January 2, 2004
When I reached the end of my life, it came much sooner than I had anticipated. Circumstances are something that can rarely be controlled but I wish that I could have prepared. A last thought should be something meaningful like, I love sunsets or everything is beautiful but my last thought though was just so mundane and uninteresting.
The shirt I had been wearing when I was shot was a gift off labor from my younger sister, she is very artistic. An insanely detailed abstract design had been meticulously painted and screen printed on the front. She has no doubt turned to paint and canvas in the wake of my violent and tragic death.
Gunshot wounds are messy, not like in old movies where a bullet enters neatly through the front and blood trickles dramatically from a penny-sized hole. Little pieces of metal traveling hundred of miles an hour are almost explosive upon impact with something as soft as a human being. They tear through a body leaving behind only carnage. I suppose the proximity of the shooter and type of firearm are also factors, but when the bullet pierced my chest just above my heart, it left a gaping hole.
The blood no longer pumping vein to artery and back sat idle. Except from my chest as gravity moved it as quickly as possible out of me and towards the floor. Thick congealing trails of bright red smearing across my sister’s shirt art. And how sad I thought, to callously ruin all her hard work.
I wonder if I had known, that at that specific moment my brain functions were going to cease, would I have thought something different? What kind of luxury would that be to have complete control over the time of one’s death, to the extent that a last thought can be calculated and planned for? Whatever kind of luxury that may be, it was not afforded me.
The road upon which I had been driving, yielded no more than three other vehicles in the previous hour over which I traveled approximately 65 miles. And in that part of the country it was rush hour. The monotony of hill and snow was broken when I saw a sign advertising a rest stop. A stop to stretch my legs sounded nice, and anyone would rather piss in a toilet than on the side of the road no matter where they are.
“No water October - April,” stated a sign placed by the state of Oregon over the single drinking fountain. This sign gave me pause. The drinking fountains were of little consequence. I had bottled water in my car. The toilets however, worried me. No water meant that the toilets would not be plumbed which really makes them an outhouse. I would have to pee into a white bucket with a toilet seat over a hole in the ground feeling the chilly breeze not only through the open vents along the ceiling, but from below across the more personal areas of my body. I almost got back into my car; but 120 miles seemed a long way to go without a rest room. “Better than the side of the road,” I said trying to convince myself.
Luckily I was not shot on the toilet, I never made it that far. Trying to build up courage for my trip to the outhouse I stood for about five minutes admiring the scenery.
The gray sky was bitter for its loneliness, and I felt I had some sympathy in its unwavering dedication to be dismal. It had only the treeless snow covered mountains for company and me. I was becoming more and more depressed without growing any braver so I turned to the wall maps, both geographical and topographical of eastern Oregon. Using my pinky I began to trace my route from one border to the next. Idaho to California. Halfway between Burns and Juntura however, I heard a vehicle approaching.
In fading winter daylight, against the backdrop of white snow covered mountains, a large red truck is very prominent, a spot of blood on fresh white linens. It made me nervous.
Being a victim of paranoia I immediately assumed they were coming to kill me. Mickey and Mallory Knox with a double barrel shotgun and a stolen truck. Unfortunately I was right. Not that they were Mickey and Mallory with a shotgun or that the truck was stolen, but it was a man and a woman and they did shoot me in the chest, in cold blood.
I am starting at the ending though. I should go back two weeks earlier when I drove home to Idaho for Christmas. That was when I left Redding for the first and last time.
December 19, 2003
Returning home after living away, is like drinking from a bottle of wine that has been open too long. Remembering how great it was before, one expects the same thing again. But nature paired with time will change any good thing into something different.
So it was as I drove into my hometown, after dark. The signs and streets seemed familiar, but unwelcoming, recognizable from a dream and therefore not legitimate. Not able to reconcile my memory with reality, I started to feel disillusioned. Before going to meet my parents I drove up and down the same street, past my childhood home. Pretending the far window to the north was still mine. How could it not be? My dog though now dead was barking in the backyard.
I met my parents at a posh Italian restaurant. They were completely broke so a gesture like this (an expensive meal) was enormous. It was part congratulation for my first semester GPA of 4.0, but also I think, a peace offering. There had been animosity over their financial state.
I had been accepted to a prestigious film school in Canada the year before and after much effort was encouraged by my parents to be more realistic in my immediate aspirations. The cost was entirely prohibitive.
That next spring just after my 22nd birthday I began to understand my responsibility. I began to see myself as a boy when I ached to be a man. Still reeling from the disappointed shock of letting go of film school, I became frantic for a purpose. A couple of close friends were in a private school in Redding California and one of them was looking for a roommate. Their particular school was out of my price range but there was a junior college. It was reasonably priced, so I began to matriculate. I also began to pack. I left that May and hadn't seen my parents since. I had hardly talked to them, not because of the hard feelings, it was primarily because of my schedule. Between my full time work and part time school I had almost no time for anything but sleep and light socializing.
When we met at the restaurant my mood could best be described as cautious. My father wasted no time in greeting me with an embrace that took me so by surprise that my only response was a muffled hello. My mothers embrace was just as tight and equally comforting. A sudden swell of emotions rose up in me and swirled between my heart and my head. Contempt for their apparent nonchalance, then a relief to be close to family, and finally gratitude that my near silence hadn't driven them away.
The conversation went well and they were liberal with their congratulations. Well deserved but uncomfortably received. Having not been fully enrolled at junior college a 4.0 doesn't seem like such an accomplishment. When I pointed this out, my father waved his hand, swatting away doubt about my accomplishments.
“Listen,” he said. “A 4.0 shows that you worked hard. Don’t act like hard work is nothing.” And he was right. I had worked hard. The recognition was as satisfying as the meal and as settling as the hugs. My mother just sat smiling. After that we all seemed to feel better about some things.
January 2, 2004
As for my murderers and their motive, I cannot imagine that it was robbery. I hardly wanted the things in my car. And the car itself was nothing. A base model Honda Civic hatchback from 1990, the value was maybe a tenth of their trucks so I had no reason to be suspicious. However, paranoia trumps reason in a situation such as that, and I panicked
Following my assumption about their intentions, I sprinted to the men’s outhouse and shut the door. In an attempt to calm myself, I considered using the facility as intended, but one look at the toilet and 120 miles didn't seem so far. Instead I reached for the lock, or at least the area of a door where a lock is usually placed, and found nothing. Becoming more paranoid I braced myself against it using my body in lieu of a lock waited and listened.
The truck pulled up but the engine stayed on. I thought of the couple from the film “Fargo" who happened on some random road to witness the disposal of a police-officers murdered body. How they fled, were caught and gunned down in the snow. How tragic it was. A car door opened and closed, then footsteps moving quickly and deliberately towards me. The sound brought my fear to a fever pitch.
“I think he’s in here.” The voice that came through the door was a woman’s and my location was so important that she was sharing it.
From the vehicle came a voice masculine, low and commanding. It reminded me of the kind of voice heard during previews for scary movies. I was struggling to understand the words he was saying, pressing my ear to the door when a sharp rapping echoed through the small concrete enclosure. The woman was knocking. When I didn't answer she tried the handle but I instinctively grabbed it, held tight and she knew.
“He’s in here,” she shouted back to the man in the truck, and again I heard his voice but could not understand. “Because he’s in the men’s.” More mumbling from the truck. “Whenever you are.”
Another car door opened and closed, and then more footsteps. Running this time, directly at me. Bracing myself against the door with my shoulder commanding as much force as possible, the impact from the outside was staggering. I felt my shoulder dislocate, and was immediately dizzy as I started to collapse from the pain. Another blow from the outside and I was on the floor just clear of the door which swung inward as they entered. An expensive looking pair of cowboy boots obscured my view of the mock toilet. Then I heard the shot. It struck between my heart and my neck, and through my unzipped jacket my exposed t-shirt took the whole of the blast.
I wish I had zipped up my jacket, it was January after all. Of course the shirt would have still been ruined but I wouldn’t have had to see it like that. Or maybe I would have thought about it anyways.
December 25, 2003 - January 2, 2004
Having no children in the family eases the early morning up before the sun, Christmas tradition. But we were still as excited as we could be to see what we had in our stockings. Underneath our ten-dollar miniature synthetic tree were two presents each.
It was a small Christmas, and a very lackluster situation, but we were all resolved to make the most of what we had. Since we had very little, we romanticized having very little to make it a little more palatable.
Having very little sucks! In a society that measures the value of a person by the accumulation and quality of their things, to have no things at Christmas feels like a kick in the balls. All of us felt that but we found some Christmas Carol type of strength and it seemed to work all right. The gift of the t shirt from Angie elicited genuine admiration and appreciation. It was abstract but there were subtle little hearts hidden throughout the design. She was genuinely proud of how well it turned out, and I loved it. I am glad after all it was the shirt I was wearing when I died. It brought to my mind her face when she was little. Being a big brother was something I loved and I am glad that I got to be that for her. I hope she realizes how much it meant to me seeing what I could of those little blue hearts drawn out in screen print as the light faded into black.
I hated my cheap ass gifts to my parents but they seemed genuinely thrilled. They were probably surprised I brought them anything at all. A bunch of souvenir crap from a trip to the beach, a novelty mug for both of them. My mothers contained pre-made “Mexican” hot chocolate, and my dads had a specialty coffee concoction in it. I liked to see them happy about the gift and I suddenly felt guilty I didn’t get them more.
It is bizarre to think how we might have all acted differently had any of us known that I was about to be shot at a cold rest stop in Oregon. The sadness they must be carrying in quiet moment about last words and last looks that we shared have been felt by anyone who survives such a tragedy. And it must now be exaggerated for my parents when drinking or sharing fresh cups of coffee / Mexican hot chocolate. I hope they still enjoy them all the same. Modestly packed into dollar store gift bags with tissue paper and brought back from the sunshine to the cold and snow of the rocky mountains. I hope that they remembered that any such small pleasures afforded us by this strange little spinning rock are our only respite from acknowledging what is the only thing promised at our births, which is that we will all leave this planet.
As far as my gifts, I didn’t get much, the t shirt was the highlight. My parents got me the things a man needs when he is starting out and not thinking practically. Underwear, socks, t shirts, shaving cream, razors and body wash. My mom had simply gone to Target and picked out all the things she was sure I had not wanted to spend my own money on. Sadly she was right. I wish I had been able to use them more.
I did use the shaving cream and the razor because I went on a longoverdue date with an old crush. As I dropped her off in front of her house after midnight, I managed the courage to kiss her good night. I kept one hand on the small of her bare back under her jacket while she held her hand to my face, and I was glad it was clean shaven. She smelled like cucumber hand lotion and her touch was so soft. I remember her blue eyes catching the Christmas lights of her parents house as she told me to call her the next time I was in Idaho. I remember the blast of cold air as she opened the door to get out and the hint of her perfume that lingered. It was tinged with the smell of recently shampooed hair that had earlier been danced in, all of the scents mingled into energy and youth and I wanted to never forget it.
When I left two days later, Angie had an early bus to an art competition in Boise and I didn’t get a proper good bye from her. I wanted to show her that I would be arriving back in NorCal with her design showing proudly but I never got the chance. After a hasty rushed goodbye to my parents that morning, I set off to cross a desert and a mountain range. It hurts so much that I didn’t get to stop in any of those moments and wring every ounce of joy out of them.
Every mile closer to one place was a mile farther from another and a homesickness had snuck up on me. I wasn’t sure how I should deal with it, so I tried as best as I could to bury it. Crossing the Oregon border the weight of the gray sky pushed down feeling heavier and heavier and heavier with each passing mile… leading to eventually the last time I would feel anything at all.
I couldn't see anything of the man but his boots, but I was transfixed by the woman. She was beautiful. Slender with dirty blond hair and violent blue eyes that were vibrant but empty. She knelt alongside me and as my vision began to dim, she put my head in her lap and ran her fingers through my hair. She kissed me gently on the forehead, smiling at me as I examined her face.
“It’s nothing” she said... “you’re almost home.”
The coldness was starting to overwhelm so I struggled against my failed motor skills to get closer to her. My consciousness was starting to fade but I could feel her warm against me. I looked down at my ruined t shirt, smelling her hand lotion as it all came to a close. There was nothing. Just me, with two murderers, a t-shirt from my sister and the smell of cucumber lotion lingering for a moment.