Whoa. That dude was intense. I was
hitchhiking through Mississippi (which sounds, and probably is, extremely
dangerous, but I’m alive, aren’t I?) and got dropped off at some little chain
hotel in McComb, MS when I ran into a guy as he was checking out. Through
various circumstances that I don’t care to explain, we ended up grabbing some
lunch at the diner across the street. I found out the basics about him: his
name was Chuck, he was a writer, and he was travelling to all these famous
places where musicians died, killed themselves, killed someone else, you get
the idea. He loved substances of intoxication, and was absolutely in love with
two women. Or was it three? Too many for me to keep track of, that’s for sure. Even
while he seemed to meandering across the country without much aim, I could tell
how excited he was to see the women he loves. It was sort of sweet, but it sort
of made me sad. It was like he was trying to chase these great times that no
longer existed, and he was trying to find it within women from his past.
But again, that dude was INTENSE. I’ve
never met a single person who is so wholeheartedly obsessed with the idea of
death. He asked me a really interesting question: what is the last song I want
to hear before I died? It took me by surprise. I mean, of course I’ve thought
about death before, but never in that context. What is the last song I want to
hear? What is the last image I want to see? He made suicide sound so powerful;
you were able to control what all of your last experiences would be, but at
what cost? Would those experiences be somehow more profound? Would my life mean
more if I end it in a method of my own choosing? I had no idea what to say. I
was uncomfortable but intrigued, and after a greasy lunch, he had to get going.
We said our goodbyes, and I finally had my answer. “Nowhere Man” by the
Beatles. He didn’t say anything, but his face said it all: “That’s a dumb
choice, but okay.”
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