Suicide Couch

Apartment.

The landlord says, "Beautiful girl. Most women don't use guns to kill themselves."

 Photo of the girl on the coffee table with her boyfriend. Beautiful girl.

The landlord and I move the suicide couch into the dumpster. It is covered the blood and bits of brain and bone and hair.

We wear rubber gloves, but I can feel this girl's face through them.

I look down and see her ghost on the couch. She looks up at me, expressionless.

Home.

I can't seem to get her off my hands. Beautiful girl. She is there on my couch, her ghost. There. Transparent. Expressionless.

I wash my hands with dish soap. A tiny soap bubble pops up from the bottle. I imagine her face reflected in the bubble. My eyes close. Bubbles float about my imagination, her face in each.

I strip, then shower.

Nothing gets the feel of her out of my skin.

I look out through the shower curtain. I see her face in my steamy mirror.

After the shower, I dress in a pair of shorts. With a mop handle I pick up the clothing I wore when I moved the couch. I slip the clothing in the bathroom garbage. I pick up the can.

As I pass the couch on my way outside, her ghost is still there.

I slide open the door to my back patio.

Outside.

There is no grass. The only sign that I am living here are ashes in the barbecue. I dump the contents of the garbage can on the ground. I light a match and hold it to some toilet paper so I can burn the clothing. As I wait for the flames to catch, I see her behind the sheer curtains, standing. She smiles. Finally she smiles.

I turn to see my work. The fire has gone out. There are no flames, just a tiny patch of sparks spreading out over a sheet of toilet paper.

Fire. I need fire.

My mind turns slowly. Very s-l-o-w-l-y. Charcoal starter. It is near the back door. She smiles at me from behind the curtains as I retrieve it.

I spray the starter fluid onto the clothing. The can leaks onto my hands. I smell the fumes.

I imagine what it must have been like for her when she fired the gun.

I close my eyes. I strike a match. A spark catches my hands on fire. In my mind I see the flames that entered her when she fired.

I drop the match.

The clothing starts to flame.

I turn to look at her, my hands still aflame.

She smiles at me from the window.

Such a beautiful girl.

I hold up my hands. They are burning now, but the flames are dying away.

She turns away from my window. I see her behind the curtains as she takes her place on the couch. Then she disappears.

Such a beautiful girl.

I Get It Now! Happiness Is a Dive Off the Golden Gate Bridge into Bunch of Cute Puppies!

Finally I get it. I've been writing blogs all day, and with my kids, I've been talking about how I might be a little behind the times with my references. Really, maybe one of you guys know the figure at the left is Ernie Kovacs as Percy Dovetonsils. This was really funny stuff in the 1950s, but not all that funny now. Besides, if you guys don't know about this, you're not going take the time to learn about it and find it funny.

At work yesterday, I thought I had carte blanche to post on Facebook and Google+ to my heart's content. First thing this morning, I learned I misunderstood. Worse yet, I referenced Burma-Shave signs. Until the 1960s Burma-Shave signs were these signs that were placed along the roadway, maybe 3/4 of a mile apart. Usually, there were six signs, and they gave a little funny poem that ended with Burma-Shave. Here's an example: 

A peach / Looks good / With lots of fuzz / But man's no peach / And never wuz / Burma-Shave.

I loved this stuff when I wuz little. Only one person responded to my Burma-Shave reference, and then, because these two young guys have built the small empire I'm working for, and they want to protect what they've built, I was asked to clear my posts and delete what I had already written, even though they said I didn't post anything detrimental. This is absolutely the right thing for them to do. It's their baby, and they don't know that I'm not some malcontent.

So, while on the subject of "old" dad, Lauren and Brad and I, my daughter and son-in-law, who both work at Google, started talking about "memes." I asked, "When I posted on my own FB page, some lady said, 'I hated driving in the rain today,' and I said, 'I don't have my glasses, why did you have to drive in Iran?' So is this a meme?" Well my wife Lynn groaned and the answer was no. I thought it was pretty good stuff. Real knee-slapping funny. So funny that I've used it more than once. I know I used it on a post to Shelley, and even again, maybe twice more. What a goof-ball, huh?

So the talk about memes led to the kids pulling up an online comic strip/blog called "Hyperbole and a Half" by someone named Allie. This is the most brilliant bit of drawing and blogging I've ever seen. Allie did a blog/comic strip called "Adventures in Depression" that spoke volumes about what it's like to be depressed in a funny, engaging way. I've never even come close to explaining depression so brilliantly. This blog, my blog, even has a subtitle that says, "Putting the fun in dysfunctional" and I've barely written one fun thing, unless suicide, eulogies, child abuse, and my whining counts. Worse yet, Allie writes and draws about dogs. She's so damn funny and knows dogs so well, that I really hate her though I'm sure she looks a cross between Zoe Deschanel and Marlene Dietrich- in that Blue Angel outfit--shit, there I go again. Even when I tried to convince you readers in my Dog Chronicles that the Chinese were putting cats in dog food, and that a dog was brought back to life after being frozen in a pot of chili, not one of you guys either got it or read it., and no one shared it.

So, I think I know what you want now. You don't really want to read about suicide unless some guy jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge into a bunch of cute puppies, or perhaps dogs that say stuff like "poppies suck." Oh, forget it, memes are pretty dumb to any but people who spend their entire day on a computer, like ah... me. Shit again.

You know what? I've still got a lot to learn. I'd like to educate people about depression and causes of depression, but really what the hell do I know about depression except what it feels like. So, like Allie's character in "Adventures in Depression," I say, screw it. Better yet, FFFFFFFFFFFFFF...it or something. I'm sorry I haven't been more engaging here. Sorry I've whined. Ah, the hell with it. Hope you find more reasons to read this.

Saving Beauhunks from Drowning

Bob Landis and I once saved a couple of servicemen at Marine Street in La Jolla. Well, we liked to think we saved them. These two guys were at our favorite belly-whomping site, and if I remember it correctly, they both started calling for help because of the undertow in the water. Really, the two servicemen weren't in much danger, but coming from someplace in the middle of the country, like Podunk, Nebraska, they thought they were in danger. I remember putting one of the guys in the standard, arm around the neck hold, and trying to drag him in, and he was complaining that I was choking him and fighting me. I remember thinking something like "well, drown or choke, you chose."

Bob and I never got much of a thanks if I remember. We bitched about this miraculous deed we had done, and then received not much more than a mumble from the guys. I expect the two were a little embarassed about having to call for help.

I once got in a sticky situation at Four-Mile beach, four miles north of Santa Cruz. It was winter, I was staying on the beach for a few days, alone. One day, the waves were big due to a storm rolling in. I grabbed my kneeboard and fins and into the waves I went. No one else was out that day, just me. In the surfing world, if you've got a surf spot all to yourself, the waves are either too small or too big. In this case, the waves were too big. I remember riding a couple of big waves, at least ten feet, and as I was paddling out again, a huge set started to roll in. I started digging to get out, and the freaking waves kept getting bigger and bigger. The idea is to get out beyond where the waves are breaking, so you don't get caught "inside" and pushed back to shore. So there I was, paddling as fast as I could, just floating over the tops of these waves as they just kept breaking. Then I hesitated. I thought, "What am I going to do once I get way the hell out there?  I could be pulled out to sea." The hesitation was all it took. I started paddling out like mad again, and got caught right in the impact zone of a wave, that was described by a non-surfing watcher on the beach, as at least 15 feet. I was down a long time after the wave hit me. It had knocked the wind out of me, pulled my surfboard away, and pulled off one of my fins.

Without a surfboard, a surfer is just a regular swimmer. The board is not only a means to ride waves but a lifesaver. There I was, way out, more waves breaking on top of me, no board, only one fin, and I caught a cold water cramp in one of my legs. I was drifting way south, towards some cliffs and rocks, and I could barely swim. Somehow I made it into shore, alive.

One other time, I was abalone diving with a friend way up north of San Francisco. My mask was taking in water, so my friend was doing all the diving. I was wearing a weight belt, holding onto a bag of abalone (heavy), and wearing this diver's floatation device that has air in it but not so much air that you can't dive. Next thing you know, this floatation thing pops, and now I have the weight of the abs, and the weight belt and I'm sinking like a stone. I start to make my way to shore, but there's nothing but rocks. I'm not getting rid of the abalone, I don't know if I ditched the belt. I don't remember. I made my way to these rocks, but as I sought this refuge, the waves are pounding on me and the rocks. I wasn't in much danger probably, but my friend Paul helped me out. I must admit, I was panicking. We saved the abalone and me.

I don't know how I'm going to die, but I never want to drown. Never. Drowning is my Krytonite. No, not that way, please.

Here's the point. I've been really depressed at times in my life, but depressed or not, when your life is in danger, you fight it. That's the way it is supposed to be. If you go to the Golden Gate Bridge and want to jump, or you are staring down the barrel of a gun, something is seriously wrong. If you jump off the bridge, or pull the trigger, I guarantee, if you have any time whatsoever for reflection, you're going to try to save your life. Imagine, falling from the bridge, clawing at air, wanting you arms to be a hundred feet long--first you want to return to the bridge, next, if you are at all able, you're considering what might be the best way to enter the water way below so you don't die. With a gun, do you flinch as you pull the trigger?

I've addressed this point in this blog before. I think it's important to know that wanting to die is not the way it's supposed to be. If you feel this way, seek help.

Finally, I'm wondering if continuing this blog is worth my time. Not many seem to read it. I thought I'd get more readers and even a few comments. That's not happening. I do address a lot of different matters in my other blog, The Dog Chronicles. Do you have any ideas? Should I continue this blog? Let me know either via Facebook, or my email. My real email address is GrumpaF@sbcglobal.net. I check that everyday almost.