Johnson wakes in a strange mood today. There is something special about this day, he thinks. Something about this day is different. He stands before the mirror combing his grey hair. He thinks back twenty years to standing before this same mirror—back then he never gave it a thought that he’d be standing here in this spot twenty years from then. Now he gives it a thought that he probably won’t be standing here twenty years from now, again. He’ll probably be in the grave.
And it only seems like yesterday, twenty years back combing his hair.
He feels a wave of fear sweep through him for an instant, then it is gone.
As he continues to comb his hair, he remembers going down to Willow Grove cemetery before school well over thirty years ago—more like forty something—and sitting on a granite slab reading a book. This was before the cemetery was restored. This was when the stones were all knocked down and the weeds were overgrown over the whole place. Now he gives it a thought that he probably won’t sit in a cemetery reading a book forty something years from now. He’ll definitely be in the grave.
And it only seems like yesterday, sitting with that book.
The wave of fear returns and drives him to put down the comb and quickly go downstairs.
As he walks, he wonders in what manner he will die. He wonders for a moment why this has popped into his mind, but he shrugs this off and lets the thought take him. His family has a history of colon cancer. So he religiously goes for colonoscopies every couple of years, and almost every time polyps are removed. So he’s got this under control. If it weren’t for the tests he’d probably die of this. He mulls over the other ways to die as he slips two slices of bread into the toaster and pops them down. The click of the toaster reminds him; someday he’ll definitely be in the grave.
Cold, cold—he is suddenly cold.
The smell of the toast soon winds about him, calming him.
Waiting for the toast, he continues to wonder how he will die. Since he’s so healthy he imagines he must be going to die in some kind of accident. Car crash. House fire. He smiles as the toast pops up because these are things he has control over; drive carefully, and you won’t be killed in a car crash. Take proper care of the house, and you won’t be killed in a house fire. But someday, he’ll definitely be in the grave, says a voice.
That’s probably true—but how?
He puts the toast on a paper plate. The ice cold butter is hard.
He remembers having smoked years ago, for over twenty years. He quit almost twenty years ago; he’s almost got as many years in as a nonsmoker as he did as a smoker. And two years ago, he had pneumonia. There were many tests done on his lungs. If there was any chance of cancer it would have shown up. So he smiles as he takes the buttered toast to the table, and sits down. He won’t die that way, either. But someday, he’ll definitely be in the grave, he knows. And it only seems like yesterday he sat at a desk in the cellar in the service lighting up his first cigarette—it’s not fair how fast it all goes. How fast.
That long ago will never come again.
Biting into the toast to calm himself he thinks; he won’t die because of his physical condition, even though the doctor told him to get a stress test because they’d seen traces of calcium in his pulmonary arteries. But he has ignored this; he thinks, chewing, that he should have the test. He thinks, swallowing, that he will call about the test today. It’s the only thing he can think of that he’s neglected. And it’s probably not a big deal anyway—the doctor hadn’t thought it was. He takes another bite, finishes half of the first slice of toast. It’s no big deal—but someday, he’ll definitely be in the grave—
He crushes the half slice of toast in his fist.
He wants to pound his head on the table.
Where is this terribly frightening thought coming from?
He chews and swallows. What about murder? Someone could murder him, healthy as he is. But he thinks of where he goes nowadays, the thinks he is always in safe places, mostly at home, or at work, or out with the dog. Seldom does he go into the city. He bites off half the second half of the first slice of toast. He has no enemies. He lives alone. No one is after him, that he can think of. So murder probably won’t happen. He feels safe sitting here chewing, swallowing—but someday, he’ll definitely be in the grave.
He will—he will someday—
Ignoring the nagging voice in his head, he finishes the second half of the first slice of toast and picks up the first half of the second slice, and takes a large bite. What about suicide? This is a possibility. Thoughts of it have flashed through his mind down through the years—but this is normal, he thinks. Chewing and swallowing, he thinks suicide won’t happen. He’s not depressed. Not any more. He takes a bit of the first half of the second slice of toast. There’ll be no suicide—but gritting his teeth, he thinks it again; someday, he’ll definitely be in the grave.
He swallows, bites; polishes off the first half of the second slice of toast. Chewing this bit, he thinks of the medications he takes. He takes Prozac. He takes Klonopin. He takes about eight or nine different drugs to cure or prevent all kinds of different things. Could the drugs be shortening his life? Could they be taking an unseen toll? He doubts it; he has regular blood tests. They would show things out of balance if the drugs were slowly killing him. There are no such signs. He picks up the second half of the second slice of toast. Things are under control—but someday, he’ll definitely be in the grave.
Where is this coming from. Need to stare it down.
Stare it down.
He grins as he swallows. No way he will die soon. No way. He’s been too careful.
Maybe someday, but not today.
He is too careful.
He takes comfort in this. He bites off half of the piece of toast and thinks he knows how it will finally happen. He’ll turn off the computer, turn off the lights, go upstairs and take off his clothes. He’ll take a piss and then go to bed. And in the night, as he sleeps, he will quietly, painlessly, unconsciously, die. Something will just wear out. He finishes the toast, and he rises. This is how he’ll definitely end up in the grave. He just won’t wake up. This is the best way. He’ll not see the end coming. He will never know when.
He takes the plate to the sink, and rinses it. He can wash it in the morning. There was a morning yesterday, and there will be a morning tomorrow, unless tonight, as he sleeps, he quietly dies. It could happen any night. He is glad, though, that this is how he will go. Everything else has been ruled out. But what night will it be? He steadies himself on the back of a kitchen chair. This could be his last day on earth, he thinks, as he leaves the kitchen and goes up to dress for work. Any day could be his last day on earth. He is old enough. He never thought that as a young man; he never thought that until just now. He knows he’ll definitely end up in the grave, but he’s always known this. Only today is he obsessing over it. He goes up, puts on his pants and shirt, and his belt, and his shoes. Why does he have to be at the mercy of fate like this? What right has God to keep the future from him? He makes fists, he looks in the mirror. It comes to a head in him—he must know how he will die. It comes to a head in him—all this thought has been too much. It hits him; suicide, which he had ruled out, gives him control over his destiny. This is a crazy thought—is he going crazy? No matter. He goes back down stairs and grips up the car keys. He slips on his coat and gets his briefcase. He resolves that some day, he will take too many pills before bed. He will decide when. This makes him feel better. He knows how he is going to die, it’s no time soon, unless—unless he goes tonight. He shudders a moment then shakes it off. Grimly, he heads out the door, locks it behind him, and goes to his car. No. The sun pours over him. He stops in his tracks. The dew is on the grass. He cannot take the car. He might be killed in the car. It isn’t how good you drive, or how carefully—it depends on the other guy too—and who’s to be trusted? He can’t get in the car. The thought sickens him. He could die any day in that car. It’s all chance—he can’t see the future. He is no different than a prisoner given a death sentence today; the date may not have been set yet, but the feeling is dreadful, nonetheless. Why is he any different than that prisoner? He cannot leave the day of his death to chance like this. He turns and coldly goes back in the house. He picks up the phone in his tingling hand; he leaves a message for the boss; he is sick. He is deadly sick. Suddenly frightened, with the walls closing in on him, he lies down on the couch. After lying there a while, he gets up refreshed. The sun pours in the front room window. There is nothing to do. The day lies before him. He decides to count his pills—his Klonopin. Why he’s going to count them, he isn’t sure. But counting them will somehow give him comfort. Breathing heavily, he goes up to the bedroom where he keeps his medicine. He paws through it. This is exciting. There are six bottles of Klonopin. Ninety tablets in each. Ninety times six—what is it? Five hundred and forty. He sits on the bed, the bottles next to him. Amazing—simply amazing. Five hundred and forty Klonopin. He is sure this is enough to kill a bull. He stands, looking at the bottles lying there, suddenly afraid of them. They are bottles full of death. As they lie there, they are a way to die. Taken together like this, they are deadly. His stomach sinks. Suddenly afraid of the bottles as he had been of the car, he leaves the room and slams the door behind him. They are a way to die—what if he were to go crazy and take all of them? They are like the car. They are to be kept away from. He cannot die now. Not today. Got to stay safe. Running his hand along the wall, he goes downstairs and looks at the plate he had used for the toast. He decides to have two more slices—but no, no—what if when he pops it down the toaster has a short and electrocutes him. He has used this toaster a hundred times. It’s old. The odds are high there will be a short. Electrocution is a bad way to go. He imagines it’s like being hit full blast in the chest with a sledgehammer. It could happen. The toaster could be faulty, the same way he might go crazy and take all the Klonopin, the way the car might take him on his last ride to a terrible crash. He sits at the kitchen table and thinks of all the ways. He is glad the silverware drawer is closed and across the room—what if he went crazy and took a knife to himself? You can go crazy at any moment, he thinks—and now he knows how he will die—he will go crazy. After all, he had been hearing the voice telling him that someday he will definitely be in the grave. That shows he’s on the verge. His mind is going. His mind is going and he will do something deadly to himself. He sees the steak knives in their block on the counter. He is soaked in sweat. He thinks of the utility knives and screwdrivers in the garage. Any one of those things could be deadly. Any one of those things could mean the end; he wants more toast, but he dare not; he wants to escape from the deadly house, but he dare not rise for fear that he might snap. It is so hot in this goddamned house. But here sitting at the table quietly, not moving, he is safe. Just fold your hands on the table and sit here, quietly, with everything too far away from him for him to get at. He sits and sits, but someday, regardless, he’ll be in the grave. Got to stay here got to sit here where it’s safe. Nothing is safe. He may be going to die someday but it can’t be today. He’s got to make sure. There’s just one way to do that.
Need to sit safe.
Avoid the grave.
Sit here safe—on this deadly day.
He just knows he will die this day—but as long as he does not move from this spot, he will be safe. The car, the knives, the pills, the voices have no power now. He grips the table edge.
He will be safe, on this day—and on all the days beyond.
He may be safe forever.
And that is how they found him three months later, in the scorching midsummer, after the neighbors began complaining of a smell.
Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in many literary magazines and journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, New Orleans Review, South Carolina Review, and Witness.
A chapbook of his short stories was released in October 2010 by Burning River. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and the Shirley Jackson Award. One of his stories was cited in the O. Henry awards anthology.
