I wrote this somewhere in a chapter of a book I’ve been working on. Nothing else in the chapter even remotely resembles this, as most of it is rather melancholy and reflective. Nonetheless, this went through my mind when a psychiatrist asked me if I had a plan on how I would commit suicide.
SCENE: I rent out a motel room on skid row and go on a bender for a week (if there’s one thing that would make someone want to kill themselves, it’s a week-long bender.) Next, call Jon Larsen and tell him something is wrong and I need him to come down, now. That creates urgency and a feeling of foreboding. When he arrives, the door latch has been extended in order to keep the motel door slightly ajar, thereby providing Jon with access to the room. As he walks in, he tries to turn on the lights, but I have already smashed all the lightbulbs all over the ground so that every step he takes will be marked by the crunch of glass underfoot. A stereo will be playing distortion on an infinite loop. All the remnants of the bender will cover all flat services as if they were trophies. Across the room, the outline of a lit bathroom door will beckon him to walk towards it. As he moves across the distorted, glass covered room and gets closer to the bathroom, he’ll faintly be able to hear the subtle sound of music through the door. Finally he has arrived. He knocks, says, “Mike?” No answer. His frightened anticipation has reached its pinnacle. He opens the door and finds me naked and hanging as the song “Elvira” by the Oak Ridge Boys plays on repeat. Jon is now horrified and calls 911 while crying, though perhaps he’ll first instagram my dead body. For the rest of his life, no matter where he is or what context it happens, every time he hears Richard Sterban sing in his iconic bass tone, “Oom pappa oom pappa oom pappa mow mow,” he’ll automatically burst into tears, tormented, incapable of forgetting that terrible night, when what was left of his tormented soul was shattered into infinite pieces, and Spencer Wholrab would be super jealous. Fuck them all, mission accomplished.
The answer I gave the psychiatrist was, “Well, sort of.”