He sat in the third car of the subway, his large bag in the seat beside him heavy with grief, bad choices, and terrible memories. He thought how hard it would be to kill himself on a train, but maybe not—he could walk from one car to the next just as the train swayed and fall out, or he could stand up and confront a group of gangbangers.
Then he thought of his father and the gift of a brand new lawn mower on his eleventh birthday. His father taught him everything about it and he felt so proud cutting lawns all over the area. A year later with great flourish, his father gave him a large bag for his repair books and numerous tools. When he turned thirteen, he realized it had not really been a gift. His father was drinking way too much and the lawn mower kept him in liquor.
His earnings made sure his mother and two sisters had food, clothes, and shelter, but everything ended badly when he turned sixteen. That night he vanquished his father when he saw him pick up a belt to whip his mother again in another one of his drunken tantrums. Enough was enough.
He left his lawn mower and a few hundred dollars, but grabbed the bag that carried everything he needed to fix a lawn mower, because he knew it would always be a part of him, and never looked back.
Suicide, he thought. I wonder—
Two young men entered the car, interrupting his thoughts. One held a gun loosely in his left hand. They walked to a young woman sitting a few seats in front of him.
“Gimme your phone,” the one with the gun rasped. “My friend would like the contents of your purse. Me, I think I'd like that diamond—”
Their observer stood up. He lifted his bag. “Hey,” he called, “why not rob me first? There’s lots of valuables in here. You can take this bag and then rob everyone if you still want.”
He tossed the bag to the young man without the gun, who caught it easily. The young man unzipped it greedily, unsnapped two snaps, and looked inside. “What the hell? There’s—”
His friend moved closer to get a better look. The bag inflated suddenly, growing in every dimension, its flap now large enough to grab them both and, before anyone could say anything, swallow them whole.
The train pulled into the next stop and all of the other passengers ran out of the car as quickly as they could. Then the man picked up his bag, let it snap and zipper itself, and slowly walked three cars down and took a seat near the back. He placed his bag heavy with grief, bad choices, and terrible memories next to him.
“Every night,” he said, “is a good night to die.” He smiled, remembering his father’s last words to him: “I knew you’d discover the power of my gift to you. I just knew it. Now get out of here and—”
His father was unable to finish. The empty bag usually full of tools and books had leapt across the room, grabbed him in its growing opening, and swallowed him whole.
| Copyright © 2023 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively. |
Wow! Talk about a twist. And maybe his father shared his wish for oblivion, and set it up to commit suicide himself. Suicide by magic bag, that's a new one...
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