by Neil Crabtree
Charley re-read the ad. Social media always had unusual offers, but this one seemed new.
Why not get it over with? In bold type, headlining across a bearded old white man smoking a cigarette sitting in a wheelchair. He appears depressed, his eyes with that thousand-mile stare Vietnam veterans used to talk about. His clothes look disheveled, his shirt not buttoned properly.
“The US Government has a program for those who have lived a full life and no longer feel productive. The program offers a painless way to end your life and a dignified way to store your cremated remains in one of our artistically crafted urns. Best of all, there is no expense to you or your family. Click on this link to learn more.”
Looking through Facebook, he scrolled until he found another:
“You’d do anything for your family. Why not the Personal Buyout?”
This one has a short video showing a healthy Jimmy Stewart guy shaking hands with a doctor in a white lab coat. Then the doctor hands him a financial document that makes him grin and look up and whisper ‘Thank You, Jesus’ as tears form in his eyes. The doctor pats his shoulder.
“The Personal Buyout helps families survive and thrive after the death of a loved one. How? The loved one choses when he dies and becomes a premier organ donor. The US Government has salvaged what Social Security made available before the end of the program. We created a Buyout that can provide over $250,000 to a family when the loved one accepts the deal. The loved one finds peace and knows he has taken care of his family for years to come. Certain rules and qualifications apply. Click here to learn more:
Charley found that, the more he looked for these assisted suicide cases, the more the Meta AI started to feed them to him.
“What are your end-of-life choices? A slow horrible death versus a fast painless passing. Do you really want to die in a rest home?”
This one struck him as very direct. Did the algorithm know about his cancer? To change course, he logged out of Facebook and went to Google. He typed in ‘govt assist suicide’ and a full page of titles and hyperlinks presented itself. There was even a set of reviews toward the bottom. Most were in favor, since the collapse of Social Security and the economic Recession had cost many hard workers their retirement funds. Only the Pope attacked the program as worse than abortion. He told Catholics this was a mortal sin and carried that kind of spiritual weight. On the other side, Evangelicals from every part of the country said that there was no sin in dying for your country. They considered those who chose the deal as heroes. By thinning out the Social Security ranks, the program had a chance of revival. America needed help.
Should he check to see if any of his friends were considering taking the deal, offing themselves for money or for peace of mind? Suppose he accidentally talked someone into it? That would be bad. Or would it?
He decided to call his friend Alvaro. Alvaro operated a social media operation, Pray With Alvaro, that had bought him a new home in a very nice neighborhood. He was an A-List Invited Speaker, hosted YouTube channels, and had an 800 number where during certain hours each day he’d actually speak to those in need of prayer, once the phone system weeded out the hundreds of callers trying to sell him something or manage his career. The thing that Charley found amazing: Alvaro didn’t really believe in God. He acted like he did, for business purposes, but those who had known him for years knew that he had finally found a legal way to use his charm and incredible Snake-Oil Salesman voice and gestures to make money. Building a church was not out of the question, he told his friends. He would consider them investors at the ground floor level and share the profits, which would be huge. There’s no inventory, he explained. No logistics, no warehousing, no creditors once the builder was paid off. “God is the HOTTEST thing going! And I help people talk to Him,” Alvaro pitched. They agreed to meet again when they were all sober.
“Charley, my friend. I prayed that you’d hit me up,” Alvaro said, answering my call.
“I just heard from your ex. On the prayer line. You need to talk to that lady.”
“Edith called you? To pray?”
“Charley, she is thinking of offing herself. Her current husband Desmond is leaving her. She doesn’t handle rejection well.”
“I hear that. She left me for Desmond, what, seven years ago and stayed pissed at me all this time for not trying to win her back,” Charley said.
“This is serious. I pitched her on joining us in the church venture and she said no. ‘I’m tired of money,’ she said. Something’s not right. Nobody is tired of money,” Alvaro said.
“I called you because I started getting all these Facebook ads offering free assisted suicide. They’ll even make you a Personal Buyout on your body parts.”
“I know about that stuff. My call volume has gone way up. People want me to advise them on ending their miserable lives. It’s got me in a bind. If I say, yes, off yourself, I’m losing a paying customer. If I say no, then I have to come up with reasons why they should go on living their miserable lives. And that’s much harder than I ever thought it would be.”
“Jeez. What do you do?” Charley asked.
“I tell them to ask God,” Alvaro said. “That’s what they want to hear. And it gets me off the hook.”
“What did you tell Edith?”
“I told her to call Charley.”
“Thanks.”
“Later my friend. Got a live one on the VIP line.”
Charley got the call from Edith as soon as Alvaro disconnected.
“Charley. Edith here. I have something important to tell you.” Her voice sounded practiced, like she read the words from a script. Edith used to practice things to say before they went out, and had embarrassed herself several times by saying them after the conversation had gone in a different direction. She made their Friendly Divorce miserable.
“You’re thinking of suicide,” Charley said.
“I—what? How do you know?”
“Alvaro told me.”
“He can’t do that,” she screamed.
“He’s a friend. Not a priest.”
“Damn him to hell,” she said.
“I’m wanting to hear your side of this. Are you in the government program?”
“No, I, I don’t know. I’m a candidate so far.”
“Don’t do it, Edith. Being dead lasts forever. You’re not that kind of person.”
“Desmond said you would try to talk me out of it.”
“Alvaro said Desmond is leaving you.”
“Desmond is in love. With a man he works with. He’s leaving me for a man.”
Charley paused. This was some very thin ice. He did not want to say anything bad about Desmond but he had never liked him. Desmond had more in common with Edith than with Charley. He liked shopping, for God’s sake. All the signs were there.
“You’re better off without him,” Charley told her. “You’re a very attractive woman.”
“I’m sixty-seven, Charley. I’m almost as old as you. I have wrinkles. Crepey skin. One breast has been removed. I take seven prescriptions each morning. I don’t need this shit.”
“Get through this divorce, then take a long vacation. You’ll be fine.”
She paused. Longer than felt comfortable.
“Edith?”
“Yeah. I’m still here. Thanks, Charley. Let’s talk again soon.” Then she hung up.
After that, Edith let his calls go to voicemail but never called back. Seven years earlier they had divorced for a reason Charley had trouble recalling. Different wavelengths or something close to that, two people just stop communicating, then eventually get to where the sound of the other’s voice becomes an irritant. While he didn’t mind not hearing from her, Charley hoped she would send him a postcard from Uruguay or some other God-forsaken place, showing her kissing her latest flame. But that’s not what happened.
Desmond let him know.
“Charles,” he said to start their phone conversation. “I’m calling to let you know Edith passed away peacefully yesterday morning.”
“You twit. You let her kill herself, didn’t you, Desmond? You killed her.”
“You stop that talk right now, Charles. She made her decision and asked me to grant her last wish. We will be having a memorial for her next Saturday when the urn with her ashes is delivered. Will you be attending?”
Charley hung up. He felt numb.
“What the hell is wrong with people?” he shouted to the empty room. The walls had nothing to say, the furniture stayed silent. The buzzing noise came from his cellphone.
Alvaro called. “Desmond just let me know,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“My loss? Alvaro, did she tell you something I don’t know?”
“No, man. She never called back.”
“She was mad at you, she told me. Spoiled her surprise. She damned you to hell.”
“Well, at least she kept it in house. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”
“Of course not,” Charley said. “There’s a memorial, Desmond said.”
“He’s sending me the details. What did you say to him?”
“I told him I thought he killed her.”
“Oooh. I bet that ruffled his feathers. They never got divorced.”
Charley thought about it. “He’ll inherit her retirement fund. Her Social Security too. Hers is much higher than what he receives. He benefits from her death.”
“That’s a sticky one. She may have a will. Hell, Uncle Sam says we benefit from her death. Motive, opportunity, he didn’t do anything. The Administration offered a new communion wafer and she closed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Desmond is more of a bystander. Don’t you go after him, Charley.”
“What should we do?”
“I’ll make arrangements for us to go to the memorial. Desmond wants me to speak. We’re negotiating my fee. He’s afraid you’ll say something weird.”
“I love you, man,” Charley said, meaning it.
“That’s what friends are for. You be cool. Get loaded. Listen to old music. Fuck the news.”
The memorial at the Fort Worth Marriott Hotel, Reception Room Number 2 had tables for fifty. Maybe twenty-one showed up. Add another seven for Desmond’s friends, unknown to the rest of the group. There for the party. While many gravitated to Alvaro, they avoided Charley like a man who might become violent at some point in the procedure. He knew several of Edith’s friends, and only the brave ones recognized him and approached.
“Charley, I’m as heartbroken as you might be,” an attractive younger woman said to him. “What a shock to deal with.”
Charley looked her over until he remembered, this was Edith’s niece Annabel, ten years older since he’d last seen her. The transition from young lady to this lady standing next to him made him smile. She had flirted with him outrageously back then.
“Annabel. You are so kind. And you look lovely. I almost didn’t recognize you. How have you been?” Charley asked.
“Desmond was sweet to include us,” she said.
“Desmond is an asshole,” Charley said, not caring who heard him.
“Right. I’m glad someone said it beside me.”
He looked her in the eyes. In a room of suspicious or vacant stares the connection felt like static electricity.
“Did Edith stay in contact with you?” Charley asked.
“She sent Substack emails autogenerated by some AI program. A monthly newsletter, as cold as the ad papers you find on your lawn.” Annabel looked at him, then looked away.
“Are you married? Kids?” Charley asked.
“No. Don’t be disappointed. Just not on my wavelength.”
Charley touched her shoulder. “I’m not disappointed. Marriage is overrated.”
She reached up and held his hand on her shoulder. “Do you have any female friends?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’d be happy if you’d be the first.”
Her face changed as he looked at her.
“Why do you think Edith killed herself?”
“She lacked imagination,” Charley said.
Annabel smiled and moved away. “Got to work the room,” she said. She gave him a wonderful look back, telling Charley to do the same.
Desmond stood at the front of a semi-circle of well-dressed people, eight men, two women, he himself in a black tuxedo, cummerbund, the works. He had told some wonderful remembrance that made them all smile and laugh. When he turned and saw Charley, he opened his arms to welcome a hug.
Charley hesitated, then, what-the-hell. He hugged Desmond back and turned to the smiling crowd. “It’s cool,” he said. He gave an old-fashioned peace sign, V fingers. “Pray for Edith,” he said, not knowing why. Being peaceful, something like that.
Alvaro appeared and took charge of the room. “I’m ready when you are, Desmond. You operate the computer and the video. I have it timed at three and a half minutes for the display and then I’ll do another minute. Get everyone to pray, you know. Remember the beloved.”
When Desmond went to set up, Alvaro leaned close to Charley. “I cut ninety seconds from her video. Pure Edith bitchiness. I saved it for you to watch later.”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“Up to you.” Alvaro grinned and patted Charley’s arm. “Showtime,” he said, moving to the podium and front table where Desmond experimented with ways to make Edith’s presentation properly show on the pull-down screen set up for him. A hotel employee in a black logo shirt with name tag guided him through it. The crowd gathered into the seats at the six tables, grouped according to cliques—co-workers, relatives and friends, Desmond’s entourage. Charley stood until he saw Annabel waving to him, pointing to an empty seat beside her. He joined her as Alvaro began speaking and a big picture of Edith and Desmond posing for a wedding photo appeared on the screen.
“Friends, I’m Alvaro Del Costa. Many of you know me from my website and podcasts, and hopefully we can pray together here as we’ve done in the past. It’s not easy celebrating the life of a loved one when that loved one has chosen death over life. We all carry unseen burdens. We all make difficult decisions. Everybody hurts. Let’s bow our heads in a moment of silence and remember Edith in better times.”
The slides of Edith showed her growing from little girl with her parents to college graduation in cap and gown, then her as real estate agent, showing a smiling couple a new home, and as a speaker to a civic group doing her own PowerPoint presentation. A picture showed her looking from the rim down into the Grand Canyon. Charley’s phone buzzed briefly. He had a new email. Subject: You Too Can Be At Peace. He deleted it without reading, excused himself and headed to the restroom. He took his time, washed his hands twice, wished he still smoked cigarettes. When he went back, Alvaro held the red, white and blue urn up, showing everyone the golden American Eagle on the lid. Edith’s Profile Picture from Facebook filled the screen, her well-posed smile now frozen for eternity, Alvaro told the crowd. Remember her, he said. Then he moved over and patted Desmond’s shoulder, giving him his chance to speak. Desmond cried so hard he simply shook his head. Alvaro invited his friends to comfort the poor man, then went and turned off the schmaltzy music. He shook hands with everyone, one at a time or in groups, until he finished and came to where Charley stood at the back.
“I think they bought it,” he said.
Charley bowed his head as though he was being counselled in his grief. Alvaro took out his smartphone. “I sent you the video,” he said. “Christ. I need a drink.”
“You did good, Alvaro. Everyone related to you and your message.”
“Couple new clients, I’m sure. I’m going to the bar.”
Annabel came up as he opened the video on his iPhone. “You don’t have to watch this,” he told her. “Alvaro cut it out of the presentation.”
“I want to. It might make sense.” She stood by his side so they could both see.
Edith appeared, sitting at her computer, looking into the camera. In one hand, she held a capsule of light brown powder which she showed the camera, her audience. She set it down and picked up a long stem glass of white wine, which she sipped.
“By the end of this video, I will have Off’d myself. I want to share my feelings with the two men I married. You didn’t do anything wrong. Charley, Desmond. Be good to each other, please. In all our time together, we always behaved in a loving way. You don’t have to be romantic. You don’t have to be overcome with emotion. Just behave in a loving way and people will do the same for you. Simple enough. But I’ve reached a point where I can’t do that anymore. I don’t love myself, and I can’t find a behavior that lets me pretend I do. It’s a shame. I have so much. But I can’t take it anymore. The face in the mirror is not me somehow. I look into my eyes and I see there is nothing there. Wrinkles my face cream can’t make go away. Gray hair peeking out from the hair dye. My body is a robot carrying my empty soul around. So, this is it.”
She picked up the capsule with thumb and forefinger. “Do you remember being a kid, and your family telling you about heaven and hell. They believed that stuff. They wanted us to believe it. Let me tell you something. Here’s heaven. Heaven is you don’t have to be you anymore. Day after day after day, it’s awful, God it’s awful. I’m going to Heaven right now.”
She puts the capsule in her mouth and sips from the wine glass. The video stops there.
“Damn,” Annabel said. “That’s brutal.”
“Don’t let it get to you,” Charley said. “She’s hoping we’ll put this on Instagram or some shit. What a bitch. I’m sorry, Annabel. I’m angry.”
“Do you think Desmond saw the video?” she asked.
Charley caught his breath, looked around the room of people getting ready to leave. “Excuse me, Annabel. Please call or message me sometime.”
She turned and saw Desmond staring at them both. “Go Charley,” she said. “Go to him.”
Desmond had loosened his bowtie and looked exhausted. “You saw the video?” he said. Charley nodded. “Do you understand now?” Desmond asked him.
“Understand what?”
“That I could not keep her from taking her own life. I…” Desmond choked on the words. “That woman terrified me. I wanted so much to help and she turned me away, over and over. I finally left home just to be around someone not obsessed with death.”
The look he gave Charley said it all, not masculine or feminine but universal, the pain of loving someone desperately and not being loved back, of being rejected harshly in a matter of life and death. Charley took Desmond into his arms and let him cry, holding back tears in his own eyes. How could she not feel the pain she caused? he wondered. You got your heaven, Edith. By giving us hell.
They separated. “Charley?” Desmond asked.
“What, Desmond?”
“Do you want the urn? I certainly don’t. It’s so garish, don’t you think. Tacky. I can’t stand to be around this.” The urn containing Edith’s ashes had been decorated in red, white and blue colors, with a golden eagle as a handle on the top. He handed it to Charley like a present and smiled. “I knew you’d understand.”
“Stay safe, Desmond. Call me now and then.”
“Goodtime Charley’s got the blues. Do you know that song?”
“Of course. It’s about me.”
Desmond’s eyes got big. Then he laughed. “It ought to be. Good night, Charles. Thank you for your help.”
Charley found Alvaro in the bar, drinking by himself while different people in the room tried to get his attention. He set the urn on the bar top and sat beside him.
“The dearly departed,” Alvaro said. “She finally got to stop being Edith.”
“Not a moment too soon.” At Alvaro’s signal, the bartender brought two single malts over ice, looking over the decorated urn.
“Would you like me to put that somewhere for you?” he asked.
“No. We’re saying our last goodbyes,” Alvaro told him. He nodded and went away.
They raised glasses and toasted Edith, then drank the double shots down.
“The video tore Desmond up,” Charley said.
“I know,” Alvaro answered, swirling the ice and draining the last sip. “She wanted everyone to see it. She wanted to rub his nose in the shit.”
“Desmond gave me the urn,” Charley said.
“No fooling? Do you want it?”
“God no. Do you?”
“Charley, I will feature this on my front stage for the next podcast. It’s perfect. Thank you.” He moved the urn closer, turning the thing sideways for a better display. It had been that kind of day, now agreeably shared in peace and quiet and single malt whiskey.
“Another round?” Charley asked. Alvaro gave the signal.
“Do you ever want to be dead?” he asked Alvaro.
“Lord no.”
“Why not?” Charley asked.
“It might be worse.”
Charley agreed. That was a good reason not to Off yourself.
Simple as that.