Page 69 - WTP VOl.VII#5

you can only run each other down, if being helpful to each other because we’re family, if that’s impossible, how about you two shut the hell up?”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Albie said.
“Sure. But think about this during your silence, Uncle Dom,” Lucien said. “I ain’t going into Togus when we come to Augusta. Changed my mind.”
Before his father could respond, Russ reached into the twelve pack for a fresh PBR and said, “You ain’t leaving Augusta in Albie’s Toyota, though, Lucien. Think about that during your silence, bub. If that’s a philosophical enough notion for you to deign to ponder.”
The Toyota pulled through the tollbooth, entering the Maine Turnpike. Any opportunities Lucien had to
exit the vehicle at a red light or stop sign were gone until they reached Augusta, Russ realized, not that his cousin had demonstrated any inclination to do so. He took a long look at his cousin. What did he see? Was Lucien right, Russ wondered? Was he just a more glib, better-educated version of the same type of creature that, over the course of several years of decline, Luc- ien had become?
Then came a quiet, panicky moment, the same slow sense of pessimistic helplessness. Russ thought about his failed marriage; his rejected manuscripts; the way he had irresponsibly swaggered through his bohemian salad years; Russ pondered his unimagi- nable debt. It seemed like he was always reading about another effort to reform the American student loan system, but he was way too far in arrears for any kind of relief (that would probably never materialize, anyway) to have any beneficial impact on his case; hell, his first loans were more than two decades old now. One time, when he actually thought about how much interest had accumulated on those defaulted loans in twenty-plus years—just the interest—he became so upset that he puked in his kitchen sink. Now, sitting there beside Lucien, fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it fucking all. Every last bit. He also thought about how his steady, straight arrow girlfriend of ten months, Danielle, from whom Russ had concealed the extent of both his problems and his defeatism, would not want anything to do with him were she to perceive either of those realities; about how much he disappointed people; about his dead end adjunct faculty job; his unappreciated talent.
He had been down before, surely, but for reasons be- yond Russ’ ability to articulate, he went from a person who had brushed up against suicidal ideation—just
thinking that you might want to kill yourself some- day—to being a person who knew, deep in his tired bones, that he had had enough. Self-destruction was no longer a vague notion; Russ transformed into a sad bastard with a checklist, one that he began putting together right there, in Albie’s Toyota. Certain aspects of the list were immediately self-evident. He owned
a nine millimeter handgun. He would shoot himself. Where? In the chest. Where else would he shoot him- self? In Kennebunk, at Parson’s Beach, his favorite spot on the planet. Notes? Would there be a suicide note?
He was a would-be writer, so despite largely blaming his literary ambition for the state of his life, of course there would be notes; but again, even as Russ reached that conclusion, he realized that note was too small
a word. He had never been into writing short stories or poetry; he used to joke to his grad school writer friends at Brown that he couldn’t get his dick hard in less than seven thousand words, so composing anything as concise as a note simply wouldn’t do. Russ would write suicide letters, not notes. Not too many, but certainly more than one. Who would receive a suicide letter? Who wouldn’t? Working through the small in- tricacies in his head seemed to increase the certainty within Russ’ decision making process. Deciding how
to carry out his final act made that act feel destined to transpire. That didn’t make Russ feel better, per se, but the perception was welcome nonetheless, because he wanted out.
Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, he kept thinking, his new mantra.
Albie eventually exited the Turnpike south of Augus- ta, in the neighboring town of Gardiner, crossing
the Kennebec River there, instead of in the capital, and taking Route 226 northwest on the other side. Togus Veterans Administration Hospital was close, and when Albie retrieved a scribbled sheet of direc- tions just before turning onto Hallowell Road, the large, brick and concrete buildings that made up the Togus campus came into view in the distance. Lucien tensed up. His breathing became deep, audible, and irregular. Russ noticed, but felt zero empathy. He was as sick of his cousin’s bullshit as he was of his own. They had the same bad genes.
Dominic saw it, too. He reached back between the front seats, towards Lucien, clasped his hand, and said, “Steady on, Lucien. This is the best, the only, play you’ve got, son.”
“I ain’t going,” Lucien said.
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