An Easter visit to the Dark Side
Since Easter, things have been pretty crappy. We spent time with family for the Easter weekend, at a nice beachfront place. Things started off OK, then spiralled down. Halfway through the day, she started acting lethargic, slurred speech, lack of focus, etc. I suspected she had taken some Ativan. She went into the bedroom to take a nap, so I hung out with the family. As I sat thinking about everything going on, I found myself getting really low. I finally decided to go take a walk out on the boardwalk. I told her sister I was going out for a walk, and would be back soon.
It was about a half-hour after sunset, the weather was great, and the boardwalk was surprisingly busy. There was everything I love about the Jersey shore, and especially the boardwalk in Wildwood: the surf rolling in; the screams from the carnival rides; the tramcars making their rounds; thumping music from the t-shirt shops; the co-mingled smells of the ocean, pizza, cheesesteaks and funnel cake; and the timeless sight of young bucks determined to beat the rigged midway games to win their girlfriend the biggest stuffed whatever-she-wants. "Yeah, this is just what I needed," I thought.
But as I made my way further down the boardwalk, night settled in; the crowds at this end started to dissipate; the rides and games gave way to mostly empty parking lots; the bright colorful lights of the food stalls, rides and games were replaced by the harsh, colorless glare of halogen street lights that cast stark, lifeless shadows all around; the upbeat crowd of happy faces dissolved into a few individuals dashing for their cars; and I felt my mood slowly dropping in step with the temperature. By the time I made it about a mile down the boardwalk, I was alone, and thoroughly depressed. I walked down the pier by the new convention center, out towards the water, and just let my mind go where it wanted.
I started thinking about how dark it was, wondering if anyone could see me way out here. I could see the crowds back up the beach, but to them I was invisible. I could do anything I wanted, and nobody would know. I thought of jumping up and down and waving my arms to test the theory, but that felt silly and I couldn't do it. "Coward," I thought to myself. I leaned over the rail and looked under the walkway, about 4 feet above the sand. Even darker down there. Now that's a place you could get away with anything. Who knows, there could be people down there right now doing the nasty, and I wouldn't know. I could go down there and do... what? Suddenly I found myself thinking how easy it would be to just go under the pier and end it. But how? What'm I gonna do, eat sand till I choke? Go to sleep and wait for the tide to come in and drown me? Jump off head-first and try to break my neck? No, I needed a weapon. Then I though about the nice new Leatherman multitool I had recently gotten for work. Yeah, nice sharp blade on that bad boy. That'd do the trick. Couple seconds of personal bravery, make the cuts lengthwise, not acrosss (I learned that from her), then just wait for things to run their course. There'd be plenty of time to work up the nerve, since this area was pretty much deserted. Dark, so no one would see until daybreak, easily 8 hours away. And it would be a polite way to off myself, too. All that sand would make it real easy to clean up the mess left behind. It would also be a lot more considerate than the way(s) She tried: at least it wouldn't be Her having to find me there, or having to remember what happened in that spot. She could just avoid Wildwood the rest of her life; I, on the other hand, still often get a knot in my stomach when I have to go into her bathroom. Yeah, this'd be just the spot. But did I have the knife with me? I started reaching for my pocket, then literally stopped cold, my hand half-way there.
"What the f*** are you doing, you idiot???" It was one of those sorta out-of-body things where you're looking back at yourself through your mind's eye. "You don't have the cojones to do it. And more important, you don't even really want to do it. So just what the f*** are you doing? Get your sorry, self-pitying, cry-baby ass back to the condo and get over yourself. Loser!"
I started walking back to the boardwalk, but couldn't get the idea out of my head. I tried hard not to reach into my pocket to see if the knife was there. I started to take bigger, forceful steps to see if I could feel the weight of it there in my pocket, but couldn't. I looked down to see if I could see the outline of it in my pocket, but I was wearing black jeans, and there wasn't enough light. Finally, I just reached into my pocket, and there it was. I held it for a second, still in my pocket, then let it go. Sure I could take it out, but I knew then I wasn't going to use it, so why bother.
I made my way back up the boardwalk, towards the lights, and sounds, and people, and life. About halfway back, my cell phone started ringing. I usually hate those custom ring tones, but I have one just for Her, so I knew it was her when I answered, trying to sound upbeat.
"Hey! Whatcha doin'?" She was clearly upset. "Where are you? I've been looking all over!" I told her I was on the boardwalk, heading back her way. She had tried looking for me, but had no idea which way I had gone. She had gotten herself disoriented, and by now (with the help of the Ativan she still had on-board), had no clear idea exactly where she was. We tried identifying landmarks for each other, rides, restaurants, anything we could both see to give us our bearings. She was getting more and more frustrated, crying now, and at one point I snapped at her. "Just stop it! Calm down, and tell me what you see!" Finally, I spotted a tattoo shop. ""OK, I see that!" she said. I told her to stop where she was, next to the tattoo shop, and I 'd be there in less than a minute. We kept talking as I got closer, until we finally spotted each other. She was standing in the middle of the boardwalk, with a light jacket over her nightgown, in her slippers. I walked up to her and we just hugged for a long time. I apologized for making her worry, she apologized for getting upset. She asked how my walk was. I told her I had made it down to the convention center, but didn't tell her anything else.
As we walked back towards the condo, she spotted a stuffed alligator (she loves gators) at one of the midway games, the one where you have to shoot the ball into the basket. I knew the game was rigged: the balls are over-inflated to bake them bouncier, and the baskets are not round but oval, set lengthwise so you can't easily tell. Making one shot is a fluke, making the 3 required to win the prize is a sucker's bet. But she wanted that gator, so I handed over a five dollar bill for three shots.
Twenty dollars later, I "won" her the two-dollar stuffed toy, and we headed back to the condo, hand-in-hand. I thought about the knife in my pocket, and where I had been, physically, mentally, emotionally, just an hour before. Then I looked at her, hugging her new gator, and saw that she was happy. And even though I was still annoyed about her being stoned, in that moment, I was happy, too. And twenty dollars didn't seem like too much to pay at all.
It was about a half-hour after sunset, the weather was great, and the boardwalk was surprisingly busy. There was everything I love about the Jersey shore, and especially the boardwalk in Wildwood: the surf rolling in; the screams from the carnival rides; the tramcars making their rounds; thumping music from the t-shirt shops; the co-mingled smells of the ocean, pizza, cheesesteaks and funnel cake; and the timeless sight of young bucks determined to beat the rigged midway games to win their girlfriend the biggest stuffed whatever-she-wants. "Yeah, this is just what I needed," I thought.
But as I made my way further down the boardwalk, night settled in; the crowds at this end started to dissipate; the rides and games gave way to mostly empty parking lots; the bright colorful lights of the food stalls, rides and games were replaced by the harsh, colorless glare of halogen street lights that cast stark, lifeless shadows all around; the upbeat crowd of happy faces dissolved into a few individuals dashing for their cars; and I felt my mood slowly dropping in step with the temperature. By the time I made it about a mile down the boardwalk, I was alone, and thoroughly depressed. I walked down the pier by the new convention center, out towards the water, and just let my mind go where it wanted.
I started thinking about how dark it was, wondering if anyone could see me way out here. I could see the crowds back up the beach, but to them I was invisible. I could do anything I wanted, and nobody would know. I thought of jumping up and down and waving my arms to test the theory, but that felt silly and I couldn't do it. "Coward," I thought to myself. I leaned over the rail and looked under the walkway, about 4 feet above the sand. Even darker down there. Now that's a place you could get away with anything. Who knows, there could be people down there right now doing the nasty, and I wouldn't know. I could go down there and do... what? Suddenly I found myself thinking how easy it would be to just go under the pier and end it. But how? What'm I gonna do, eat sand till I choke? Go to sleep and wait for the tide to come in and drown me? Jump off head-first and try to break my neck? No, I needed a weapon. Then I though about the nice new Leatherman multitool I had recently gotten for work. Yeah, nice sharp blade on that bad boy. That'd do the trick. Couple seconds of personal bravery, make the cuts lengthwise, not acrosss (I learned that from her), then just wait for things to run their course. There'd be plenty of time to work up the nerve, since this area was pretty much deserted. Dark, so no one would see until daybreak, easily 8 hours away. And it would be a polite way to off myself, too. All that sand would make it real easy to clean up the mess left behind. It would also be a lot more considerate than the way(s) She tried: at least it wouldn't be Her having to find me there, or having to remember what happened in that spot. She could just avoid Wildwood the rest of her life; I, on the other hand, still often get a knot in my stomach when I have to go into her bathroom. Yeah, this'd be just the spot. But did I have the knife with me? I started reaching for my pocket, then literally stopped cold, my hand half-way there.
"What the f*** are you doing, you idiot???" It was one of those sorta out-of-body things where you're looking back at yourself through your mind's eye. "You don't have the cojones to do it. And more important, you don't even really want to do it. So just what the f*** are you doing? Get your sorry, self-pitying, cry-baby ass back to the condo and get over yourself. Loser!"
I started walking back to the boardwalk, but couldn't get the idea out of my head. I tried hard not to reach into my pocket to see if the knife was there. I started to take bigger, forceful steps to see if I could feel the weight of it there in my pocket, but couldn't. I looked down to see if I could see the outline of it in my pocket, but I was wearing black jeans, and there wasn't enough light. Finally, I just reached into my pocket, and there it was. I held it for a second, still in my pocket, then let it go. Sure I could take it out, but I knew then I wasn't going to use it, so why bother.
I made my way back up the boardwalk, towards the lights, and sounds, and people, and life. About halfway back, my cell phone started ringing. I usually hate those custom ring tones, but I have one just for Her, so I knew it was her when I answered, trying to sound upbeat.
"Hey! Whatcha doin'?" She was clearly upset. "Where are you? I've been looking all over!" I told her I was on the boardwalk, heading back her way. She had tried looking for me, but had no idea which way I had gone. She had gotten herself disoriented, and by now (with the help of the Ativan she still had on-board), had no clear idea exactly where she was. We tried identifying landmarks for each other, rides, restaurants, anything we could both see to give us our bearings. She was getting more and more frustrated, crying now, and at one point I snapped at her. "Just stop it! Calm down, and tell me what you see!" Finally, I spotted a tattoo shop. ""OK, I see that!" she said. I told her to stop where she was, next to the tattoo shop, and I 'd be there in less than a minute. We kept talking as I got closer, until we finally spotted each other. She was standing in the middle of the boardwalk, with a light jacket over her nightgown, in her slippers. I walked up to her and we just hugged for a long time. I apologized for making her worry, she apologized for getting upset. She asked how my walk was. I told her I had made it down to the convention center, but didn't tell her anything else.
As we walked back towards the condo, she spotted a stuffed alligator (she loves gators) at one of the midway games, the one where you have to shoot the ball into the basket. I knew the game was rigged: the balls are over-inflated to bake them bouncier, and the baskets are not round but oval, set lengthwise so you can't easily tell. Making one shot is a fluke, making the 3 required to win the prize is a sucker's bet. But she wanted that gator, so I handed over a five dollar bill for three shots.
Twenty dollars later, I "won" her the two-dollar stuffed toy, and we headed back to the condo, hand-in-hand. I thought about the knife in my pocket, and where I had been, physically, mentally, emotionally, just an hour before. Then I looked at her, hugging her new gator, and saw that she was happy. And even though I was still annoyed about her being stoned, in that moment, I was happy, too. And twenty dollars didn't seem like too much to pay at all.
posted by me at 9:00 AM
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