Kids, don’t drink and drive.

I mean, I’m drinking and driving right now. But you shouldn’t.

No one should.

You think I’m proud of this? I’m getting sauced on bottom-shelf wine again just because I think it’s gonna help me get through what I’m about to do.

I take a big sip, more like a slug or slurp. Yeah, I like this dry-ass red Pinot . . . nothing sweet or light for me. It guzzles around in my mouth for a bit, all thick and strong, before I send it down. My throat feels even dryer after swallowing. Maybe I should’ve brought some water too.

Never mind.

I think about leaving a note. Actually, I’ve been thinking about that ever since I first got fixed on the idea of offing myself . . . and especially since my big day with Jolene when I learned for sure and for good there’s nothing left for me in this life if I can’t have love and pussy (or, ass . . . but love and pussy sounds better, no?).

I slide my phone open there in its cup-holder holster, and tap around all loose and wavery to get to the voice notes thing. I find it almost funny enough to laugh at when I see zero saved files so far . . . like, it hits me I’ve never had anything at all worthwhile to say, either to myself or the world at large, until right now when I’m about to say my sweet goodbyes.

Hitting the big red button in the middle with my thumb, I see flashing numbers on a timer that tell me it's time to start getting my final message across.

What the fuck am I supposed to say?

“This is X,” I begin. “This note is for anyone who cares...”

I sit for a second, and watch the numbers count up past seven then eight seconds. I hate the idea of leaving anyone listening with empty space to have to get through. And isn’t that there just the clearest sign of a gutless fuck . . . caring more about taking a tiny portion of time away from those I’m leaving behind than I do about the pain I’m soon gonna put myself through to snuff my own lights out.

Somehow, an intuition to send the recording to Jolene when done makes everything seem ok, like it all makes sense, and I keep talking, saying, “Jolene, I trust you’ll get this to anyone that needs to hear it. I’m gonna let it run now, and maybe say more than I need to, just so I’ll be sure to be gone before you finish listening and try to call to stop me or whatever. Uh, yeah, that’s right. Today’s the day. Tonight’s the night. There’s this set of big buildings in town I’ve been eyeing for . . . well, really for the last twenty years. That’s when I first thought of doing this. Of course, back then I had plenty to live for and look forward to. Now…”

I let time keep winding its way up on the screen as my car putters along.

I take a fresh gulp of wine, and feel its looseness start to pool down my neck, through my chest, then somehow also up back behind my tired eyes.

“...now I just…” I continue, stop-starting again. “...I just want you all to know this is no one’s fault, ok? I just don’t want to be alive anymore. That’s all. I had my day in the sun. I got to live, and have people care about me. I had opportunities. But I’m done. I don’t expect any of you to understand this. Well, maybe Jolene will . . . only because she understands everything . . . but really, the thought of death makes me smile and feel kinda warm inside. The quietness of it. The finality. None of you know this, but I’m not just a horny old fuck who can’t help but stare at all the girl’s asses all the time. I’m a lot worse than that. The things I’d do to someone willing, or unwilling, go way beyond fun consentual sex, y’know?”

Another block along.

Another drink.

Another ten seconds of the blank sound of me thinking, Ok, I guess it’s real confession time…

“I almost killed a guy,” I go on. “This little fucker named Tyler. If it had just been me and him, oh shit…” My mind leaps right back to flashes of delight at the terror in TT’s beady, man-child eyes. “I would have fucked him up bad. And I can’t say with any kind of certainty at all I won’t do something like that in the future, or worse . . . something a normal guy would never, ever do, you get me?”

No, they don’t get me. I’m sure Jolene does, but it doesn’t matter.

“It’s ok you guys don’t get it,” I say, wrapping up my speech (and being). “No one has to. I just can’t go on living with these evil, ugly compulsions pushing me to be the kind of person who’d definitely have no one left to hear his shitty, meandering, drunken-driving, dumbass suicide note. So, it’s better to get this done now, before I do anything crazy. Then all this dark, depressing shit swimming around my head can finally end.”

I leave more space just to keep the message long . . . to give myself time between pressing send and leaping from twelve floors up.

Jolene will be fine. She’ll go on to win the world, I know it.

My wife will be ok. My county insurance and pension, plus other bullshit benefits I don’t really understand, will likely keep her comfortable for decades. She’ll probably have to move in with Sallyanne, but that’s ok. Maybe she’ll move on and find a dude that actually appreciates her unconventional shape and fun (though fucking loud) personality.

I hope Dee goes from being a secret virgin to getting passed around by Hollywood scum.

I guess my life starts to flash before my eyes, so I quickly down another gulp to stop it, and sputter, “I love you. Thank you. Sorry.”

I punch the big red button again, and the recording stops and saves.

Then it’s like I’m watching my car from a hundred feet away drift slowly around into the parking lot of my chosen building. It’s so peaceful . . . grassy little hills, and trees dropping leaves. A few other vehicles gradually whir their way around to and from parking spots.

I remember being a little kid . . . this crazy tiny dude who only wanted to go fast on boats and cars, skates . . . anything. And somehow, that kid’s same open, gleeful grin overtakes my face as I look up twelve floors.