Following is Part II of the libretto for the upcoming release of my new, Internet only release concept-album, “New Year’s Eve.” for Further information about the project please see yesterday’s post, explaining it. As before all characters are fictional, copyright Derek Brink 2010, etc, etc… Just don’t steal it or I’ll date your mom, okay?
The decision itself was easy to make. I was ready. Some people only think they’re ready. When Elton John “attempted” suicide, he turned the gas to his oven on “low” and laid his head down on a pillow inside of it, with all of his windows open. He wasn’t ready. He just wanted attention. (For the record, I like Elton John, and “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” is in my top-five records.) I was ready. My note was genius, even if I do say so myself. I quoted Keats and Longfellow…and Ron Jeremy. The guy may make porn, but he knows how to turn a phrase.
It was short. Only two pages, typed. It was mostly an apology to my children, obviously. And venomous bile toward Chloe. “It’s all your fault…blah blah blah…I hope you live a VERY long life since you’ve so significantly shortened mine…etc.” Then I put on my favorite shirt, my favorite jeans, my favorite boots, and…well…you know the rest, I guess.
My last thought, listening to the countdown, was “This is what it’s like to be completely free.” Odd thought, isn’t it? You’d think I’d have some existential weight to deal with, right? I was raised Catholic, after all–and I was still practicing right up until the divorce, unlike most people I knew. Didn’t people who committed suicide go to Hell? Didn’t the priest tell me that God knows all, controls all, and will never give someone more than he can bear in my last Confessional? Why didn’t that matter? Why did it fall on a deaf ear? Shouldn’t I have been thinking about that? No. Nothing like it. I just felt free. Free to fly, like I’d always imagined. Somehow, in my mind, I thought it might feel like flying right up until impact.
The clutter of the crowd below was one noise. There were no individual voices or sounds. Just one big clatter. It sounded like any city on New Year’s Eve. Except that I was up there in my apartment, singing our songs. The songs that meant something to Chloe and me during the good times. Occasionally stopping to shout “Happy Anniversary, you bitch!” out of the window, hoping she was down there somewhere.
I hoped to make the front page. As much as I hoped Chloe–and that hump Todd she’d had The Affair with–was down there, I hoped even more that she wouldn’t hear about it until she opened her morning paper. A nice, piping hot cup of coffee and one of those horrible muffins she liked. Page one, “Teacher Topples from Tower. Wife/Widow Welcomes New Year. Alliteration Grips Newspaper!” It would be beautiful.
…ah the best laid plans of mice and men… (That’s Steinbeck. Read a book!)
[to be concluded]