It had been another long day at Ventura Video.  Was there ever any other kind? 

            The counter, the customers, the angst, the ennui.  Misery beyond measure.

            Six months had passed since his girlfriend dumped him.  Summer wasn’t coming back.  It’s not you, she’d said.  It’s me—

            Strictly textbook. 

            The prospects for film school, his lingering academic fantasy, had slowly faded to black. He was likewise behind on the rent, and now teetered on bankruptcy.  His father dead, his mother living in a hazy world of her own making, halfway across the country:  everything that had approached meaning in his life had packed its bags and left.  The only certitude that gift that kept on giving.

            So, yes, goddamnit (peace and praise upon His name) another long day:  another like so many others, boredom compounded by loathing, persistent hopelessness, the beggarly paycheck at the end of the week, the disheveled house waiting, the disheveled life waiting, the nothingness that had become constant companion . . .

            Why live, Walsh said.  Do it. 

            Affirm the obvious, affirm the negative.  He sat down and scribbled an angry note, recriminations being cliché among suicides. 

 

                                                Go to holy Hell the lot of you. 

                                                Goodbye, good riddance. 

                                                            Fondly,

                                                            Owen Walsh

 

            He went into the garage, pulled the door closed then looped a garden hose from the tailpipe of his car, over the deck lid and through the passenger window. 

            He climbed in and relaxed. 

            Walsh contemplated the Hyundai logo before him on the steering wheel and sighed. If only he owned something a little more prestigious.  A little more Hollywood.  If only to consummate the transmigration of his wretched soul, at least.  He started the car, slouched forward in the seat and waited.            

            The engine sputtered and died. 

            He started it again.  It died again. 

            What the eff, Walsh said. 

            He set his teeth.  He tried again but nothing.

            Walsh got out of the car, coughing, then circled around and popped the hood.     

            He removed the air cleaner and checked the fast-idle mechanism.  He checked the accelerator pump, the vacuum lines. 

            He tried again. 

            No go. 

            Walsh hefted a tool-box out of the trunk.  He went to work.

            Now he sprawled over the engine; the plenum came flying, the valve cover, the intake manifold.  He toiled in a rage.  He adjusted, tightened, torqued, then reassembled the parts in reverse order. 

            He swung behind the wheel and tried the ignition.

            It started. 

            Walsh smiled, wiping a patch of grease from his brow. 

            It backfired and died.

            The car was a piece of shit.

            Walsh leapt out and kicked the garage door several times; with a swift boot sent his tools clattering across the floor.

            He walked out and parked himself on the stoop.  He didn't know what to do.

            An old couple looked at him dimly through their bedroom window. 

            Foreign cars, the man said.

 

Resting his head on his knees, Walsh hit on an idea.   

            He pushed the Hyundai out of the garage and left it on the side of the driveway.  Then he hustled the several blocks down to a friend's pad, Curious George. 

            George was home, half-stoned as usual, watching MTV.

            Easy Money, his friend said.  What’s the word.

            I need to borrow your ride, Walsh said. 

            What’s wrong with yours?

            If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing here.

            You owe me your life dude.  George handed him the keys. 

            I’ll pay you tomorrow, Walsh said.

            Fill it up, too.  It's almost empty.

            Anything for a pal, he said.

 

The moon was raw and low.  Walsh motored along deserted streets, navigated the endless sea of suburban dystopia.

            An all-night convenience store appeared on his right and he rolled in and stopped at one of the pumps in front.  It was the locking gas cap that gave him trouble.  None of the keys fit. He tried everything on the ring except the rabbit’s foot.  Nothing worked. 

            He banged his fist on the roof. 

 

George apologized.  I forgot, man.

            Walsh didn't reply. He snatched the offending key and blew down the driveway. Slammed the car door and was off again.

            He put in twenty dollars' worth of supreme.

            That should be enough, he said.

Walsh was thinking about times past, how his life had been, the scant joys, the abundant sorrows and hardships he had known. 

            Adrift in sober reflection he knew soon enough it would be over. 

            He would end it at last.  And he would do so in a borrowed ’59 Cadillac.

            He idled the Caddy in.  The car purred like Elvis with a bellyful of Chivas.

            Walsh stepped out to close the garage door, but it didn't close all the way.  The door struck the tailfins.  He blinked and tried again, to the same effect.  The door struck the tailfins then sprang open.  Physics had intervened.  Two objects cannot occupy . . .

            Walsh swore.  Wept.  Kicked the door to pieces.

            His neighbors stared.

            He sat on the floor.  His mind left him.

 

‘Sup, George said.

            He was surprised to see Walsh back so soon; found himself suddenly uneasy about the mad, wild eyes, the crazed muttering.  Walsh beat George to death with a ball peen hammer.          

            400 blows, an homage to Truffaut.

            The crime gave Walsh reason for living.  It was catharsis. 

            Homicide had saved his life. 

            A model prisoner, he sang in the choir, tutored in literacy programs, took up modest hobbies, such as origami and sudoku, and did his time.