the grave dangers of being

 there is no guide.
only scribble. dribble. drop.




at 4:37 yesterday morning, our antagonist lifted the spare hose off its hook in the front of his single-car garage.  he had the rag in his pocket, he pulled it out as he walked back to the tailpipe of his 1998 Ford Taurus.  dark blue, with yellow and red scrape marks from the recent accident.
not accident so much as stoned collision with the side of brick wall in a convenience store parking lot.  while backing out.  the sound of fiberglass and rock is a popping related to shattering.
she had told him, accidents change a person.
he had explained it wasn't an accident.
that wasn't the point, she said.
she wouldn't be driven around by some stoned zombie.
why don't you drive, he asked.
she had had enough.
haven't we all, was the direction he was leaning.
and so we arrive
at 4:38.  the rag has been stuffed around the hose and shoved into the tailpipe.  he wonders if this will work.  i guess it does, he thinks.  he remembers his parents as he opens the car door, rolls down the window just a tad with the manual handle and sticks the hose through.  he blames them in a way.  for saying he was destined for greatness.  he didn't believe in greatness anymore, just that men were dogs.  he didn't want to be, be a part of that anymore.
she had told him his depression was staggering, and he needed to do something about it.
like any rational person, he knew there was nothing to be done.
he taped the top of the window with packing tape.  he had used it recently.
while he turns over the ignition, he is reminded of a joke.
soon it leaves him.
a sixties pop band brightened the interior for a moment.  he lowered the radio a bit. now it was more  background music than the montage track. at least, that's what he was thinking.
the nitrogen made him light-headed and there was little irritation from the carbon monoxide until the intense vertigo.
ringing.  his phone was in his pocket.
he took it out as he fell and it fell into the cup holder.

on the other line, trying to reach our antagonist, a firm looking for a writer.
he had applied in person.

it was 4:40 in the morning.  most things were sleeping.

he would never get to wonder why they were calling so late.