I walked into the kitchen because I was having an anxiety attack—like I was prone to having during that time. This all took place about six weeks post accident. I collapsed into the wall near the sink, sliding slowly onto the floor as the anxiety crippled all resistance, before settling and rocking slowly, muttering gibberish to myself, hoping it would pass. Eventually I slumped over onto the floor and focused on the refrigerator to take my mind away from the black hole I was staring down.
There was a picture of Harry and myself standing with Batman at a Lego event I had taken him to. He was deathly afraid of people dressing up, but Batman was the exception. It was at that moment I decided I couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t that I couldn’t live life without them, it as that I didn’t want to.
Stabbing myself was out of the question. Not because I didn’t want to be found that way, mostly because I’m a pussy. I remembered I had sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet so I crawled to the bathroom. The title menu for the Office DVD was doing that thing where the music loops and the menu reloads every thirty seconds or so. I couldn’t believe that theme song would be the soundtrack to the end of my life. Looking back, I should’ve just googled how many to take. I took six because it was a nice even number. Five would’ve fucked with my OCD and seven had a religious meaning that I wanted no part of. So, I took them and just waited. It was anticlimactic, sitting and waiting for the end. A couple of minutes after I ingested the pills, I decided that I needed to take the trash out. I figured the smell of my decomposing body should be enough, they needn’t think I was a slob on top it.
I realized, as I gathered the trash, that a calm had taken over me and the anxiety was gone. Something about knowing the end was coming made everything alright, and soon I would just be a memory—just like Sara and the kids had. As I walked to the trash bin outside, all I could think about was that I’d never see my Eagles win the Super Bowl. I had poured my life into this team, and I’d never see them hoist the Lombardi. I wondered if people who know they’re going to die think about these things.
As I got to the dumpster I suddenly felt light headed, the world spinning out of control. There was a ringing in my ears similar to when you leave a nightclub. My legs gave out as I collapsed on a pile of trash bags—because our HOA was too cheap to pay for another dumpster—and it was the night before pickup. The last thing I remember is Mrs. Halsey, our neighborhood watch coordinator, standing over me screaming with a bat in her hands.
Lily is looking at me with a sense of bewilderment after I finish telling her the story. I stand there in the women’s denim section awaiting judgment like a convict when she finally renders her verdict.
“Wow,” she says as I await her sympathetic take, “that’s the most pathetic shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Not exactly the response I was looking for.”
“Even you have to appreciate the humor in that, little brother.”
“Elaborate.”
“Well first, you let a middle of the road show push you over the edge,” she says as she wipes away tears of laughter. “And then, you decide to commit suicide but overthink that, and you end up passed out in the garbage like some sort of cartoon.”
“Yeah, well hindsight is 20/20.”
“No. Hindsight is shitty/shitty. In the future, when you tell that story, just say it was losing your family that pushed you to do it, because Jim and Pam eventually get married and you almost killed yourself without seeing how it played out. Moral of the story, you weren’t patient enough to see it through. That goes for your life and the show.”
“So, you’re a philosopher now?”
“I didn’t know Sara, but I imagine she would’ve wanted you to move on,” she says, pulling jeans from the shelf, “if you’re gonna hang with me, you can’t be a fucking downer. Lord knows I don’t need any more of that.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“No, it’s not. But four people were killed in that accident and, no matter how much you would’ve like it to have been five, the facts stay the same.” “Miles,” she looks me in the eyes for what feels like the first time, “at some point you have to let go. It doesn’t mean the pain goes away or that you don’t love them. Now, go get yourself some clothes while I hit the fitting room.”
As I walk toward the men’s section, I mull over Lily’s words and convince myself that she’s right. She’s the only person that I won’t blow off when she’s that blunt with me—though Dr. Felt is definitely making gains on her.
The boys’ section is right in front of the men’s, and I can’t help but stop.
Harry loved this section. He was such a content child; he never cried for the things he wanted, but he got them anyway. He’d stand at the front of the cart like Leo DiCaprio in Titanic, pointing and directing me to his favorite sections. His favorite clothes were the sets—the ones with a pair of shorts and a tank top. Put one of those on him with a pair of shoes that lit up and he was on cloud nine. When Paw Patrol came out he went apeshit for it. It never made any sense to me but, then again, it’s not created for the parents. I’m convinced the producers of children’s television are horny husbands that can never keep their kids occupied long enough to sneak away for uninterrupted sex. It’s the only reason to create such mindless content.
The clothes for men are pitiful. Most of the shirts have some clever line that no male of legal drinking age should be wearing in public. There’s an entire section of skinny jeans that make me double check that I’m in the right section. I prefer to have my balls and spare change on separate sides of my pants. I throw a couple pairs of loose fitting jeans in the basket and grab every Marvel shirt I can find. Finally, I decide on a sports coat in an attempt to look like I have my shit together. Just how exactly does one rejoin the fashion world after not caring for so long? Can you start where you left off and adjust from there?
“Think fast,” a voice calls from behind me and, before I can fully turn my head, a red, rubber ball bounces off my head and sends me sprawling into a rack of shirts. In an attempt to break my fall, I grab for a shelf only to find out it’s not fastened into the wall tight enough, and I bring down the entire supply of skinny jeans on top of me. I can hear the gasps and footsteps of people coming to dig me out of the pile of hipster rubble. As I get to my feet, I hear Lily scolding a worker for not securing the shelves to the wall—as if they were the catalyst for what just happened.
“Lily, what the fuck?”
“My bad! I thought having kids gave you better instincts.”
“Yeah, for falls and spills. It didn’t give me spider sense.”
A crowd has gathered around us to gawk but Lily is having none of it, “Nothing to see here people. Move along gracefully with your day, thank you.”
My head is still buzzing as we move through the store, when Lily approaches me with a buzzing contraption. It’s shaped like a paper towel roll and, from the open box, markets itself as a neck massager. People use that to massage a neck like guys go to Hooters because the love the wings.
“Put it back,” I tell her after she throws it in the basket.
“Well, I figured since you were being so charitable.”