John sat beside the window of his seventh-story apartment holding the barrel of a snub-nosed .357 magnum revolver in his mouth, which hung open, not quivering as you might see in the movies, but relaxed like the open lid of a Zippo lighter flipped upside down. John wore a black suit jacket and navy-blue slacks, with a crimson collared shirt and blue and black striped tie, all horribly unmatched and perhaps one of the reasons he\u2019d placed himself in this position. John felt unoriginal\u2014an insurance company office worker offing himself in his cheap apartment. But this weapon had balls. His friends and family could take pride in knowing he\u2019d killed himself in this way. John\u2019s tie was half-unfastened, top two buttons undone, five o\u2019clock shadow peeking through skin, sweating armpits, hair parted down the middle. The whole thing was a clich\u00e9. His whole life. Even his name was generic and he\u2019d always hated it. Regardless, there John sat.<\/p>\n
The only light in John\u2019s apartment came from a single lightbulb: the lamp in the corner of the far side of his living room. His window was open, letting in the autumn breeze and revealing the fresh darkness. The rusted screen was barely attached at the top seam to the window frame. The screen could at any time break and fall seven stories and crack the windshield of Todd Peters\u2019 white 2009 Audi S4. John kicked off his scuffed slip-on shoes, holding the revolver steady, which tasted less metallic than he\u2019d hoped. He\u2019d started to drool, but he made himself hold the gun there so he would follow through with the experiment.<\/p>\n
John\u2019s 1970 Chevrolet Nova was parked two blocks down because he hadn\u2019t found parking the last time he\u2019d driven it. Luckily, he lived close enough to work, the grocery store, and his gym that he walked most places. He\u2019d rebuilt the Nova during high school with his uncle David. Uncle David had worked at an auto shop in John\u2019s hometown and, as far as his parents were concerned, David wasn\u2019t family. Despite David\u2019s struggle with drugs\u2014something he and John had never discussed, but John still knew\u2014he was a genius when it came to restoring vehicles. In that moment by the window, John\u2019s mind flashed to the Nova. He worried something might happen to it. Without being able to see it from his window, he imagined terrible things: the car left on jacks, custom twenty-inch rims long gone, windows bashed with glass littering the wet pavement, hood pried open and the engine taken, parts he and Uncle David had painstakingly installed, white ermine paint scratched and stripped off like the dull nail polish his mother reapplied twice a week.<\/p>\n
John had been fired from United Life Insurance an hour earlier (58 minutes). Nice clothes\u2014no matter John\u2019s ability to match them\u2014a somewhat expensive revolver, a once cubicle-monkey at an insurance office, and a rundown, shitty apartment\u2014it didn\u2019t add up, right? His mother had bought the clothes as one final push into the real world after he\u2019d graduated at twenty-four from the University of Kansas. He\u2019d lived with his parents during college: Oakaville, KS, a town of 1,200 where he never wanted to return. When he finally graduated\u2014six years and $82,000 later\u2014they sat him down in his clothes-strewn bedroom, where he\u2019d never once gotten laid, and his mother told him bluntly: \u201cYou\u2019re moving out, and you\u2019re getting a job.\u201d His father stood in the doorway, arms crossed, grizzled beard much thicker than John\u2019s, a distant look in his eyes. This only reaffirmed what his mother had said: they were goddamned serious. As far as the gun, John had gotten a good deal on it but it still cost him a chunk of savings after college. Uncle David had committed suicide with nearly the same gun while John was a college freshman. And John admired the mechanics and craftsmanship of the weapon. He liked the weight of it, the metallic sheen, the moving parts, the compact size. Seven months after the talk with his parents, he now sat in the windowsill of his apartment in Kansas City with a gun in his mouth. He\u2019d wanted to know what it felt like on his tongue. He felt connected to Uncle David, as if that not-metallic metallic taste was the same as he\u2019d tasted, just before pulling the trigger.<\/p>\n
Mindful of the loose screen, John leaned to look out the window and down to the dimly-lit street\u2014revolver still propping his jaw open\u2014and took in his familiar North Water Street for maybe one last time: he saw Todd Peters\u2019 Audi S4 without questioning how he\u2019d paid for it, the light reflecting off the wet street\u2014light from the streetlights, light shining from the apartments across the street\u2014the street that always seemed to be wet, but John knew that couldn\u2019t be true.<\/p>\n
Nice cars lined the other side of the street, and the other apartment building housed prettier, more well-to-do people than John\u2019s own. He had often spent hours alone in his apartment, drinking beer and staring into the windows across the street, noticing the furniture: leather couches and recliners, dark-stained wooden coffee tables, brightly painted walls.<\/p>\n
John spent much of his time, though, looking into the blonde\u2019s apartment. He knew her name\u2014Libby\u2014but it felt wrong to use her name. John knew Libby from work. (That\u2019s a lie. To know someone means to have talked to them more than a few times, which John hadn\u2019t). Her office was at the far end of the second floor, while he labored away in his small, blank cubicle on the first floor.<\/p>\n
Sometimes her curtains were drawn, but often they weren\u2019t and he could see through a window into her life and even catch a glimpse of her if he was lucky. He wasn\u2019t a pervert: if she\u2019d walk by in lingerie or even naked\u2014she hadn\u2019t\u2014he would look away. He\u2019d contemplated this scenario.<\/p>\n
He always noticed the bright art hanging on her apartment walls first.\u00a0 He assumed the paintings were expensive and foreign, painted by a Mozart or a Monet\u2014those types. The only thing hanging on John\u2019s chipping cream walls were a calendar set to July with a picture of a 1969 Shelby GT 500 as its background, even though it was October 18th.<\/p>\n
As he scanned the building, John\u2019s eyes caught movement and darted back to Libby\u2019s apartment. John had never spoken to her, and had never stood by her office long enough to know what her full name was. He\u2019d caught the name \u201cLibby\u201d on her name plate followed by a last name starting with an \u201cS,\u201d but he hadn\u2019t stopped as he passed for fear of someone seeing him. He might have heard her name through gossip or coffee breaks, but John didn\u2019t talk to many people and, unfortunately, he didn\u2019t drink coffee. John began to fiddle with the safety switch of the gun, clicking it back and forth with his thumb and middle finger. He looked back to Libby\u2019s apartment and found her standing at the window. He paused, revolver motionless in his mouth. To his pleasant surprise, the barrel finally tasted metallic. Libby stood at the window, looking out with her arms crossed, and John felt her looking right at him across the blank space separating them. He could feel it. (She was looking at him, though she couldn\u2019t make out much in the dark; she thought she was looking at someone smoking a cigarette.) But John felt a connection\u2014a feeling he couldn\u2019t quite place, yet it felt warm in his chest and down to his feet.<\/p>\n
John\u2019s mind was full of thoughts, sporadic and juxtaposed, layered like a jawbreaker, an onion, dermis, epidermis. On top was the reassurance that he didn\u2019t plan on pulling the trigger. His uncle David had killed himself this way, but he just wanted to know what it felt like with the gun in his mouth. Would it change him? Would he see things differently? Deeper: John\u2019s subconscious. Dark. Fluid. A slew of spinning images\u2014his manager firing him 72 minutes earlier with chapped lips and saliva collecting in the corners, graying hair showing at his temples, wiry hair jutting from nostrils, hands completely still as he gave the news. Next, the stack of clothes on the counter of Kohl\u2019s his mom had bought him\u2014slacks, turquoise and crimson and black and purple button-up dress shirts, ties he\u2019d have to learn to tie somewhere\u2014enough ties to hang everyone in the store with. A snapshot of the girl behind the counter ringing it all up, freckles on nose and cheeks, frizzy not-blonde not-brunette hair, judging him with her eyes. Next, a twenty-five second video loop on mute of his father\u2019s face as he demanded John abandon his automotive dreams and go into business to get a job, enough fucking around\u2014bags darkening beneath his bloodshot eyes, creases firmly set on his forehead and cheeks like the lines of a palm, thick beard that always made John jealous. Then a shaking image of his uncle David, what John imagined he\u2019d looked like just before he pulled the trigger\u2014long black hair disheveled, lips quivering\u2014all while John was off at college, not there by his side. A newly-formed thought appeared: was the safety still on? Had he flipped it back? All this was a mosaic spinning and turning in on itself, all whispering up through a funnel: you can do it.<\/p>\n
Libby continued to stand there and John unconsciously took the barrel of the .357 magnum out of his mouth, holding the gun in his hand, turning it away. Then Libby raised a hand and scratched her knuckles with the other, and turned from the window. He barely flinched, leaning forward and his breath cutting. The gun fired.<\/p>\n
The 125-grain bullet left his .357 Magnum at 1,400 feet per second and first encountered John\u2019s loosely attached screen. Hardly altering the trajectory of the bullet, like a piece of cloth, the screen gave and the bullet continued through the empty air that hung between John\u2019s apartment building and Libby\u2019s. The gap between John\u2019s and Libby\u2019s apartments was only 127 feet, so in real time the bullet left John\u2019s gun, broke through his screen, traveled through the 127 feet of empty space, broke through Libby\u2019s much nicer, sturdier screen, and ricocheted up to lodge itself in her ceiling in a matter of 0.091 seconds. But, relative to the bullet, it took its sweet time in getting there. The bullet took in the cool October breeze, the stars barely peeking above, and the reflections from the wet street below. Over the sound of the gunshot, which she\u2019d never be able to place, Libby didn\u2019t hear the bullet enter her apartment. She would notice the bullet hole in the screen two days later, spending many hours searching her apartment for signs that a bullet had come through the screen and she wasn\u2019t just crazy, but would never think to look in her ceiling for evidence.<\/p>\n
At the explosive sound from the gun firing, John fell back from the window sill and against his wobbly kitchen table a few feet away where his car keys sat. The gun flipped from his hand in an arc to the floor and slid in a graceful, spinning motion across the kitchen linoleum. A number of things entered John\u2019s mind once the gun fired: \u201cHoly fucking shit,\u201d \u201cwhat in God\u2019s . . . did I shoot myself?\u201d \u201cyou\u2019ll shoot your eye out\u201d from A Christmas Story, which he\u2019d seen no less than fifty times growing up, and, \u201cJesus H. Christ! Why . . . what the hell . . . why would I try that? Fucking shit\u2014fuck!\u201d Shortly after falling back, John heard a second crash which signaled his window screen falling seven stories onto the windshield of Todd Peters\u2019 Audi S4. John looked to his now-screenless window. He then tried to rationalize the bright light now shining through his window, as if it were high noon. The light had a strange quality only those having had a near-death experience could describe. The light seemed alive\u2014it shimmered and sparkled as if John were inside the orange stripe of a rainbow. He blinked and blinked, but the bright light remained, and he continued staring out the window.<\/p>\n
Instead of rushing to the window to see the damage his screen had caused and gauge the neighborhood reaction, John just sat there, heart thumping quickly, deep as a sub-woofer. He listened: the whine and crack of his heater kicking on, the faint whir of a car driving by on the street, the light whistle of October breeze now blowing freely through the window. Then he became aware of the loudness of his heartbeat. The rhythmic thump of his heart pounding in his chest, in his head, in the cells of his ears, all muting the erratic heaving of his lungs. But he heard nothing to indicate anyone was alarmed\u2014no yelling or screaming outside, no police sirens, no sounds in the apartments on either side or across the hall, no doors opening. Nothing.<\/p>\n
With a deep exhale of breath he couldn\u2019t quite hear, John realized if he had shot himself instead of the window screen, nobody around would have cared\u2014a moot point since he hadn\u2019t shot himself and had since decided he couldn\u2019t and wouldn\u2019t. But the realization hit him hard all the same. John couldn\u2019t know this, but the gunshot did in fact draw a small crowd out to the wet street\u2014a single mother with her two children she\u2019d told to stay inside but didn\u2019t listen, a homeless man named Eugene Herbert eating a piece of pizza crust, and an elderly man with a broken cane held together with duct tape who\u2019d been very close to completing his crossword puzzle before the gunshot. Meanwhile, John still sat by his kitchen table, hands on knees, listening to his heartbeat.<\/p>\n
There came a knock at John\u2019s door. He leaned over on his elbow and looked at the door as if he\u2019d be able to see through it. The knocks sounded alien, unfamiliar. Were they coming from the ceiling? The floor? Inside his own head, maybe his brain trying to find an opening to get out? John rose to his hands and knees, and eyed the door. Who could it be? In his normal state of mind, John would have realized the knock most likely came from one of his neighbors, checking to see what had happened. But he\u2019d just nearly killed himself\u2014adrenaline raced through his body, his hormone levels spiked, insulin flooded his pancreas. Were the knocks real? Was the bright light coming through his window real? Maybe, if he kept quiet, the person would leave. But the same knock came again and John flinched at the surprise of the sound before standing up.<\/p>\n
Near-death experiences were not unheard of in John\u2019s neighborhood. Eugene Herbert had been nicked by a passing car three months earlier, ripping his newly dry-cleaned coat off and spinning him to the ground. Lying on the grimy pavement of North Water Street, Eugene had had a vision of his younger brother\u2014whom he hadn\u2019t seen in twelve years\u2014standing over him, holding hands with a black Santa Claus. Eugene\u2019s envisioned brother said only one word: \u201cStay.\u201d Eugene took it as a sign from God. He quit his job, gathered his favorite possessions, left a vague note for his sister and parents, abandoned everything, and came to live in the alley beside John\u2019s apartment building\u2014where he\u2019d also found the pizza crust. John saw no black Santa Claus, but the strange light filling his apartment from the October darkness outside affected him nonetheless.<\/p>\n
John ran through a list of people who could be at the door. His parents, come to tell him he\u2019d failed again, only to pick up the gun and finish the job for him? His weightlifting partner who worked in the United Life mailroom? Had they scheduled a workout? Had he ever paid back his cousin, Alex, that $12 his portion of a case of beer senior year of high school? Could he be coming to collect? The synapses in John\u2019s brain fired rapidly and a list of people began to form in this fashion. These firing synapses also made the shimmering light from the window turn a bright shade of yellow. He stared at the light as his brain worked. Finally, John took a step toward the door as the firing synapses ceased and he\u2019d decided who it must be: Libby. Verbatim, John thought, \u201cThe blonde, the blonde, holy shit, the blonde, Libby, Libby, that\u2019s her name, Libby.\u201d She\u2019d seen him sitting there on the window sill, the gun in his mouth. He knew it, felt it in his bone marrow. He wasn\u2019t sure if she\u2019d cared because she walked away, but after the gunshot, surely she\u2019d come to check on him.<\/p>\n
If Libby were standing at the door, at his door, he\u2019d have to take care of some things. He ran to his kitchen sink and organized his dirty dishes; he\u2019d been washing them on a dish-by-dish basis. He\u2019d almost forgotten about the gun lying on the linoleum. He snatched it up, flipped the safety back on, and shoved it into his pants pocket. He threw away some candy wrappers, put his automotive magazines on his only end-table, wiped the sweat from his forehead and found himself standing at his apartment door. John figured twelve inches separated him from Libby. Both in anticipation and because of his shaky nervousness, he yanked the door open without taking a second longer to think about it.<\/p>\n
John\u2019s manager at United Life Insurance, Ben Johanning, stood in the grimy hallway. Johanning\u2019s arm was cocked, fist ready to knock again. John had been prepared to find Libby there, even his parents with a loaded gun pointed at him, but he\u2019d in no way been prepared to see his boss again.<\/p>\n
\u201cHi, John. You about to work out?\u201d Johanning said, looking past John to the faded fabric of his couch. His blue athletic shorts, tank top, and black socks were folded and laid carefully on top of one another. His running shoes sat beside them. John, still shocked Johanning was standing at his door, looked over at the gym clothes.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. Maybe. Keeping my options open.\u201d He looked past Johanning to the hallway to see if anyone else was out there. \u201cSo\u2014what brings you here, Mr. Johanning?\u201d<\/p>\n
John\u2019s ears still rang from the percussion of the gunshot. He was sweating again, too, first in anticipation of seeing the woman he\u2019d never talked to, and now in a mixture of fear and anxiety, seeing his former boss at his door, dressed in an expensive Versace suit. John had a strange feeling Johanning had known about the gun and had heard the gunshot.<\/p>\n
\u201cListen, I\u2019m sorry about what happened at the office today,\u201d Johanning said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou firing me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, that. Look, it was a group decision and, frankly, it had to happen. But still, I am sorry. You\u2019re just a kid trying to make it. I want to make it up to you.\u201d He pulled out a sticky note with an address on it and handed it over. \u201cI know it\u2019s not the same, but a buddy of mine owns a landscaping company over on 75th and Santa Fe and he\u2019s looking for a couple guys to crunch numbers. I know your job title here wasn\u2019t exactly accounting, but you\u2019re qualified for the job. And he owes me a favor.\u201d<\/p>\n
John just stood there. He still hadn\u2019t fully recovered from the shock of seeing Johanning instead of Libby at his door. He looked to his feet and found the yellow light from the window seeming to waver on the floor.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat I\u2019m saying is, you\u2019d be guaranteed a job there,\u201d he said, motioning toward the note with his hand.<\/p>\n
The small crowd outside on North Water Street had since dispersed. The elderly man had finished his crossword puzzle and gone to bed earlier than he\u2019d planned\u2014a successful day if he\u2019d ever seen one. The two children had also gone to bed, and their mother had propped her feet on the coffee table, holding a large glass of wine and enjoying the silence. Eugene Herbert had finished the pizza crust and, falling asleep on a down pillow he\u2019d found, thought about the image of his brother and the black Santa Claus burned into memory.<\/p>\n
Back at the door. John wasn\u2019t sure what to say. He\u2019d left the insurance office in a frenzy earlier that evening, one-third in relief and two-thirds in anger at his unemployment\u2014just one more reason his parents could ridicule him. Hell, he might even have to sell parts from his Nova to scrape by\u2014a thought he couldn\u2019t bear. He\u2019d vividly imagined burning the office to the ground, but then even his fantasy was ruined when he thought of Libby losing her job too, or gruesomely burning alive in the fire. Now that Johanning was there, offering him this chance, he knew he should take it. He licked the metallic aftertaste from the roof of his mouth. He looked over his shoulder and nodded slightly when he saw the bright, shimmering light still tumbling in from the night outside. But the light had shifted to a greenish hue. He turned back to Johanning, stuck his hand in his pocket and fingered the cool, heavy metal of the snub-nosed gun.<\/p>\n
\u201cThink I\u2019ll pass,\u201d John said. His heart raced, pounding in his ears again. The gun felt good against his fingers. Johanning looked at John\u2019s pocket briefly. John\u2019s breath caught\u2014did he know John had a gun nestled there?<\/p>\n
\u201cI see. Well, if you reconsider, you know where to find me. But that job won\u2019t be there forever. Good luck in the future.\u201d He looked at John\u2019s tie as he backed away from the door. \u201cUgly knot you\u2019ve got there. Try a Double Windsor. Look it up on YouTube.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh.\u201d John looked down at his tie. \u201cThanks\u2014I\u2019ll do that.\u201d John knew he wouldn\u2019t do that. He let go of the gun and exhaled.<\/p>\n
John closed his apartment door and leaned against it. His eyes were again drawn to the strange light dancing in through the window. He walked to the window sill, picking up the keys to his Nova on the way. He sat on the sill again\u2014now in danger of falling out of it, with no screen to stop him\u2014and looked out across the empty night air, tinted a seafoam-green, working its way back to the natural mauve-black it should have been. He scanned North Water Street and the apartments 127 feet across from him. Finally, he saw Libby move across the bright square of her still-open window, and pass from view.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
John felt unoriginal\u2014an insurance company office worker offing himself in his cheap apartment. But this weapon had balls. His friends and family could take pride in knowing he\u2019d killed himself in this way.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":182,"featured_media":23351,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[4276,4274,221,4275,53],"class_list":["post-22414","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-classic-cars","tag-near-death-experiences","tag-obsession","tag-omniscient-narrator","tag-suicide","writer-cody-shrum"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22414","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/182"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=22414"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22414\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23352,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22414\/revisions\/23352"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/23351"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=22414"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=22414"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=22414"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}