I couldn't take any more. My unemployment payments had run out, my bank account was at zero, and all that was in the fridge was half a container of macaroni salad. I looked around the cheap room that had been my home for eight months; the peeling wallpaper, the clanking radiator that stayed cold half the time, the frayed carpet that cockroaches ran under whenever the light came on, and the old bed with the sagging mattress. "This is it", I said to myself. "I won't be back."

I turned off the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling and closed the door behind me as I stepped into the hall. A mixture of stale cooking odors, cheap wine, and urine assailed my nostrils as I headed toward the stairs. I managed to get through the lobby of the hotel without seeing anyone. "At least no one's here to ask me about the rent payment", I muttered to myself, and continued through the door and into the street. Even in this cheap part of town some people had money, as evidenced by the number of Christmas shoppers passing back and forth with last minute purchases.

I thought about the mail that I had received earlier that day. The usual rejections....."unfortunately, we have no positions available that match your qualifications, but we will keep your resume on file....", the usual junk mail and requests for money I didn't have to help people I didn't give a damn about any more, some Christmas cards from agencies that hadn't found me a job in over a year, and the final agony....a card from the girls. There was a small piece of stationary folded inside the card. "Daddy, we hope you are well and that you will find a job soon. We miss you and we want to see you as soon as possible. Mommy has a new boyfriend, but he's not as nice as you are. Please find a job so you can have money and come and visit us. Love, Tamara and Jenny".

That was the breaking point. More than the divorce. More than the downsizing. More than the realization that I couldn't hope to compete against young college kids any more. I'd survived two years in Vietnam, and nothing felt as painful as the realization that I had failed the two most important people in my life. I left the hotel with the clothes on my back and a pistol in my jacket pocket.

I walked passed liquor stores, check-cashing stores, bail bondsmen, and pawn shops; the usual collection of businesses that prey on the gullible and less fortunate of society. Those few shops still open blared Christmas music from cheap loudspeakers, even though the store owners tended to wear turbans.

Down past a few manufacturing establishments, and over railroad tracks. I passed a bum standing by an oil drum in which a fire was burning. He was playing the saxophone. Adding insult to injury, he was playing Mel Torm�'s "Christmas Song". I never like Mel Torm�, and I really couldn't stand that song. Especially when some bum is playing it badly on a saxophone. He looked at me, his ebony skin glowing in the firelight. He nodded and started another chorus of "Chestnuuuuuuutttts roasting on.......".

I continued on past him, the off-key wail of the sax following me as I approached the river. "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.........." flitted around in my head like the throbbing of a receding hangover. "Of all the shlock songs to play, he has to choose that one. Life really is out to get me."

I stood on the dock, the saxophones wailing still reaching me. I took the gun from my pocket and raised it to my temple. I stared at the water as the ripples distorted the reflections of lights on the opposite side of the river. I thought I could detect images in the water. Here, a face of a buddy killed in Nam. There, a girlfriend who just walked out on me. Former bosses, my father, teachers......I realized my life was passing before my eyes. I always thought that happened when you're drowning. I stifled a chuckle, amused at the thought that even while facing my own death, I was learning something new. I started to pull the trigger, and my eyes started to fill with tears. And, through those tears, two more images. The faces of my daughters appeared, smiling, giggling.....calling "Daddy". And I knew I couldn't go through with it.

I suddenly came to the realization that I had two very good reasons for staying alive. And, although I didn't know how I would do it, I would be able to make a contribution. To myself, to society, and to my children. Somewhere I would make a change. Somehow I would make a difference. I had to stay alive.

I put the gun back in my pocket. With a new resolve I turned and headed back the way I had come. There was no one in sight but the saxophonist, still playing that damn song. "Chestnuuuuutsss roasting on an open fire.....". And off-key at that. I stopped and faced him. His eyes met mine and he nodded. My hand was still in my pocket, holding the gun. I pointed the barrel at him and pulled the trigger.

I hate that song.