Gabriel

Killing yourself is easier than tying your shoes. Forget guns; they're messy and you might end up like Harrison Ford in "Regarding Henry." Jumping is damn scary. Slitting wrists has got to hurt like hell. Poisons cause some pretty serious indigestion, and probably diarrhea too. The easiest way to "bring on many changes" is to simply place a pull-tie garbage bag over your head and tighten the drawstrings.

Or so I concluded during my sophomore year in college.

Two conditions conspired to sap me of a shit to give about anything. The first was migraines. Many people use the word casually to describe ordinary headaches, so here's a definition: If you can stand upright, if you can complete a task, any task at all; if you can acknowledge even a solitary stitch of beauty in the existential nightmare you call life, you have a headache, not a migraine. A migraine turns your world into a liquid blur and flattens you on the bed or floor, where you writhe in unspeakable agony, chanting, "I want to die, I want to die, I want to die."

The other condition sapping me was poverty. Ultimately I could stand the migraines because their visits were usually limited to three times a day. Relentless hunger filled the gaps.

The only job I could get was delivering the college newspaper. It paid $55 a week. I sold everything I had of value to buy food. When I ran out of things to sell I went as long as two days at a time without eating. All that stood between me and starvation was a friend I'll call Gabriel.

I'd known Gabriel for years. We went to high school together. He had an uncanny sense for when I was about to hit bottom: he'd stop by and invite me to join him for lunch at the local Pizza Hut. I'd tell him I had no money. He'd say come along anyway and keep him company.

Once inside the Hut I'd be overcome by the aromas. All that delicious tomato sauce. Dough rising in the oven. Cheese, onions, garlic. We'd choose a table assigned to Cheryl, our favorite waitress. She'd take Gabriel's order, which was always a large thin Supreme with double toppings. I'd warn him he wouldn't be able to eat it all and he'd say "Watch me." Sure enough, he'd only get halfway through before pooping out, then he'd utter the magic words:

"If you don't eat the rest it'll just get thrown away."

"You could take it home with you and heat it up later," I'd argue.

"No, I don't like pizza that way. It has to be fresh. Please, eat up. I wouldn't want it to go to waste."

Mid semester I got fired from the newspaper job. The migraines kept me up late, and I was unable to make it to work at 5:00 a.m. after blissfully falling asleep at 3:00. I dropped all but two of my college courses, the two I was doing best in: Intermediate German and Differential Equations. I sold my books to a used book store. I sold my high school class ring. I sold the family Bible.

"Take the leftovers home. Heat them in the microwave."

"No. Eat up. As a favor to me. I wouldn't want it to go to waste."

Cold weather came. I discovered the heater in my room didn't work. I complained to the landlord, who gave me a space heater. It didn't work either. I lost the will to do anything about it. I stayed in bed most of the time, wearing my coat and shoes for warmth, waiting for each day to mercifully end. I'd go outside to check the mailbox, but it was always empty. Nevertheless the daily ritual contributed purpose to my life.

"I wouldn't want it to go to waste."

Gabriel told me he was going home to his parents for Thanksgiving. He asked if I'd be okay. Of course I would, I said. Peachy keen. Don't mind me. Have a good time.

Thanksgiving Day I spent in bed, wearing street clothes and winter coat, waiting for a scornful sun to get the hell out of sight. There was no point in checking the mail; the mailmen were all home eating turkey and stuffing. And sweet potatoes. Cornbread. Cranberries.

The day after Thanksgiving I resolved to leave my room. I opened a desk drawer and removed the last article of value I owned, a pouch full of Indian head nickels I'd collected as a boy. It was time to spend those nickels, and I knew exactly what I wanted for them.

I went to the Hut. It felt funny sitting at a table by myself. Cheryl came by and asked if I preferred to wait for Gabriel before ordering. No, I told her, he's gone home for the holidays; it's only me today. I checked the menu. I had just enough money, in the form of Indian head nickels, to buy an order of garlic bread (with cheese!) and a small diet Pepsi. I placed the order with Cheryl.

"That's what you want?" she asked. "Garlic bread?"

"With cheese."

While waiting for the food to come I stared out the window and tried not to cry. I was pretty good at not crying, because I'd always thought we made our own beds to sleep in and only pussies cried about it. But this time I couldn't help myself. I was spending my coin collection on an order of garlic bread (with cheese) to feed a persistent and uncompromising hunger. The only way things could get worse is if I got kicked out of my room for not paying rent. Or if I flunked a course. Or maybe if the Indian head nickels turned out to be counterfeit. I stared out the window at snowflakes falling to earth and thought, one more stroke of bad luck, one more stumble, and . . . That's when I cried. Because I meant it.

Cheryl returned from the kitchen with a pizza and set it on my table. It was big, it was steaming. It smelled good.

"But, but, but—"

She handed me an envelope. Inside was a note:

Dear Cheryl: Enclosed is $20. If Steve shows up this weekend please order us a large thin Supreme with double toppings. Tell him not to wait for me; I wouldn't want it to go to waste. Gabriel



Gabriel exists, he reads my blog; leave a comment telling him how splendiferous he is.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYBODY!