He Thought Better of It

Once, twice, then several times in the night, he awoke to rain and thunder. He had fallen asleep on top of the covers, still wearing his suit. He’d been fired. He knew there was nothing of value he could do about it. He’d thought about killing his now former boss. Sitting in his car after leaving the building, he’d tried to think of where the nearest gun shop was. Do they sell guns to men in suits? Wouldn’t it be obvious that I’d just been fired, and planned on killing that fat, piece of shit messenger? Sitting in his car, he thought better of it.

On the way home, he passed two gun shops he’d never noticed before, and a park he’d never entered. He thought about stopping at the park and sitting on a bench, the way people do in movies when they’re down-and-out. He thought better of it. It’d look stupid, he thought, me, just sitting there in my suit, not feeding birds. And I’m sure as hell not going to stop and buy seed for that.

That evening, he sat quietly, listening to a recording of Kissin playing Liszt’s transcription of Schubert’s Aufenthalt. S-five-sixty, number three, he thought. He held a gun in his right hand, as he had planned on killing himself. The song changed to the transcription of Standchen, he thought better of it, and he took a baseball bat to his piano, instead.


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