Suicide By Pandemic

 

The guy was truly a jackass. He was a hateful, hateable guy. He led a miserable life playing whim to his every emotion and want, each of which was of consistently sordid intent. Like an animal, there was no restraint, no self-control. The difference, however, is that an animal can at least be tamed. Even domesticated in some species. This guy, though, just a stubborn mule dominated by his feral instincts.

 

He was in his mid twenties. He communicated regularly with his parents, which was commendable. It usually ended poorly in tension and drama, which was not commendable. His shortfalls were easy enough to understand from any reasonable outsider looking in. He was of adult age, yet an adolescent’s capacity for adult conversation and thought. Queries pertaining to “What have you been doing lately” or “How has work been” were often the start of the conversation’s descent because he was incapable of constructive behavior.

 

He had friends. They too were miscreants more inclined to an angry verbal exchange rather than respond to such sensible questions. The likes of these fellows had it in their minds that if they were the first to become upset in a human exchange then they had successfully made themselves victims and the others the aggressors. Thus triggering self-defense behavior. The truth was, the boys, as they were not really men, were indeed victims. They were victims of their own ineptitude and joyless dereliction. Their ability to cobble together many poor decisions one after the other assured that they would eventually wallow in their own waste. All of them wading through their own abundant emptiness.

 

Our guy was a derelict. He struggled monthly accumulating money enough to pay rent. It’s not that he lacked work, he was employed. Compared to many of his friends he was top of the line compared to their own circumstances. On paper anyway, there was money enough to pay rent and recurring bills. Practical existence, though, did not reflect this. Returning to his desires, he spent unwisely. Late fees accumulated generously from late payment, when any payment had been proffered at all. Grocery shopping and cooking, even a can of chili or macaroni and cheese, were deemed too much trouble, so he often ate out, damn the budget. Parking tickets and traffic violations were bountiful, but only when he had cash enough to pump in a few gallons of fuel to allow for driving. Rarely did he fill up the tank. ‘What am I, rich,’ he thought as he’d settle for $10 or $20 of gas per stop. So went his mentality. A disappointing frame of mind for the personification of disappointment.

 

He was done. I don’t want this anymore, he figured. Life is a hassle. An endless stream of inconveniences and hurdles and I’ve had enough.

 

On this point, to his partial credit, he was right. Life can be a hassle. The point, on which he fell short, is that life offers two choices. First, life is an endless stream of hurdles and they are too much trouble to overcome. The second choice is that life is an endless stream of goals for which to strive, each one requiring an action plan by which it was to be attained, before then leveling up to the next goal and proceeding to the next action plan.

 

Our derelict errantly chose hurdles, the first choice. In so doing he relegated himself to a person living out as only a minor character in his own life. The other choice would have furnished him control over his life. Leading man material. But in this he was not. Rather than choosing the path in which he was in control as his life unfolded, he lived in a manner simply watching it unfold before him. He was a loser and had finally, on this soggy, rain be-soaked weekday afternoon decided to resign from this life. It was in the aftermath of this decision he heard the news report from the TV.

 

There was a virus of some sort resulting in a kind of global pandemic. He’d been mildly aware of it and paid no attention. His state was in lockdown effective immediately. If you must go out, wear a mask and keep your distance from others. This illness had been percolating throughout the globe for some months now. He cared not because he had not for which to care. But these escalated precautions did bring rise to an idea. 

 

He decided that ending life was preferred to living it. But he lacked gumption and the capacity for follow through. He would like to be concluded, without having to actually do it himself. As the news in the background caught his attention his mind wandered to the pandemic. Suicide by pandemic.

 

“How about if I just catch this virus?” he said aloud to nobody.

 

The government was implementing safety mandates unto its denizens. The Federal level had recommendations, the state had requirements and the county also put down some of its own. Our guy was not much of a rule follower so he was a little shaky on what was required, when and by whom. The mask, however, easy enough to understand, so he wore it when required.

 

He began to hear of volunteer opportunities to assist people incapable of getting out, or were deemed health risks. This awareness neatly coincided with a Federal stimulus check. So in an unusual moment of inspiration he used the free Federal money to fix his car and buy a tank of fuel. With that, he was in a better way to go about engaging the infected landscape and challenge the virus. Going one step further, in a rare moment of initiative, possibly brought on with a now smoothly operating vehicle, he volunteered to deliver meals and groceries to the oldsters at the local assisted living facility.

 

A point of clarification here. Our guy was not motivated by the charitable cause. His doing good through volunteerism was a pleasant byproduct of his darker drive. Just something to do while he’s waiting to catch the virus, a way to increase his exposure.

 

His first day was simple enough. “Pick up these orders at this address. The bags will all be labeled. Then, just, make the deliveries and report back.”

 

Order and abiding authorities were not amongst his strong suits. But, with orders as simple as this, and the authorities not standing between him and his goal, he could easily continue this at least until his end goal is attained. Affliction. If only his gas money were sustainable.

 

As if the world responded to his good deeds, regardless of motivation, he was handed a subsequent governmental gift. A Federal-level rent payment excusal. If he experienced financial difficulty due to the pandemic he would be excused from his rental obligation for several months. He did, so he was. He didn’t have much money, but without the squeeze to pay rent he’d be better able to continue his fuel-heavy volunteerism.

 

But still, gas wasn’t cheap. He was driving much more than he had before and he needed a cushion for fuel funds. He’d been at his parents’ house recently and a meal delivery service retrieved the meal from the restaurant and delivered it directly to their front door. He was already doing this, delivery service for the old people in the facility. The delivery work was easy enough and he considered himself good at it. The first time in a long time he considered himself to be good at anything. Well, other than cheating at cards and foulmouthing at the slightest provocation. So heck, he signed up with a meal delivery service and started earning additional pocket cash. This could fulfill his gas money needs as he continued with operation suicide. But, dammit, he thought, this was taking longer than he expected.

 

The months rolled on. Governmental rental postponement was extended. He chuckled to himself. He didn’t care. Rent was no longer his issue. Not his problem. Not anymore.

 

His driving continued. It was mostly recurring volunteer pick ups and deliveries to the old people facility. In fact, the charitable cause had expanded their outreach and he volunteered for additional routes.

 

Sometime around this point a change had begun to occur in him and he didn’t even notice. He involuntarily started remembering the names of the oldsters. He no longer approached them with furled brow and a countenance of impatience. He sometimes now even smiled and offered a greeting under his breath. Truth is, he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

 

He got a call one night from a pal. They hadn’t seen each other in a while. A few people were getting together to blow off some steam and push back against the government’s social gathering mandates. Beers, burgers, then probably followed by a bar fight like pre-pandemic days. Without even a thought he declined because he had deliveries. Good byes and a hang up.

 

With his hand still on the phone, “What the hell am I doing? Turn down beers to deliver groceries,” flummoxed at this internal development. But he carried on. There were people who needed him and he would ease their inconveniences by taking it on himself.

 

There was another incident two weeks later. He was at the grocery store ready for pick up, but there was a hold up awaiting payment. 

 

“Hold on, please. These haven’t been paid for yet,” said the grocery store clerk.

 

“Dude, these are going to old people. They need help. What’s the store doing charging them,” replied our guy.

 

“Look, man, I just work here. Let me ask my supervisor if payment’s been received yet. Gimme two minutes,” offered the grocery clerk before hustling away.

 

“Fuck you guys. My grannies are getting their grub,” he muttered under his breath then swiping the grocery bags and driving away.

 

Theft was absolutely not above him. Although, it was unusual that he was not the beneficiary of his own misdeed. This would have been totally out of character for him only four months ago, this benevolent thievery. Patience could have allowed an opportunity for an amiable resolution. And, of course, theft was wrong. But still, the miscreant had experienced a most unexpected growth. 

 

He returned to the non-profit and was called into the office.

 

“What the hell, man. Did you take those bags? They weren’t paid for yet.”

 

“I’m just helping my grannies.”

 

“Not like that you’re not. The grocery store will stop working with us if it happens again.”

 

“OK, but food was delivered. Everyone’s good over there.”

 

“All right, but hey. No more of that. Besides, payment went through shortly afterwards.

 

The weeks rolled by. The pandemic remained in force. A surge, in fact, was scrolling across the country starting with the largest cities and spinning out in concentric circles as consistently as equidistant ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. But he was totally into it. He’d found purpose. And with that he’d been gradually shedding layers of degradation. It had been six months since he slept in until noon. He’d become a regular for dinner at his parents’ house. He’d become almost agreeable with them, even fielding an occasional question about his circumstances and intentions. He even brought an anniversary gift for them several weeks prior. Tonight he brought flowers for his mom’s birthday. After supper his parents looked at each other and dad said, “Who the hell was that? Sure not our son. What’s going on with him?”

 

What’s going on was that he’d found his cause. He’d discovered, quite by nefarious intent, that proverbial thing that would get him out of bed each day. A call to serve. He would serve a cause greater than himself.

 

He was seeing his existence in a grander more respectable way. He made a couple partial rent payments despite the continued Federal Rent Relief program. He even started to do his laundry more regularly. Not often enough, but still a vast improvement. Then the pandemic’s next wave arrived in his community. 

 

 

It started with an incessant sneeze. Four or five blasts in quick succession, a brief pause, then a few more. He went to bed early and woke up the next morning to an achy body. All his joints and particularly his back. He would stretch and be met with an explosion of pain throughout. Then came the headache. Then the realization, “Oh shit, this is it!”

 

He called the non-profit and they arranged for his test. It came back positive. He got medication and stayed home to rest. The days rolled by and his condition worsened. The deterioration was unimpeded after two weeks. His kitchen table was full of Get Well cards from his grannies. But he didn’t get well. He wouldn’t.

 

Before long he was almost done, lying in a hospital bed hooked up to a ventilator and an IV. Access was restricted from visitors due to the facile transfer of the virus. His parents were weeping on the phone with him. His doctor had frankly instructed them that it was time to say good-bye.

 

“I don’t want to die,” he wept. He hadn’t cried since he was eight and the family dog died. “I don’t want to die. There’s more I want to do. I’m not ready to die.”

 

The nurse changed the IV and he would soon go to sleep for the last time. With that, it was done. He’d maneuvered his action plan to a victorious end. The life he wanted to end, indeed, did end. So, too, did the life he wanted to live.