Spitting off tall buildings - By Dan Fante Page 0,37
member?’
‘The services would be for me, Mike. Myself. Bruno.’
‘Thank you for considering SEA-MATION to sustain you in your final resting arrangements, Mr. Dante. Pre-need planning, of course, is the sensible and economical option to the high cost of a sudden-need situation. Most importantly, pre-need planning eliminates confusion for your survivors at what can be a very anxious time, as I’m sure you would agree.’
‘I agree, Mike…Let’s keep going.’
‘Now, about the specifics of your requirements, Mr. Dante?…’
‘Go ahead, Mike. Go ahead and ask.’
‘Is there a time factor involved in scheduling your pre-need, Mr. Dante?’
‘What time factor, Mike?’
‘I’m sorry…I wasn’t being clear…What I mean is, have you been advised as to how soon you’ll be needing services?’
‘When I’m going to die?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s correct.’
‘Okay. I see…Tomorrow, Mike. Tomorrow morning.’
‘…I’m very sorry, Mr. Dante…I’m sure that was difficult news. May I please have the name and telephone number of your attending physician? Full name. First name first, please…’
‘I don’t have an attending physician, Mike.’
‘…Name of hospital or facility and room number, please?’
‘I’m not in the hospital or in a facility.’
‘…I see…Mr. Dante, I’m sorry for asking this at such an uncomfortable time, but could you tell me the nature of your illness?’
‘Okay…sure…I refilled my prescription for Valium today. I took a handful before I called you, about twenty or so…’
‘Wait…You just took pills?’
‘About five minutes ago. I was on hold listening to the music. I’m drinking too…I’ll be taking the last thirty - they’re ten-milligram Valium - and twenty-five Fiorinal, after we hang up. I’m going to kill myself. So…I guess my illness is an overdose. To be safe, if I were you, I’d just put down heart failure. That’ll cover it.’
On the other end Mike had stopped reading from his telephone script.
‘C’mon sir,’ he said, ‘you’re not serious?…You’re kidding, right?’
‘No. I’m being serious. It’s checkout time.’
‘Look…Bruno. It’s Bruno, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Look Bruno. This’s like…absurd. You seem to be an intelligent person. I mean, you sound a little stoned and all but…did you really take twenty Valium?…Hey, wait; is this Robert? Godammit man, don’t screw around!…’
‘I took pills, Mike. Ten minutes ago. I’m about to take some more. I haven’t got much time here…’
‘Shit!…Okay, look…Bruno, Mr. Dante…let me get my supervisor. I don’t know what to say. This is an exceptional circumstance. I’m going to put you on hold a second, okay?’
‘No. Don’t do that. I need to know now.’
‘…Jesus…Look, I mean, you’re absolutely positive about this?’
‘Yes…Correct.’
‘Well, shit. Jesus…You’re really going through with it?’
‘It’s a done deal.’
‘…Okay…Mr. Dante…Okay. Well…I didn’t mention yet that there’s an additional bonus discount of ten percent off our TV special if you pay right now over the phone with your Visa or Mastercard? Did you want to take advantage of that discount?’
Chapter Twenty-one
IN NEW YORK State there is a law that says that they are allowed to lock you down in the squirrel ward for ten days when you attempt to take your own life. It doesn’t matter if you ate pills and cut your wrists, drank drain cleaner or injected 200 ccs of nail polish remover into your carotid artery. If you live, they’ve got you. The rules are the same for everybody. Dylan, my high-strung faggot neighbor across the hall who always hears everything anyway, heard my end of the phone call to SEA-MATION at five o’clock in the morning. I found out later that he’s the one that called 911 after I’d gone back to my room and locked the door. I don’t remember any of it. Not the ambulance. Nothing.
In New York Hospital they assigned me to Jack Bratter. A shrink. Jack’s job was to bring me in twice a day for private sessions, ask a lot of questions and determine if I was crazy and a danger to myself. He would evaluate whether or not I should be let go or placed in a rubber condo somewhere. I didn’t care. I didn’t give a rat’s dick what they did with me.
Jack was a good guy. Older, but smart. He had been a desk sergeant in Manhattan South for twelve years before retiring from the police. He’d gone back to school at Hunter College, then taken up shrink as a profession. He liked that I was a writer. He had read some of my father’s books. We talked a lot about plays. His theatrical interest was in classic theatrical comedy; Molière, guys like that.
I told Jack the truth. Mostly. I said things had come to a head after the hold-up. The despair, et cetera.
Jack was more