WAITING FOR THE CREEPER: Part Four
If You Are Waiting To Die, How Long Do You Wait?
Content warning — This story contains content about suicide and suicidal ideation.
STUPID QUESTIONS
Gareth slowly climbed down the large rocks a little further. Not too far. It was dangerous, he thought. He hoped breathing in the clear fresh mountain air and gazing at the high desert mountains’ magnificence would help him calm down. Maybe even consider himself fortunate to be in such a heavenly place. Unfortunately, that was not to be the case. The grief and anguish only ramped up at an overwhelming pace. He was now starting to shake uncontrollably and sobbing like a child. Saliva dripped from his mouth as he leaned forward to hide his face from any passing boats. Both tears and phlegm poured out from his nose. If he had a mirror, he would have seen his face dirty, sweaty, and bright red. He looked as if a heart attack was impending. He was ready to burst. He only looked up as he heard a loud noise.
The Jet Ski came from the other side of the reservoir. A man dressed in tan and green was riding over. Although he looked and felt terrible, Gareth smiled somewhat as the rider came closer. More of a sad grin than a smile, but he tried. As the Jet Ski closed into the jagged rocky side of the reservoir, it became apparent that the man was a park ranger. Ranger Smith looked like a man on a mission, with full camo and a sidearm in holster. He was sweating; it was hot now; it was approaching noon. “Howdy,” said Ranger Smith. His name tag read, ‘Lavell Smith.’ He continued, “Are you having a good day?” First stupid question. “How did you get here?” Second stupid question. Gareth attempted to respond, but Ranger Smith interrupted and asked for a driving license or identification. Third stupid question. Why would I need a driving license to sit on a rock? Then came the question of all absurd questions; Ranger Lavell Smith asked, “Have you got a fishing pole?’ Unquestionably the fourth stupid question! The trouble only started when Gareth replied. “Yes, it’s in my pocket,” he said sarcastically. Ranger Smith was not a happy Ranger. He frowned, and as the sweat ran down his face, he retorted, “You should take this more seriously, sir. I have been checking fishing licenses all day. You’d be surprised how many people don’t have licenses.” Gareth stood up and walked away back up the rocks and over the concrete barrier. Ranger Smith yelled up, “So, have you been fishing?” The only reply the ranger heard was, “Jerk” The soccer mom’s van drove away. A mile down the shoreline, it stopped. An empty pull-off. Not a soul around.
SUICIDE
This word always catches people’s attention. The act itself also grabs people’s attention. The actions and choices before the ‘final solution’ often go unnoticed. How many times have you heard this classic piece of advice? Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Gareth had heard that little gem more times than he cared to remember. It drove him crazy just listening to it. Don’t you think I freakin’ know that? He thought this was where I was and how I feel is not a problem. After all, he continued, a problem is when you run out of gas. A problem is when you are late for work. Feeling this way is a fucking nightmare, not a damn problem or a stupid dilemma.
Running through his mind over and over were David Bowie’s lyrics. Gareth’s version of ‘The Width of A Circle’ bounced from one side of his brain, rattling around. He thought, I saw a monster under a tree; I looked up, and the monster was me! This monster had once been an innocent victim of child abuse and rape. However, he was a grown man, and grown men knew the difference between right and wrong. He knew it was his fault. He was not trying to hide it; he told everyone who would listen he was a monster. Not just under the tree.
In the movies, all the monsters die, and the world applauds. Gareth was doing the world and his family a huge favor. He looked at the watch on his left wrist. How long is this damn train going to be?
Gareth placed his hand into the water. The water seemed cold to his touch. It did not matter either way; after all, he could not swim and was terrified to boot. He was not naïve. He spent years at church with those who deemed themselves righteous and those less ‘perfect’ who both needed help at some time. They had severe mental health challenges, including some with suicidal tendencies. He knew about these tragedies, these mysteries, this debilitating disease, and the dark feelings of hopelessness one encounters. However, knowledge means nothing when it is you in the padded cell. He chuckled to himself. It seemed strange to laugh, but this memory was funny. At least to him, it was.
He had been in a padded cell, alone, with a shiny aluminum table-like bed in the room. Completely devoid of anything except the padded walls and floor. Why had he spent the night in a padded cell? He laughed again. It was by far the safest damn room in the psych ward! The psych ward had a dozen or so rooms with two beds. He was to share the room nearest the nurse’s station. He looked and saw a man sitting outside the room.
Gareth asked why a guard was sitting by the open door. The nurse explained his potential roommate had sudden violent episodes and needed a guard to protect the other inmates. “What? Are you kidding me?” Gareth asked. “There is not a chance I’m sleeping in that room,” he continued. There were no other rooms or beds, explained the nurse. The medical team called for the doctor to bolster their explanation. After a few minutes, the tall white-coated figure appeared. He explained there was no option for Gareth. No other way. Furthermore, if Gareth were unwilling to obey staff instructions, ‘other’ choices would have to be made by the medical staff.
One thing you can guarantee from most Englishmen is their immediate response to anything conceived as forced obedience. It was enough to endure such conduct at church without dealing with the Gestapo in the hospital. He asked what the ‘other’ choices might be. In his sternest voice, the doctor suggested a stay at the State hospital might be that ‘choice.’ The doctor also pointed out that the State hospital was like a prison, and once you entered, there was no specific release date. Another thing for sure, an Englishman would not, and could not, be frightened into submission. He declared with force, “You guys do what you are going to do, but I am NOT staying in that room with uncontrollable crazies.” The doctor pointed out that I had nothing to worry about as the violent patient was always in a straight jacket! Gareth laughed; he was not impressed. The doctors and nurses moved away and chatted together for a moment. “The only other place is the padded cell,” they said. Expecting a negative response, they were all surprised when Gareth said, “That’s the very thing for me, Jimmy,” in his best Scottish Billy Connolly accent. They seemed bemused.
He always giggled to himself about his story in the psych ward. Once again, he gazed across the empty rail tracks a mile away over the water. Where the hell is the Creeper?
The afternoon had almost passed. Frantic thoughts brought one wild memory after another. These unpredictable thoughts again returned to the tragedy called marriage — a Shakespearean tragedy. It was his damaged wife that tortured him. Thankfully he knew she had been receiving support. She would need it. He was much more concerned for his eldest daughter. She appeared to have everything under control: a new husband and a new baby. She was well-educated and looked just fine for all intents and purposes.
Yet, he could see she was crumbling underneath the necessary façade she had created over the years. Their relationship was so close, and he knew she had endured the craziness around her for many years. It had been fun to see her when she left home for college. Her unique joyful personality came out for a short spell. She was never one to complain at all. She had been stoic and kept her anxieties hidden inside. Not just hidden but buried deep within her dungeons. He was worried about her. And yet, why would he choose suicide if he was so concerned? Wouldn’t that make her already tender heart crash into a million shattered pieces?
When you break someone’s heart, the shattered pieces never go back together as they used to. Gareth felt those thoughts reverberate around his now painful, illogical, ready-to-explode head. Where is the damn train? Did I not see it? I am sure I would have seen it or heard it. No matter what continent you are on, the freakin’ trains are always late. I’m English. We hate people who are late. It means they do not like us when people are late, right? It had been hours, and it still had not returned. The freakin’ Creeper hates me!
At first, he had not been too concerned as the Creeper had a reputation for breaking down. After all, it was an old steam engine. However, now everything started to confuse him. The train had to come back. The depot was in Heber; it had to come back. By now, he had begun to lose the ability to think straight; he even considered that the train was being held back on purpose. Maybe somebody knows my plan, he thought. Gareth only had one thought. If you are waiting to die, how long do you keep waiting?
(NB: “This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.”)
© Stephen G. Arrowsmith 2022
PART FIVE of this story will be published midweek. Follow me on Medium email, and you will receive notice of when you can read the next dramatic part of this true story! Thanks
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