Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock(42)

Kids in my high school drink beer under this bridge, and call it Troll City, although I’ve never been to any of those parties.

As I catch my breath, I think about Asher and laugh once more.

What he did to me doesn’t seem all that important anymore, because I’m about to blow my brains out, and so the memory of it will instantly disappear and be gone forever.

End of problem.

And I tell myself that he’s freaked out about the photo I took—that will have to be his punishment.

I’ve evened the score.

I can let go.

I can finally close my eyes and fall backward into the deep beyond.

I try to believe that anyway.

For some crazy reason, I remember this James Baldwin quote Herr Silverman had us debate in his Holocaust class when we were talking about the Jews who searched the globe hunting for escaped Nazis after WWII—men who had done evil, horrible things and then fled to Argentina or Namibia or wherever.

Here’s the quote:

People pay for what they do, and still more for what they have allowed themselves to become. And they pay for it very simply; by the lives they lead.



A lot of kids in my class argued the validity of that quote, probably because they thought taking the high road was the right answer, what Herr Silverman wanted, the response that would score you the most points on the SAT.

I know Herr Silverman wasn’t saying the Nazis who fled should be forgiven and given a fresh start. He was trying to make us think about how life is hard and people suffer in all sorts of ways without our adding to their suffering to satisfy our sense of vengeance, but I sort of don’t think that the quote holds up in the real world, where literature and schooling and philosophy and morality don’t exist, because Asher and Linda and so many other culpable people seem to be fine—functioning exceptionally well within the world even—while I’m under a disgusting bridge about to put a hole in my skull.

Maybe this is how the Jewish Nazi hunters felt back in the fifties—like they were still living in Troll City even after they had been liberated from the Nazi death camps.

Or maybe this is justice.

Maybe I’ve allowed myself to become this f*cked-up, depressed, misunderstood person.

Maybe this is all my fault.

Maybe I should have killed Asher Beal.

I mean, I was so angry.

Asher definitely deserved to die.67

Or maybe I should have tried to save Asher back when all the bad shit began—before he turned full-on evil?

But I was just a kid.

We were just kids, and maybe we still are.

You can’t expect kids to save themselves, can you?

I’ve got the gun to my temple now and I’m rubbing the side of my head into the metal O.

It feels sort of nice—almost like a massage—as I push the P-38’s mouth harder and deeper into the soft spot of my skull.

It’s like the P-38 is an old skeleton key I’m trying to fit into an old padlock and when I make that connection I’ll hear a click and a door will open and I’ll walk through and be saved.

“Make that lock click, Leonard,” I whisper to myself. “You just have to squeeze your index finger and everything will be okay. The thoughts will stop. No more problems. You can finally just rest.”

I’m just about to pull the trigger when another random question pops into my head.

I wonder whether Linda ever remembered that it was my birthday.

For some reason it seems important right now and the more I wonder the more I realize I just can’t die without knowing the answer.

I lower the P-38 and check my phone for voice messages.

There are none.

I check my e-mail.

Nothing.

Nor are there any text messages.

I laugh—I mean I f*cking howl, because it seems so fitting somehow.

What a birthday it’s been.

What a life.

I raise the P-38 and press the mouth into my temple once more.

I close my eyes.

I squeeze the trigger.





THIRTY


Time





comes





to





standstill.





THIRTY-ONE


The trigger resists and I wonder if it might be rusted or something, because no matter how hard I squeeze, the bullet doesn’t come out and I do not die.

So I transfer the gun into my left hand and try to straighten my trigger finger and find that I can’t—it’s sort of frozen in a cat’s curled-tail position that I cannot alter.

“FUCK!!!” I scream into the night, across the water, and then bang my fist against the concrete wall, trying to get my trigger finger to work, but no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to blow my brains out.

I wonder if my inability is some sort of subconscious attempt to save myself from suicide and then I remember that I promised to at least call Herr Silverman if I was about to end my life, so I figure I maybe have to make good on that promise before my subconscious will allow me to employ my trigger finger and finish the job.

A promise is a promise.

I find the piece of paper Herr Silverman gave me; it’s in my back pocket.

I use my cell phone as a flashlight so I can read the green numbers.