Survivor

Tonight, the calls come the same as every night. Outside's a full moon. People are ready to die for their bad grades in school. Their family upsets. Their boyfriend problems. Their dodgy little jobs. This is while I'm trying to butterfly a couple of stolen lamb chops.

People are calling long-distance with the operator asking if I'll accept the charges for a collect cry for attention from John Doe.

Tonight I'm trying out a new way to eat salmon en croute, a sexy new turn of the wrist, a little flourish for the people who I work for to wow the other guests at their next dinner party. A little parlor trick. Here's the etiquette equivalent of ballroom dancing. I'm working up a showy little routine for getting creamed onions into your mouth. I've just about perfected a failsafe technique for mopping up extra saged cream when the phone rings, again.

A guy's calling to say he's failing Algebra II.

Just as a point of practice, I say, Kill yourself.

A woman calls and says her kids won't behave.

Without missing a beat, I tell her, Kill yourself.

A man calls to say his car won't start.

Kill yourself.

A woman calls to ask what time the late movie starts.

Kill yourself.

She asks, 'Isn't this 555-1327? Is this the Moorehouse CinePlex?'

I say, Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

A girl calls and asks, 'Does it hurt very much to die?'

Well, sweetheart, I tell her, yes, but it hurts a lot more to keep living.

'I was just wondering,' she says. 'Last week, my brother killed himself.'

This has to be Fertility Hollis. I ask, how old was her brother? I make my voice sound deeper, different enough I hope so she won't know me.

'Twenty-four,' she says, not crying or anything. She doesn't even sound all that sad.

Her voice makes me think of her mouth makes me think of her breath makes me think of her breasts.

I Corinthians, Chapter Six, Verse Eighteen:'Flee fornication ... he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body.'

In my new, deeper voice, I ask her to talk about what she's feeling.

'Timing-wise,' she says, 'I can't decide. Spring term is almost over, and I'm really hating my job. My lease on my apartment is almost run out. The tags on my car expire next week. If I'm ever going to do it, this just seems like a good time to kill myself.'

There are a lot of good reasons to live, I tell her, and hope she won't ask for a list. I ask, isn't there someone who shares her grief over her brother? Maybe an old friend of her brother's who can help support her in this tragedy?

'Not really.'

I ask, nobody else goes to her brother's grave?

'Nope.'

I ask, not one person? Nobody else puts flowers on the grave? Not a single old friend? 'Nope.'

It's clear I made a big impression.

'No,' she says. 'Wait. There is this one pretty weird guy.' Great. I'm weird.

I ask, how does she mean, weird?

'You remember those cult people who all killed themselves?' she says. 'It was about seven or eight years ago. Their whole town they started, they all went to church and drank poison, and the FBI found them all holding hands on the floor, dead. This guy reminded me of that. It wasn't so much his dorky clothes, but his hair was cut like he did it himself with his eyes closed.'

It was ten years ago, and all I want to do is hang up.

II Chronicles, Chapter Twenty-one, Verse Nineteen:' ... his bowels fell out ... '

'Hello,' she says. 'Anybody still here?'

Yeah, I say. What else?

'Nothing else,' she says. 'He was just at my brother's crypt with a big bunch of flowers.'

You see, I say. That's just the kind of loving person she needs to run to in this crisis.

'I don't think so,' she says.

Is she married, I ask.

'No.'

Is she seeing anybody?

'No.'

Then get to know this guy, I tell her. Let your mutual loss bring the two of you together. This could be a big breakthrough in romance for her.

'I don't think so,' she says. 'First of all, you didn't see this guy. I mean, I always wondered if my brother might be a homosexual, and this weird guy with all the flowers just confirms all my suspicions. Besides, he wasn't that attractive.'

Lamentations, Chapter Two, Verse Eleven:' ... my bowels are troubled, my liver is poured upon the earth ... '

I say, Maybe if he got a better haircut. You could help him out. Give him a makeover.

'I don't think so,' she says. 'This guy is pretty intensively ugly. He has his terrible haircut with these long sideburns that come down almost to his mouth. It's not like when guys use a little topiary facial hair the way women use makeup, you know, to hide the fact they have a double chin or they don't have any cheekbones. This guy just doesn't have any good features to work with. That and he's queer.'

I Corinthians, Chapter Eleven, Verse Fourteen:'Doth not even nature itself teach you, that if a man have long hair it is a shame unto him?'

I say, she has no proof he's a sodomite.

'What kind of proof do you need?'

I say, ask him. Isn't she supposed to see him again?

'Well,' she says, 'I told him I'd meet him at the crypt next week, but I don't know. I didn't mean it. I pretty much just said that just to get away from him. He was just so needy and pathetic. He followed me all over the mausoleum for an hour.'

But she still has to meet him, I say. She promised. Think of poor dead Trevor, her brother. What would Trevor think of her ditching his one remaining friend?

She asks, 'How did you know his name?'

Whose name?

'My brother, Trevor. You said his name.'

She must've said it first, I say. Just a minute ago she said it. Trevor. Twenty-four. Killed himself last week. Homosexual. Maybe. Had a secret lover who desperately needs her shoulder to cry on.

'You caught all that? You're a good listener,' she says. 'I'm impressed. What do you look like?'

Ugly, I say. Hideous. Ugly hair. Ugly past. She wouldn't like the looks of me at all.

I ask about her brother's friend, maybe lover, widower, is she going to meet him next week like she promised?

'I don't know,' she says. 'Maybe. I'll meet the dork next week if you'll do something for me right now.'

Just remember, I tell her. You have the chance to make a big difference in someone's loneliness. Here's a perfect chance to bring love and supportive nurturing support to a man who needs your love desperately.

'Fuck love,' she says, her voice dropping lower to meet mine. 'Say something to get me off.'

I don't know what she means.

'You know what I mean,' she says.

Genesis, Chapter Three, Verse Twelve:' ... The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.'