Andrew's Seventieth Birthday

Somehow, this was an important distinction to Andrew. He'd had no tolerance for suicide in his life. He had always rather agreed with his father, who'd said that the only reason people kill themselves is because they wanted someone to notice them. In fact, if someone had told him they were going to kill themselves, his uncensored response would be to tell them to go ahead, but to try not to make a mess. He'd always seen it as one big cry for attention. Yet that wasn't what he wanted--quite the opposite, actually. If he could, he'd just remove himself from everyone's lives, like Jimmy Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life. Yes, that would be ideal. He looked at the clock. Hmph. He'd been laying in bed for a full half-hour. No sense wasting the day, he thought, especially when it's your last.

His leathery feet slid into the navy blue cotton slippers he had received for his birthday last year. He stood up, and his seventy-year old body gave its usual popping admonition for his forcing it to undertake such an action. Actually, Andrew was in rather decent shape for his age, thanks in large part to the later efforts of his wife, Eileen. He was the only one among his immediate friends who was not suffering from some disease, syndrome, or condition, and aside from the usual mild hay fever he got this time of year he was feeling quite well. After stretching, Andrew walked into the bathroom. He counted out his vitamins and contemplated the large assortment of colored pills in his hand. He stared at himself in the mirror and shrugged as he tossed them into his mouth, chasing them down with a Dixie cup full of water. Hmph. The faucet was dripping again. He'd only fixed that last week. It was that damned new piping. Some kind of plastic or ceramic or something, and it held water for shit. He decided to attend to it after breakfast.

Andrew opened the closet and pulled out the old gray terry-cloth robe hanging in between the navy cotton and black silk once-used robes from his last birthday and three Christmases ago, respectively. He'd wear the slippers but he'd be damned if he was going to wear black silk like some kind of gigolo. He opened the front door, which squeaked out a demand for oil, and walked out to collect his newspapers. It was pleasant out, a bit chilly but not at all as humid as it had been last week. Andrew looked at the lawn as he tucked the newspapers under his arm. He'd cut it Saturday, but it was already beginning to look a bit unkempt. He wouldn't have time to mow it again before the family arrived. Damn. He'd pay the neighbor's kid to do it, but if he found out Andrew was dead he'd just pocket the money and spend it on cigarettes. Oh well, it wasn't worth it to let the lawn spoil the day, he thought. He walked back inside and set the newspapers on the kitchen table.

Today, he decided, would be as good as any other day to die. Better than any other day, in fact: He would get to spend it with his family, who would be arriving in time for lunch. The Weather Channel had said that it would be seventy-five degrees and sunny, and as he opened his USA Today, the large color map confirmed it. Andrew scanned the headlines and then laid the newspaper down next to the Wall Street Journal, which remained encased in its plastic bag. Somewhere in there was the value of the stocks Daniel had advised him to buy, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out how to find them. It didn't matter much now. Daniel had set up his inheritance, if he didn't like it it was his own fault. Andrew briefly wondered if Daniel had ever thought of it that way, then quickly dismissed the idea.

He opened the refrigerator and peered inside, his bowl of Cheerios in hand. Andrew shopped economically, not so much in anticipation of death, but merely because he hated having half-used containers cluttering up the refrigerator. His philosophy was exactly opposite that of his son's wife's, who shopped at the price clubs and had three-gallon tubs of goldfish crackers. Unfortunately, this particular morning that meant that Andrew was fresh out of milk. And it sure as hell wasn't worth it to go out and buy a whole new carton. Andrew mumbled to himself as he poured the cereal back into the box. Usually he stayed on top of such things.

He took the loaf of bread out of the refrigerator and put two slices into the toaster. It wasn't worth the effort to cook an omelet. Besides, he couldn't cook eggs; not like Eileen. No one could cook eggs like Eileen. She used butter, real butter, in the pan, and then put just the right amount of salt on them as they were finishing. Even after they started eating healthy, that was the one thing she wouldn't change. All fat, cholesterol and sodium was off-limits, except for the eggs, yolk and all. She would just stand there behind the oven with her old blue apron on, all of her attention held on the frying pan, while Andrew set the table.

Andrew smelled smoke. Damn! The toast was burning. He picked up the butter knife and dug around, trying to loosen the obstinate butternut. With sudden realization, Andrew jerked the knife out of the toaster and threw it to the counter. Jesus, that was close. He unplugged the toaster and let it sit. Andrew leaned back against the sink. Just how did he want to die? Certainly not electrocuted on the kitchen floor. No, besides the aesthetics of it Andrew would wait until the family had left before he did it. But even then, he hadn't thought about how he would do it. He could drown himself in the bathtub, but that seemed a very unpleasant way to do it. He didn't wasn't at all fond of guns, and he was pretty sure there was a waiting period for that now anyway. Self-immolation was definitely out. The idea of slitting his wrists made him queasy. Sleeping pills. Did he have sleeping pills? No, probably not. Electrocution didn't seem too bad after all, but he seemed to recall some kind of loss of bowel control. He didn't need a diaper yet, and that was part of the point of doing this in the first place. Or was it? Yes. He wanted to die before he started losing all of his faculties. But was that it? Was it Eileen? He did miss her, but right before she died she had told him to go on without her. She said he still had too much to live for. So did she for that matter. She found so much more joy in life than Andrew did. Everything was a reason to embrace existence. It may have seemed naïve to some, but Andrew knew no one else who endured so much without ever asking why. Even in the last months, when she could barely walk

Andrew threw the toast into the trash. He'd lost his appetite. What had he left off on? Electrocution. He'd think about it. Jumping off the roof? Out of consideration for the family he preferred something that wouldn't disfigure his body too much. Besides, even for a man of seventy a ranch house didn't provide a reliable means of suicide. Wasn't there some arsenic in the garage? He wasn't sure.

He walked down the hallway and opened the door to the garage. It would be on the shelf above the workbench if it were there. Andrew squeezed between the front bumper of the Buick Park Avenue and the workbench, peering over the shelf. No. Now he remembered, Eileen had made him throw it out when the first of the grandchildren was born. He looked around. Riding mower? No. Weed Wacker? Absolutely not. Tennis ball machine? Uhhh...no, but it did provide a funny image. He rested his hand on the hood of the car. Andrew looked down, then at the closed garage door. Carbon monoxide. It was supposed to be painless. People did it by accident. And the Buick was finally running right.

Excellent, he thought, as he closed the door to the garage behind him. It was all settled. Tonight, instead of going to bed, he'd go to the garage and leave the car engine on while he slept. He could even listen to a CD. Then, in the morning, they would find him sitting in his car. Or would they. How long would it be before someone would find him? It didn't matter, of course. Once he was dead it would just be an empty shell. Still, it would be a shame for the family if he was all rotted at the visitation. No, not he, his body, his body would be all rotted. He would not be there at all. He would not be at all.

That was what had always frightened Andrew so much about death. Not the inability to think or act, but the fact that he wouldn't be there to know. The complete, absolute emptiness of it all used to keep him up all night; he would cling to Eileen for comfort and she would soothe him, stroking his face till he finally fell asleep. Andrew was not particularly religious. He didn't believe in any sort of afterlife or reincarnation. He wasn't Catholic, thankfully, which would save the family the ordeal of trying to get him a burial.

Andrew found himself back through the hallway, beyond the kitchen, sitting in the den in his old, faded green armchair. He sat back, and the footrest popped out unsteadily from the bottom of the chair. He had fought with Eileen for the better part of a decade for this chair. It didn't in any match the nice off-white couch, or the new leather armchair that he faithfully ignored. Andrew picked up the remote control, pointed it at the television, then put it back down. That would be a phenomenal waste of his last day on earth. He turned around and looked at the bookshelf behind the couch. Between the musty antique books lay his awards and other paraphernalia from his nearly fifty years of work. Which amounted to this. A house full of memories that he would shortly be leaving behind. But would that be so bad? Did he really have any memories left worth gaining?

Andrew stood up. He was no longer interested in this train of thought. Besides, that faucet was still dripping. He walked back into the kitchen, turned right and went down the stairs into the basement. He lugged his toolbox back upstairs and into the master bathroom. After a rather unsuccessful half-hour, Andrew threw down his wrench in disgust. Fuck the regulations, he thought, I'm not leaving behind a leaky house. He marched back into the basement, dug up the old leftover pipes from the storage room and marched back into the bathroom. Smiling and sweating at the same time, Andrew started replacing the new piping with his own copper pipes. As he removed each piece, he sawed it in half with a perverse joy. This is why I'm leaving, he thought, they won't even let you take a shit anymore without making you fill out a form. He looked over at his low-flow toilet. That's next. No. He wouldn't have time. By the time Daniel and Carrie and the kids left it would almost be time for bed. Maybe he could wait until tomorrow. No. It had to be today. Tomorrow he could become afraid. He would kill himself today.

His doctor would be a bit annoyed. He had given Andrew a clean bill of health up to eighty-five, at least, barring any accidents. What was the average life span now? Seventy-two? Yes, his death would probably bring the average down, but this did not overly concern Andrew. He'd never been too fond of doctors anyway, and he'd seen more than enough of them over the past few years.

Once he had finished with the plumbing, Andrew began to get dressed and started going over the checklist in his head. He didn't have too much to take care of. He tended to live day to day anyway. He would prepare his financial information as best that he could so Daniel wouldn't have too many problems with it. Andrew hated loose ends. At twenty he made a promise to himself that he would not leave anything in his life unfinished that he would have left to regret. The next day, he called up Eileen, his high-school crush, and asked her out to dinner. They were married less within a year. Forty-seven years later, when she went to sleep for the last time, they still loved each other just as much as they had the first day.

At half past noon Andrew was absent-mindedly shuffling papers in his office. Daniel was supposed to be here at noon. It was unusual for him to be late, even taking into account the retarding effect his wife had on road trips. Maybe they wouldn't come after all. But surely they would call if that were the case. Regardless, if they were not there by one Andrew would go ahead and kill himself. There was no use waiting around.

Just then, Andrew heard the tires of Daniel's Suburban roll up onto the driveway. He got up and made his way to the door, hoping he could somehow manage to act naturally. The doorbell rang just as he walked down the three steps to the foyer. He opened the door to the smiling face of his fifty-year-old son, Daniel.

"Hi, Dad. I'm sorry we're late, but we had to stop by on the way to pick up your birthday present," he said, still standing in the doorway, his wife and children peering around him.

"That's all right. I was just going through some papers…why don't you all come in?"

"Okay. I guess it's going to be hard to save this gift for later. Happy birthday, Dad!" Daniel said, stepping forward to give his father a hug. A long flat cord trailed from his right hand out the door. As the rest of the family entered the cord bunch up and Andrew realized that it was a leash, attached to a particularly energetic young dog of German Shepherd appearance and Doberman coloration. Andrew looked down at the puppy, which was now tugging on the cuff of his corduroys.

"Don't tell me this is for me."

"Don't worry, it's house-trained, more or less," Daniel said. He bent down and rubbed the dog's belly.

"More or less?"

"Yeah, come on. Let's go sit down."

Andrew sat down in his faded green armchair, immediately followed by the puppy which scrambled up the foot-rest and began to roll around in his lap. The children sat on the couch, looking enviously at the dog playing in their grandfather's lap. Carrie was already in the kitchen beginning to prepare lunch.

"How long do these things live?" he asked, prying his finger out of its mouth.

"I don't know, maybe fifteen years or so."

"Fifteen years, huh?"

"Yeah, sometimes more."

Carrie called from the kitchen, "Dad! You're out of milk."

"I know."

"Do you want us to run out and get another gallon?"

He looked down at the puppy, which paused briefly to stare back into his eyes. A smile broke through on his lips.

"Yes,that would be nice."