On the way to Fairfax to get his sleeping pills, Marty wondered what the people who were going to the Senior Ball tonight were doing. He thought mostly of Mike & Annie, because reflecting on Michelle getting ready to go out with Mark only made his stomach hurt. Annie was probably getting into her dress about now, with her mom and little sister helping her to enjoy what must be a highlight of her high school memories. He knew Mike was going to prepare at Boobers’ house, because he’d heard him on the phone, trying to convince someone to drive out to the Rusty Bucket Ranch to pick him up. They were likely getting ready for the event in a way that had little to do with tuxedos. Marty vaguely wondered why Boobers didn’t have a date, and pondered the fact that he never showed any interest in having a girlfriend… he shut off the cartoon brain, shoved all those thoughts into the glove box, and focused on his mission.
His trip to the drug store was like a spy movie. He parked far away so that an observer might not realize his objective. The Rexall was right next to Cala, and Marty gave the impression he was just stopping to get some milk, then veered and changed course for the drug store. Inside, the fluorescent lights in the ceiling had a sickly green tinge to them, and several were blinking out of time. Shelves full of sundry items that hadn’t been bought in months lay patiently waiting for someone to care about them. Marty avoided the lady behind the counter who appeared to be 100 years old, and headed for the pain relief section, but that wasn’t where they kept the sleeping pills (although they should). Not wanting to cause suspicion, he grabbed a shopping basket to give the appearance that he knew what he was doing, and needed no assistance. He found the sleeping pills, but encountered an unexpected problem: they were expensive! He had only a few dollars in his pocket, and the bottles came in two sizes. He couldn’t afford the big size, so he got the small one with 30 tablets, figuring that 15 times the recommended dosage would have to do the job. As a distraction, he added several more items to his basket, making sure all were trifles that would not cause him to exceed his purchasing power and cause a scene. The old lady at the counter took about 10 minutes to ring him up, during which time Marty’s heart was pounding as if he was on the verge of escaping from prison. She squinted at the price for the sleeping pills, and he nearly peed in his pants again, but she got it all figured out, and announced, “That’ll be $4.87, please.” He tossed a $5 bill at her and rushed for the door.
“Wait, your change!” Her voice trailed off as the double glass doors closed behind Marty. Yeah, I need some change all right, he snorted to himself. It was as if he was finishing something he had always been meaning to do; a necessary adjustment to balance the universe’s ledger for the error of allowing him to be born.
When he got home, nobody was there but Krishna, who knew what time he was expected. The cabin lay still and dark, and he could hear Keno’s tail thumping on the floor as he opened the door. He was hungry, and enamored with the notion of a “last meal,” so he cooked up a generous portion of eggs and potatoes, with an extravagance of ketchup to augment the usual garlic and onions. Marty could feel the little bottle of sleeping pills cold and hard in his pocket the whole time. When finished, he left the dishes in the sink as a final, uncharacteristically callous gesture of how little he cared.
He filled a cup with water and went into his room to write a note. He wanted to leave a superlative essay that described why he could no longer bear to suffer this emotional pain all the time, and how much he loved his family, even though he had to leave them for his own sake, but he couldn’t think of anything to write because of the weight of that damn bottle of pills in his pocket! It dragged him to the sea bottom like a lead ballast, and he groped underwater for words that never came. He left the pen and a blank page on his desk, which he figured just about said it all, anyway. Marty noticed his alarm clock, and frowned that the Senior Ball was officially starting without him. He stood up, and as efficiently as possible with no wasted movement, he pulled the bottle from his pocket, popped the cap, and poured the pills into his hand. They looked so bleached and mordant, like miniature marble gravestones. With a firm commitment to change, he tossed the whole handful into his mouth and chugged the water.
Done.
Immediately, part of Marty’s brain began considering the possibility that he might change his mind, and counted down the time he still had left to stick his fingers down his throat and abort the mission, but it was a background noise that never amplified. He was already leaving the oppressive grip of earth’s gravity, and nothing could make him turn back. He looked around his room and decided it was a stupid place to die, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of an unsatisfactory life. He went outside, and up the path to his trusty Apollo, which always took him away from things. It was twilight, and the white paint gleamed like a space capsule as he opened the heavy steel door of his custom ‘55 Chevy truck and climbed inside. He sat for a while with his hands gripping the wheel, figuratively waiting for ignition so he could blast off. Eventually he relaxed a little, and felt compelled to lay down on the bench seat. When he pulled a blanket out from underneath, he was startled to see the unused corsage from his first date with Michelle, when they saw the Vincent play together. He had forgotten to give it to her, and now it was all withered and dried up like his heart. Marty took it in his hands and cradled it dolefully.
He tormented himself with visions of what it must be like to attend a dance with someone you love. He recalled the fleeting, blissful moments he had with Lisa at Cloverleaf Ranch, and wondered if she was doing okay in the sheikh’s harem, or wherever she was. Mostly he fantasized about dancing with Michelle, holding her tight during the slow, emotional songs that spoke of love, romance, and security… all the things he could never have. The scent of her corsage filled the cabin with the essence of lost love: fragrant yet slightly spoiled. He wondered what the smell of Michelle’s hair would be like, and imagined the puff of her breath on his cheek while sharing a long, slow kiss. Those futile fancies drifted through Marty’s head like floats in a parade, until they all passed by, and he was left all alone… and scared.
Everyone carries the fears born of their earliest memories, and more often than not, they compel our actions all our lives. As it finally got dark, Marty laid on the seat of his truck and stared blindly through the tinted sunroof, as if he was trapped in an incubator. The memories of his premature, insignificant birth flooded his awareness. Unable to move, he could only cry out for solace, but no one answered. His legs hurt, and it was getting cold.