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The Decision
By
Joseph A. Romano
12-23-99—10:45 PM
The decision to kill a man was surprisingly easy. You’d have thought having been raised Roman Catholic that I would have had some severe issues with it but once I got past all that “thou shall not kill” and threats of eternal damnation horseshit, it was a piece of fucking cake. It felt as good as I’d imagined it would. And the funny thing is I didn’t really even know the man. In the end it all comes down to choices and decisions.
He was a big, loud fuck, the type that’s a real prick in his business affairs because “that’s how the world works.” I’d only seen him the one time, noisily sermonizing about his business successes to anyone who would listen. McDonnell introduced me but I forgot his name the moment he gave it. I do recall his handshake though; nearly broke my hand. Apparently he’s one of those guys who feel his masculinity will come under suspicion if he doesn’t cripple you in the exchange. I also remember his stare, like he was sizing me up, calculating my worth. I could tell immediately that he dismissed me as no threat and under ordinary circumstances he would have been correct. I don’t have what you’d call an aggressive personality and I suppose I’m a bit of a coward. I was never one to get into a lot of fights as a kid. I don’t think I was particularly afraid of getting
hurt it was more the humiliation the loser of a schoolyard fight has to endure. I didn’t want to be remembered as that kid who got his ass kicked in the sixth grade. We all have those obscure memories of the kid that threw up in class or who once pissed himself; the homely girl that you felt sorry for even as you joined the mob making fun of her. You’d think that after 30 years we’d forget these things but we don’t. I can’t explain it but I guess that even then I was afraid of how I’d be remembered. I’m also not a very ambitious person but I attribute that more to indifference than to laziness. Is it my fault that I find most pursuits to be dull and stupid? My psych 101 professor would have argued that it’s because I myself am dull and stupid. Jackass. I guess that’s why he was teaching psychology at a junior college in Shitville.
Anyway, it was the annual Christmas party and everyone was dressed to the nines. It’s funny, the whole world’s gone business casual so folks get all excited about putting on a tie or a dress. Big deal, it’s not like nice clothes hide the fact that you’re a dirt bag. So I’m into my third martini and had just finished explaining to the bartender for the third time that a martini is made with gin; that if I wanted a vodka martini I would have asked for a vodka martini. And for the third time he gives me a look that says if I’d only turn my head for a split second, he’d drop a goober in my drink. What is it with people? I’m trying to educate the man and I get attitude? Unbelievable. So anyway, it’s at this point that McDonnell grabs my arm to introduce me to this lout, some big corporate blow from Chicago doing us all a favor by flying out for the Christmas party. I guess we’re all supposed to feel honored that he deemed us worthy of the trip. Our office only made the company about 10 million last year- half of which probably went into the old boy’s pocket, but we’re the ones who are supposed to feel privileged.
Hold on a second. I think someone’s at the door…No, just a room service waiter going to a room down the hall. Did I mention that I’m in a hotel? A big expensive one smack in the middle of down town San Francisco. I’ve been here since the Christmas party that was held in its Grand Ballroom two nights ago. I figured I’d be tying one on and thought it best to spend the night. I can’t really afford this place but it doesn’t really matter. I checked in shortly before the shindig with my party suit, an overnight bag of shit and this laptop. I think I brought the laptop more out of habit. I certainly had no intention of working while I was here but I’m glad I have it. It’s given me something to do with myself. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here.
In the meantime, here I sit with a $85 bottle of Jack Daniel’s courtesy of The San Francisco Hilton and as Holden said, “if you really want to hear about it I suppose I should start with my childhood and all that David Copperfield crap”. But I don’t really give a shit so why should I expect anyone else to? But for the sake of killing time I figured I put something down for posterity. But the more I’ve thought about myself I’ve realized that there’s not much to tell. I’ve worked for the same company for the past 10 years and for that same 10 years have wanted to get out. I manage an accounting unit for an insurance company. Big deal huh? Certainly not what I pictured myself doing as I took writing courses and English Lit in college some 20 years ago. Like most people that choose a liberal arts major I really had no idea what I wanted to do so long as it was something cool, a job my friends would envy and about which I’d be proud to talk about at parties. But unfortunately I experienced the exact opposite, a job that’s decidedly
uncool (Accounting? Please) and in social situations I would always try to steer the conversation to other topics.
12-24-99—9:15 AM
Well that ended abruptly. Three quarters of a bottle of JD will do that I guess. Hung over on Christmas Eve. How pathetic is that? Well I don’t suppose 9:15 AM constitutes “eve”; soon though. Wonder what the rest of the world will be doing? Probably spending time with family, the “wife and kids.” Not me. Some might find that sad and maybe I did too once upon a time but like everything, you get used to it eventually.
When my wife left, the first emotion I can recall feeling was relief. She wasn’t a horrible person, don’t get me wrong, I was just tired of playing the game called compromise. Most single people can’t to wait to get married while it seems most married people can’t wait to get out, though few seem willing to wait “till death” to part. I guess I was one of them; I just didn’t have the balls to be the one to end it so I forced her hand. No one can take being shut out forever. Eventually I suppose her leaving was just a formality. I don’t really regret it though. I got myself a little studio apartment downtown, close to some good restaurants, theaters and bookstores. I came and went, as I wanted without having to account for my whereabouts. I read, watched movies, and even tried my hand at writing now and again. Was my life “richer and fuller”? Probably not, but at least it was mine again. Often at work I’d sit in my office, gazing out over the rooftops of the hundreds of other office buildings crammed with thousands of people doing God knows what and that oh so tired cliché would come to mind;
What does it all mean? What was the point? a new DVD player? a new car? To paint the house, eat your dinners, celebrate holidays? There I sat, day after day, crunching numbers and writing reports only to go home and mow the lawn or change a light bulb; eat another dinner; hoping the roof wouldn’t leak during the next storm; waking each morning to the prospect of the same day I’d lived for the last 10 years. No, I can’t say I was sorry when she left.
12:52 PM
Man, right after typing that last sentence I had to hurl something awful. Truth be told I’m a bit of a pussy when it comes to drinking. My body just can’t tolerate it much anymore. I barely made it to the bathroom and even then I yakked in the tub. Fuck it. That’s what hotel maids are for. I then proceeded to take a short nap on the tile floor of the bathroom, interrupting myself now and again to dry heave. Yea, I’m one hell of a boozehound.
You know I realized that I strayed from my original point of actually meeting the asshole whose life I would soon end.
As I already said I was into my third martini when McDonnell brought me over to meet the guy. I wasn’t too interested but I was feeling pretty good at that point so I figured better now than later. He was blathering on about what a great son of a bitch he is and about his new BMW (did I mention he was a prick?) and of course McDonnell and Patterson were practically fighting over who got to put their lips on his ass first. It was pretty fucking ridiculous. So he gives me his Ultimate Warrior handshake and continues on about what a how anyone who gives two shits about quality wouldn’t settle for anything less than a BMW and how he’d put it up against a Mercedes any day for its pussy attracting supremacy. The usual fat white man with a small dick speech. In order to extricate myself from the situation I basically slammed the remaining three-fourths of my martini and excused myself to get a refill. So what does this prick do? He says that he needs a refill also and that he’ll join me at the bar.
So he gloms onto me like I was his long lost brother or something. Starts in about his personal life and how sure he may have all the money and the cars and more pussy then he could shake a dick at but that on the inside,
(inside-ha-the cliché flinging bastard) he’s really miserable and what he wouldn’t give to meet a woman that loved him for himself and not his money.
The more he drank the more he bent my ear. I could see McDonnell watching us, pissing himself with jealously thinking the asshole was grooming me for a promotion or something. (Actually that was the only good part about being stuck with the fat bastard). So anyway I keep drinking and he’s matching me drink for drink but for some reason the booze stops affecting me. The sloppier he got the more
clearly I was thinking. The hate I felt for this bastard and all he represented became almost palatable. It hit me then that if even by the most infinitesimal measure, the world would be a better place without this fucker. It was that instantaneous. And as soon as the thought entered my head I knew I would follow through with it. There was no concern about how I would get away with it or the previously mentioned eternal damnation horse shit. All that shit went right out the window and I actually found myself excited at the idea of having some immediate direction to my life.
At that point it simply became a matter of how. The when was easy, it had to be that night. I already knew about his early morning flight to Chicago. The wife apparently wanted him home in plenty of time for Christmas. I immediately went into mental overdrive. I knew I needed to get out of there alone, so when he left to take a piss I made the rounds of goodbyes. McDonnell, visibly relieved by my departure, took the opportunity to fill the vacancy I created at the bar. It took me about twenty minutes of small talk and “have a Merry Christmas” crap before I was able to make my way out of the ballroom and into the hotel lobby. At that point he was already back at the bar where McDonnell was ordering more drinks and bending his ear. I found a soft, high back chair somewhat obscured by a large spider palm, on the far side of the lobby. And there I sat, smoking and watching the ballroom doors for my friend’s departure. I’m hungry…
3:45 PM
Room service just left with the tray. I hadn’t eaten anything since the stale dinner rolls from the Christmas party that I’d found in my jacket pocket this morning. After the JD fiasco I needed something to settle my stomach. I guess they’re still not on to me. I was prepared to go down swinging if I had too. It’s only a matter of time though and the longer it takes the less I feel like fighting. I never would have figured things to end this way. Believe it or not I used to have a very positive outlook, glass half full and all that shit, a real morning person. I recall feeling such
promise in the morning—that first cup of coffee, the good-natured
bullshitting with co-workers, checking those first e-mails of the day, thinking about a particular piece I was working on when my imagination was really sparking and the words just flowed. Eventually it would all just turn to shit, the good feelings fading as the day just became one more in a string of long, dull afternoons, trying to look busy and watching the clock. Not looking forward to going home but not wanting to be at work either. Knowing I had no choice about either one. I just didn’t see the point anymore I guess. Fuck it. I don’t want to go down that Goddamned road again.
So about eleven fifteen I spot him coming out of the ballroom, drunk as a motherfucker. Folks were ignoring him by this point; no longer the big wheel from Chicago but simply another soused reveler. No one from the firm paid any attention to him as he was obviously too drunk to remember any of them anyway. I watched him lurch into the bathroom so I stayed behind my spider palm and waited. In the meantime my co-workers filtered out of the ballroom and into the night. Ten minutes later I went looking for him. By then the ballroom had emptied and the only ones left were the hotel staff, a bunch of kids half heartedly stacking chairs while looking for half filled beer bottles amongst the empties.
The bathroom was dark when I entered but the motion sensitive lights flickered on almost immediately. Assuming I somehow missed his departure I turned to go. It was then that I heard a combination fart/snore. The fucker had passed out in a stall. His head still resting on the rim of the toilet I stood over him, watching as he drooled onto his $200.00 Hugo Boss tie, a tie already ruined by the barf that didn’t make it into the bowl. Revolted, I threw a leg past his head and flushed the toilet with my foot. The roar of the bowl had no affect on him. As I stood there the hatred I had felt before was replaced by loathing and disgust and before I knew it my hands had found his neck and forced his head into the bowl. This got his attention. He thrashed like fish on the end of a line but I put a knee between his shoulder blades and all of my 180 pounds behind it. He didn’t thrash long. In less than two minutes it was over. After, he even looked like a fish, mouth hanging open, bulging eyes staring at nothing. I leaned against the side of the stall and caught my breath for a minute then beat a hasty retreat. All the booze I drank earlier seemed to flood back in to my system and as I reeled out of the stall I threw up on the slick tiles but was out the door before the last chunk hit the floor.
Thankfully the lobby was empty and the bathrooms were just around the corner from the elevators. I ducked inside and punched the number twelve, the doors sighing shut behind me.
So there it is. I’ve been holed up in this room ever since. I watched from my window as police cars and an ambulance converged on the hotel shortly after midnight. I stood there oblivious to all but the flashing red and blue lights and my own breathing. When I saw the sheet draped body roll onto the circular driveway and the waiting ambulance I may have even stopped breathing. I woke up several hours later, the back of my head throbbing and a suspicions red stain on the door of the open mini-bar. I’ve been expecting company ever since but so far nothing. Soon though, for as I lunged into the elevator, just before the brushed stainless steel doors whispered shut, my eyes caught the red blinking light of the security camera pointing directly into my elevator car, and directly into my face. But I’m not scared anymore. It’s all about decisions and choices after all. And I know that twelve stories is more than enough to do the job.
Copyright © 2006 Joe Romano
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