray paint your underwear brown. But if the chili gets the best of you, it’s a full blown explosion. I wasn’t willing to take the chance, so I clenched my butt tight as I wobbled over to my car. Between the fear of being eaten piece by piece, and not wanting to be found with crap all over me, I said the hell with it. It was just another failure in a long list of failures. All I wanted at this moment was a toilet.
I headed back down 93 South, sweat forming on my forehead from clenching my butt so tightly. “Oh, come on! There must be a damn gas station around here somewhere,” I muttered out loud.
After the longest ten minutes of my life, I saw one of those gas station/ truck stop kind of places. I pulled in, screeched to a halt in one of the parking spaces, and hobbled inside. I was walking funny, clenching as I went along. Anyone watching would know exactly what was going on. It was a walk that screamed “Emergency shit coming!”
There was an Indian guy behind the counter. Even truck stops in the boonies were owned by Indians now. “Do you have a bathroom?” I desperately blurted out.
“You need this key” he answered. I reached for it. “Oh, you must buy something first. Bathroom is for paying customer only.”
“Can I just get it when I come out?” I said with pain in my voice.
“Oh, no, maybe you
I went up to the White Mountains to kill myself. It seemed like a good place to do it, as far as killing yourself goes. There were thousands of acres of untouched forest all around me; little valleys, rivers, caves, and everything else the wilderness could possibly include. So if you picked the right spot, no one would ever find you. And that is exactly what I wanted—to never be found. It seemed to me that suicide was the ultimate admission of failure, like saying to the world, “I can’t handle what life sends my way.”
I was standing on the edge of the highway, looking up at the massive slope of one of the mountains. Dusk was setting in and the details of the landscape were starting to blur, making the mountain look like just a point going up into the sky—a shadowy spike reaching for the heavens. At the base I could still make out the towering pine trees. But disturbing thoughts started to bother me; what if some bear or wolf started chewing on me after I was dead. Maybe my nervous system would still be active. Then I’d feel every bite tearing me to pieces, and I’d lay there comatose in excruciating pain. What if I still felt things for awhile after I was dead?
All of a sudden, I felt like I needed to go to the bathroom. I had eaten a big bowl of chili for lunch, and it was looking to make an exit. Someone had once told me that when you die all your muscles and sphincters completely relax. What if I killed myself and a big old crap came out? Then a few days later some hiker accidently stumbled upon me. The ambulance guys and police would be really pissed. I could envision them standing around my body, looking down and saying, “You would think this guy had the decency to take a dump before he did it! Let’s just say we couldn’t find him, and let someone else deal with this.”
Eventually, everyone you knew would find out. They would be standing around the water cooler at work, saying, “Did you hear about John? He killed himself up in the mountains. They found him with a big old turd hanging out of his rear end, poor bastard. He should have taken a dump before he did it.”
A car went by and the passenger glanced at me as they passed, curiously eying this stranger standing on the road looking up the side of the mountain. I was glad they couldn’t read my mind, because they would probably want to be a Good Samaritan and pull over. They’d give me a bunch of bullshit as to why the world was so wonderful.
I felt a huge fart coming, but I was afraid to let it out. There are farts, and then there are chili farts. Chili farts are always risky. If you’re lucky, you’ll just spray paint your underwear brown. But if the chili gets the best of you, it’s a full blown explosion. I wasn’t willing to take the chance, so I clenched my butt tight as I wobbled over to my car. Between the fear of being eaten piece by piece, and not wanting to be found with crap all over me, I said the hell with it. It was just another failure in a long list of failures. All I wanted at this moment was a toilet.
I headed back down 93 South, sweat forming on my forehead from clenching my butt so tightly. “Oh, come on! There must be a damn gas station around here somewhere,” I muttered out loud.
After the longest ten minutes of my life, I saw one of those gas station/ truck stop kind of places. I pulled in, screeched to a halt in one of the parking spaces, and hobbled inside. I was walking funny, clenching as I went along. Anyone watching would know exactly what was going on. It was a walk that screamed “Emergency shit coming!”
There was an Indian guy behind the counter. Even truck stops in the boonies were owned by Indians now. “Do you have a bathroom?” I desperately blurted out.
“You need this key” he answered. I reached for it. “Oh, you must buy something first. Bathroom is for paying customer only.”
“Can I just get it when I come out?” I said with pain in my voice.
“Oh, no, maybe you
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