Percival searched his pockets a second time for his Cross Pen. He’d already searched them once, then he searched behind his laptop, and in each of his three desk drawers before returning to his pockets to search again. He scanned the floor, and the couch cushions, and then conducted a walkthrough of the several rooms in his apartment. He had many other pens, most of which could accomplish the task of writing; however, it seemed nonsensical to write such an important letter with a shitty pen—especially when there was no cause for hurry. Besides, he had seen that pen recently. It wasn’t in the bathroom, and it seemed appropriate that it wouldn’t be. It also wasn’t in the kitchen, where he worked from time to time. It wasn’t in the living room, nor in the bedroom.
Percival broadened the scope of his search to include items he hadn’t used for some time, and clothing he hadn’t worn recently. He doubted it would turn up in these locations, because he felt positive that he had seen the pen this morning, or perhaps yesterday. He turned out the pockets of heaps of clothing that were balled up on the floor near the dirty clothes hamper. He sifted through the contents of his spare messenger bag, the one that had seen better days, but that he couldn’t bring himself to dispense with. He still used it occasionally, when he didn’t feel the need to look too becoming, and wanted what could only be described as an old friend at his side. The pen was clipped onto the side pocket of the old messenger bag, and Percival remembered attaching it there a week ago when he went to a cafe. Percival puzzled over how much time had passed. He’d just seen the pen. It couldn’t have been a week. He dismissed the confusion to refocus on his task.
Percival returned to his desk and removed a package of ivory colored, cotton woven resume paper from his supply drawer, and laid three pages onto his otherwise uncluttered desk. He twisted the pen clip with his thumb and index finger, and began writing.
“Some many say this is a—” Percival began writing but stopped. He destroyed the first draft of his letter because he had made a grammatical error in the first line, and thought it poor form to scratch off portions of a word or sentence and just carry on. He retrieved a replacement sheet of the ivory paper and laid it on top of the two remaining. Then, went to the kitchen and made chamomile tea before returning to his labor. Percival took a deep breath, followed by a hearty sip of his tea, and then began again.
“Some may say this is a tragedy. They may choose to believe that things had gone awry, or that I couldn’t handle the pressure. They may say I was down on my luck, or jump to random conclusions, such as sexual identity crisis, unknown drug addiction, or gambling. They may do, or say, what they like. I simply do not care about their opinions, nor about their impressions. I desire not their empathy, and I don’t need them to speak kindly of me now that I am gone.
“They’ll of course, all be entirely wrong. This is simply a business decision. A contract between life, and myself. I believe that every person alive must think to themselves whether they would truly like to live an additional day, each and every day. If they don’t ask themselves this, then they are just as much dead as I am upon your reading of this. If you don’t choose to live, then you simply aren’t doing it. You aren’t making the most of it. I have chosen to live each day that I’ve been offered the opportunity to do so, until, of course, this day. On this day I considered my options, and simply decided to live no longer.
“On each previous day, when life had been offered to me, I weighed my perceptions of my past and present, and I compared it to the likely outcomes for my remaining days. I still saw some value, and thereby accepted life’s offer. This morning, I looked ahead, and saw that my best days, greatest joys, and most compelling achievements were behind me. I didn’t come to this recognition with any sadness, and it was certainly no surprise. I had always anticipated this day. I had even anticipated that this day would be approximately this date, based on the predictable nature of the human life cycle and the calendar year. That it should be today makes just as much sense as tomorrow or yesterday, but much, much more sense than twelve years ago, or twelve years hence.
“Regardless, I have appreciated my time, and my blessings, and the many, many people in my life who loved me, or helped me, or at least very graciously tolerated my existence. It is, however, at this time, that I deem myself to be more or less done here, and bid thee all a farewell, and happy days.
Sincerestly,
Percival”
Percival placed his pen back in the carrying case on his desk, where it should have been when he first sat down. He then marveled at his own orderliness. Making sure his pen would be easily found next time he needed it, after he’d finished writing a suicide note seemed humorous, in a way. He reviewed the letter he’d written. It was acceptable, although he had expected it to be longer. It turns out he simply didn’t have much to say on the matter. He stood up, reached his hands high over his head, yawning mightily as he felt the muscles in his arms and back contract and relax intermittently as he shifted his weight on either foot and curved his back in each direction.
One foot shuffled in front of the other as he walked at his usual pace into the kitchen. He retrieved the sleeping medicine he resorted to more often than he’d intended and a bottle of vodka that had remained unopened atop his fridge for many months. He tossed several sleeping pills toward the back of his throat, and twisted off the top of the vodka bottle, breaking the seal with a crackling and snapping noise. He then took a hearty pull from the bottle, swallowing the pills. He took one more pill for good luck. He then guzzled more from the bottle, pausing in between sips as he remembered exactly why he had never opened it. The burn in his mouth was bested only by the searing pain that extended from the top of his esophagus, straight down to his stomach. After he’d consumed a little more than half the bottle, he decided he had probably accomplished his objective, and that he’d rather not continue to suffer through extra vodka if it would yield no added benefit.
Percival brushed his teeth, and then drew a length of floss from the dental tape canister, only to then decide the better of it. He tossed the unused floss into the bathroom garbage can at his left foot. He removed articles of clothing one at a time as he walked from the bathroom to his bedroom, and tossed them onto the disheveled pile of clothing he had searched earlier during his quest for an appropriate writing utensil. Percival climbed naked into his bed, and pulled the covers up around his neck. He checked the alarm clock at his bedside, and discovered that it was merely 3:17pm. He pulled the glasses off of his face, folded the temples carefully, and placed them on his nightstand before closing his eyes and waiting for sleep.
☽☾ ☽☾ ☽☾
Percival’s eyes opened slowly, grating against the crusted sleep on his eyelids. A fierce dehydration headache dominated his perception as he attempted to piece together what it was that he was experiencing. There was some confusion. He had not expected to wake up—but it took a moment for him to remember why that was so. Blurry, surreal memories of pills and vodka surfaced from the abyss of his fugue state, as he painstakingly sat upright in bed.
“3:17,” he thought, as he looked to the clock to check his rising time against his last recollection before falling into the deepest sleep of his life. The clock read 10:42 am. Apparently, Percival’s efforts were inadequate to accomplish his desired results but had severely magnified the impact of the sleeping pills. He considered humorously that this may be a compromise. He wouldn’t end it altogether, but he’d take to sleeping for nineteen hours a day, every day. In the meantime, he felt sure that he would urinate on himself if he didn’t act immediately, and he was also devastatingly hungry.
Percival resembled a newborn goat as he tried to recall how his legs worked in his efforts to get to the toilet. Limbs tossed themselves before each other, a little too much forward and perhaps a little off to one side or another. His arms flailed about, preparing to grip onto something or to break his fall should they need to. With a crash, Percival landed on his toilet seat, deciding it best to handle this one sitting down, lest he topple over mid stream. His head throbbed with tension and thirst as he waited patiently to finish his business. He stretched his legs forward, hoping to regain some control over them for his next expedition for a glass of water.
After some negotiating with himself, he decided it was time to make a break for the kitchen, and he hoisted himself off of the toilet by gripping the porcelain countertop in front of him. Most of the feeling and coordination had returned to his legs, and Percival transgressed his apartment with something resembling bipedal competence as he arrived at his sink, which was full to the faucet of dishes that he may or may not ever wash. He retrieved a grimy mason jar from the pile and rinsed it slightly before filling it with water from the tap. He drained, and filled, and drained the mason jar again, as he eagerly hydrated himself like a man—or beast—who stumbled upon an oasis in the desert.
“Chicken biscuit.” He thought to himself, and may have even said out loud in a jumbled murmur under his breath.
Percival wanted—or, if you asked him, needed—a chicken biscuit. He found his breakfast demand odd, as he seemed to recall very harshly criticizing the concept of a chicken biscuit to a friend, if that person may be considered a friend, as he ate one in front of Percival.
“What you’ve got there is nothing but garbage, placed between two pieces of garbage, wrapped in other garbage, handed to you probably by a garbage person from the window of a garbage restaurant, so that you can fill your garbage face with all of the garbage your garbage heart desires.” He had barked at him, following with “all that your sandwich is good for is rendering you unapproachable, and your latrine uninhabitable.”
Percival wanted about six of them, with a coffee and some hash browns.
He located his keys and started for the door but was surprised to catch the reflection of his fully naked self in the mirror en route. Fortunately, the pants that he’d left his wallet in were on the floor near him, and a shirt that he should probably wash was also close enough, and clean enough. He slipped on some clothes and a pair of loafers before cautiously descending the stairwell.
The light of the sun blinded him when he opened the door of his dim apartment. The sky was a vibrant blue, with only a few fluffy white clouds, and the occasional bird flying over head. He considered driving to his breakfast but thought the trip was short enough to walk. On a day such as today—the day that he shouldn’t have—it seemed appropriate that he should cause himself to experience the planet he’d just tried to escape from, without the protective barrier of windshields and cardoors. His pace quickened as his body was returned more fully to its ordinary state, and the stupor of sleeping pills, alcohol, and the cold heavy hand of a brush with death wore off.
When he finally stood outside of the “restaurant,” he questioned his judgment and choices for a considerable time. After so many years of dispensing criticism from his mock-dietitian’s throne, he found himself insisting upon a number six with a large coffee. He thought about heading back home, but he simply couldn’t shake the fact that he wanted his chicken biscuit. After some convincing, he grasped the handle of the entrance and swung open the door. A thick stench of “food” hit him squarely at the front-bottom part of his brain, and the grease content in the warm air left a palpable sheen on the exposed parts of his body. He thought he might be sick, but he pressed on.
He walked to the back of the line and began looking at his fellow fast food consumers in disgust. Unattractive families weighed their limited options as if they weren’t going to get the one thing they always got when they came to this restaurant thrice a week. Two pairs of friends, each more unattractive than the other in some demonstration of quantum ugliness, commented on different television shows they had recently watched, and either enjoyed or were unsatisfied with. Working men and women sought a quick, affordable bite before they headed back to their disappointing jobs and careers. And then there was Percival. Percival was much better than these people. He was sure of it.
“Good morning, sir. What can I get started for you?” The eager young man, obviously a new hire, asked Percival.
“Hi, yes, I’ll have three chicken biscuits, three sausage egg and cheese sandwiches, five orders of hashbrowns, and a Large coffee with ample cream.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we are serving lunch at this time.”
“Well, that’s what I’d like to have for lunch.”
“No, oh I’m sorry, I should have been more clear. I cannot serve items from the breakfast menu at this time. We switch over to lunch at eleven, and it’s nearly 11:40.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment in an intense standoff. Percival sized up his foe. The employee hoped that Percival had begun contemplating what he would like from the lunch menu.
“Did you not wish me a good morning?” Percival broke the silence.
“Ummm, excuse me?
“You said good morning.”
“Yes, and—”
“And what meal do you eat in the morning?”
“Well, breakfast, but—”
“But you’re saying I cannot have breakfast in the morning. At least not this morning?”
“Yessir, we’ve switched over to lunch.”
There was another weighty pause, and the young man fidgeted in obvious discomfort from the far side of the counter.
“I was right about this establishment, and I was right about you.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Listen, get me some kind of food. A lot of it, but not too much. I’m rather hungry. Get me things that most resemble the breakfast I ordered, but in a ‘lunch’ sort of way.”
“Yessir. I do apologize again, it’ll be ready in just a moment,” the man said, grateful to have concluded his conversation with Percival. The feeling was mutual.
Percival stood near the counter waiting for his tray of food. He tried to remember if a respectable meal had ever been transferred into his possession by way of a tray. He could think of none.
“Number 63?” Called out some other person about whom Percival cared very little. Percival checked his receipt. He was number 63.
“That’s me, to the extent that this restaurant seeks to capture my entire essence in a two digit number while feeding me imitation meals off of a sheet of plastic siding.”
“Huh?” the other person asked dumbly.
“Nothing.”
“Have a nice day!”
“I’ll have whatever kind of day that just happens to happen, and you will likely have the same.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
Percival sat down in a booth seat and began unwrapping his first sandwich, and he felt the same approximate feelings that a moth feels as it flies into a heat lamp. As unappetizing as a blistering blue light may be, the moth simply cannot help himself. The same kind of unfair war was happening here. The food was clearly disgusting, but he and the other garbage moth-people could not prevent themselves from their feast.
The paper wrapping fell away, and a fried chicken sandwich floated towards his mouth. Helplessly, Percival took a bite.
“Oh God,” he said, shoveling as large of a second bite into his mouth as he could fit, despite the fact that he hadn’t swallowed the first. He looked to the table nearest him, where a family was playing with kids’ toys and laughing.
“This is so fucking good!” he shouted through his mouthful. The family was clearly unsettled by his unexpected outburst.
“How is this so fucking good?” He demanded to know. Tears began to drip from his eyes, adding to the concerning spectacle that he had become. “Oh my God! Life is so beautiful. It’s so beautiful.” Percival said, crying. “What was I thinking? Oh God. I want to live! This wonderful life. This wonderful life with these imperfect people. We deserve better than this. This world we’ve built, this charade of a food item! It’s terrible, but life is wonderful, and I want to live. I want to love again. To feel again, I want to feel again. And somehow, in this moment, I do. I feel! I feel.”
The family moved to a different table, and Percival buried his hands in his arms and wept.