Redemptive Angel

On a Wednesday, which is, of course, the middle of the week, I entered the Waverly Street Station of New York City. I had made an absolute commitment; whereas my birth had been decided by a genetic roulette resulting from the arbitrary act of passion, my final release from this planet would be an act of self-determination. I would not have completely approved of another person fulfilling the ultimate with public means. In some sense the act blemishes the goal of transportation: to connect people with various points of their city and not to transport them into unseen realms of the afterlife. Sentimentally there is something crude in using the subway system as an instrument of termination; intuitively I knew it was my surest method. I truly hoped no one would be inconvenienced and the public relations department of the mayor’s office would not be unduly disturbed. I could not feel much sympathy for the potential delay to service my leave would cause; I was never against seeing municipal employees earn their check, and whatever inconvenience to the normal schedule I caused could in no way make up for the cumulative tally of its unpredictability over my lifetime. After having considered several methods, including gas, hanging, jumping from a skyscraper, submerging my head in the toilet, pleading with an understanding friend, I decided that the power of an approaching train would leave no room for error.

I had a crippling phobia about guns; the potential tremor of my hand and my severe revulsion towards that blasphemous invention could not have helped me conquer any residual of cowardice at the precipitous instance. I know that poison was as lethal an instrument as any, but I lacked faith in the absolute potency of chemicals since I had a peculiar idea, though not completely unfounded, that each human system develops certain immunities and resistances others may not have. Hence I could not even trust cyanide though intellectually I knew its lethality index must be quite high, if not perfect. A subway car impressed me with its relentless will; I use the term will even though I was most impressed that while the conductor possessed consciousness, the train itself possessed none but pure will. Lest I sound confused, let me emphasize that will to me was not determination flowing from the head or heart; it was invulnerable motion of fluidity uncontaminated by human experience. As a child, I remember my fascination and awe with heavy equipment such as tractors and derricks. They seemed like extraplanetary monsters with a real life of their own. When I played with them I felt an unusual vitality as if participating in an energy and life beyond mortal limit.

Yes, the train would be my instrument; but I would be totally responsible for that leap. I had some trouble visualizing the entire scene. I had rehearsed the leap in my mind several times but afterwards could neither experience the feeling of nothingness nor see the resulting commotion about me. But how could one! The blank, the darkness was what termination was all about. I continually pushed away the feeling that I could survive with great pain and dismemberment. I had an image of a movie I once saw, The Freaks, where midgets revenged their hurt and humiliation by dismembering the “normal” agitator and sewing him together to be a midget. I could tolerate no identity more than I could a disfigured or unfamiliar one. But my commitment to be free of this world transcended any petty worry, moral anxiety, or fear of the unknown. It had been tested all week; the rehearsal led to this present descent, where my only choice was which platform to stand on, and then to make the subsequent leap, appointing the metal beast my savior from human pain. I entertained myself with the silly thought that whichever train did the job achieved a distinction few other trains would; I laughed, aware that I was personifying the very dumb beast of my destruction. I was totally committed and my sense of this erased any severe anxiety. Doubt is the basic enemy of composure. I sensed a smile on my face, or was it scorn? It really is impossible to look at ourselves, except through a distorted mirror. Yet there were times when I thought I could objectify myself, believing I reconstructed what others saw. I decided that I had both a smile and a scowl; I was casting a judgment on the worth of life, totally disregarding how others might answer to it.

“How many?”

“One.” I smiled as I flipped the token into the air. Our lives are plagues of one of this and one of that. This and that add up to thousands of minor nuisances we carry around. One of this and one of that, all eventually leading us to the refuse heap. How nice to know that just one thing remained; just one more item in the daily appointment book. I chose the middle of the week, since this choice permitted me to realize that life was going on for millions of other people - it was like a blessing, go on, enjoy; a curse, you damn fools, keep paining. Our psyches can be filled with odd distinctions if we look at it carefully. I had the feeling that if I killed myself on a Sunday evening, I would be terminating the world.

I used the remaining change to buy a newspaper. I was feeling a pleasing distance from humanity. My choice to end my life gave me an intense sense of completion. Everything seemed in place, well defined. I felt some fright but this came from a part of me that feared backing away, being seduced by a lover one knew was no good for one. I took a long last look at all the people I saw, those who passed me and those I passed. There was a strange paradox; they seemed reduced in size but felt more substantial - I saw that even though we do not exactly experience how much space we take up, we truly are there, eliminating a blank - that is why a mob is a weapon; it truly is material energy denying openness. I smiled. Maybe I should find a mob and let its whirlwind mow me down. It was pleasing to observe my fellow human beings with some distance. Many seemed very pretty and handsome. I could not imagine a more beautiful animal in the universe. Of course a young fawn or a peacock was perfect; but what about a ballerina or the grace and determination of an Olympic champion - instance of complete harmony yet resulting from such a burden of individuality, discipline, and sacrifice. I felt some sadness; of all things I might miss was the ballet. I always lost my breath when, at the end of a pas de deux or ensemble piece, the male held the ballerina afloat upon the pedestal of his strength.