REVOLVER

revolver
Originally uploaded by Jerk Of All Trades.

It had been so long ago he couldn't even remember when he bought it. It was simply part of his life, like putting on his shoes or brushing his teeth. A daily ritual that he had repeated every day for.....years? He could remember putting that one, dull silver bullet in the chamber and spinning the cylinder for the first time. Remember putting the barrel to his temple and gently squeezing the trigger.

*click*

Nothing. No bang, no pain and no end to his life. He had done this everynight for as long as he could remember. Remember; he used the word a lot. Too much really, especially for someone who couldn't remember WHY he did it. He remembered seeing a TV show about a man who'd tried to kill himself in the same manner, but had only succeeded in blowing his eyes out of his head. He was still alive, but blind and without half of his face. Oddly enough, he no longer wanted to die. He loved life, and was one of the happiest people you'd want to meet. He would visit schools and tell teenagers and their parents about the gift of life and not to waste it. All he learned from that guys story was to NOT put the gun against your temple. NOW, he placed it just above his ear. He wanted to make sure that when it happend, it was final.

He'd wake up, go to work and shuffle through his day like all the other zombies, and go home. He'd find something to eat for dinner and then he'd sit, alone in the dark. He'd listen to the world outside his window. He'd marvel at how it could be so quiet and yet so noisy at the same time. In all the cacophony of cars, sirens and the overpowering white noise of the city, you could hear birds singing, leaves rustling, and a mothers voice in the distance calling her child in for dinner. Life was all around him, but inside him...., yes, inside him, that was a different story. Every day he'd sit and think about his purpose. Why was he here? Every night for years, he sat and thought about it. What was his "Raison D'etre"? Every night he pondered his own existence, and every night he could not find the answer. There was no reason for him to be here, and yet there was no reason for him to kill himself. One day it came to him. Fate. Fate would decide for him. The great odds maker in the sky would at least let him know if he was to stick around awhile longer. That was what the gun was for. He'd place one bullet in, round and round she goes and then straight up to his head. *Click* One more day. Afterward he'd continue the ritual; unload the gun and then clean it. True, it hadn't really been used, but he wanted to make sure it was in perfect working order. Besides, he liked the smell of the cleaner.

One night, he'd stopped at a bar on the way home. He wasn't much of a drinker, and could never bring himself to by a 6 pack when all he wanted was a pint. He must have passed this bar a million times over the years and never stopped in, but today had been a hot one. A cold beer sure sounded good.

It was dark and smoky, like a dive out of some 30's flim noir. He fully expected the bartender to be played by William Bendix, and for a young Lana Turner or maybe Jean Teirney to be the hooker with a heart of gold sitting at the end of the bar. No; maybe Barbara Stanwyck as the sassy cigarette girl. Whatever. He sat down and waited for the bartender to come over. "What's your poison?" he asked. He was more of a Dana Andrews type, not Bendix at all. "Jack n' coke. Lots of ice." he replied. The fake Dana smiled and said "You got it." before walking to the far end to grab a glass and mix up his magic potion.
Soft jazz played in the background, and the only other customer was an old man who'd seen several empty bottles of whiskey over the years. He had that perpetually sour look, and a swollen red nose. He never looked up. He just sat there staring at the ashtray in front of him, as if waiting for a genie to appear out of the smoke and grant him 3 wishes. The fake Dana Andrews strolled back and set his drink in front of him. "Here ya go pal, three-fifty. You wanna start a tab?" First he looked at his drink and then the barkeep. "No thank you, this'll do." He dug into his pocket and laid a 5 on the bar. "Keep the change" he said as he lifted his glass to his lips. "Thanks. You need anything just yell" He just nodded and took a drink. It was only when the cold liquid touched his lips that he recalled he came in for a beer. Why had he ordered what he did? When was the last time he'd even had hard liquor? 5 yrs ago? 10? Who cares; it was cold and the sweetness of it was pleasant.

"You dont need a reason you know?" the voice startled him. It was the old man from the end of the bar. He still wasn't looking up from the ashtray. "Excuse me?" the old man didn't answer. He must have imagined it. He went back to his drink. Minutes, perhaps hours went by. There was no way to tell what time of day it was in here. He'd found himself staring at his glass. He had no idea how long he'd been spacing out. When he looked up, the old man was gone and the barkeep was sitting on his side of the bar reading the newspaper. It was time to leave, he was hungry and there was the gun. There was always the gun.

By the time he got home he didn't feel like cooking. Tonight, if the gun felt like talking, pizza would be his last meal. He ate quickly and after brushing his teeth he sat down with the gun. He took a deep breath and gently pushed the bullet home. He closed his eyes, spun the wheel 'round and with a flick of his wrist popped it into place. He smoothly, without fear, lifted the gun to his head and paused. Even though he'd eaten, and brushed his teeth, he could still taste the faint sweetness of the whiskey. Why had he ordered that drink? Did it really matter? Like the old man said, you don't really need a reason. He exhaled and gently squeezed the trigger.