Brass. Blood. Blunt. Bolts.

I selected the smallest stable. Standing upright with my arms stretched outright like the classic Air Jordan ‘Wings’ poster I had taped to my bedroom wall as a kid, it was immediately evident my limited wingspan far exceeded the senesless dimensions of my new stable.

But that was the idea. Or rather, that was the intent.

Some of my colleagues wanted offices. Some wanted cubicles in specific locations. I wanted to never be in an office or cubicle ever again. Sequestering myself to the the smallest stable ensured I’d spend as little time in such a space as possible.

Shortly after the beige table was transported past the entryway to my new digs, I stepped into said space for the second time. It felt smaller than it did the first time. Correction. It felt like a trash compactor.

I’d barely begun contemplating the merits of whether or not I’d in fact become the very trash in need of compacting before the, “We need to make contact” sentiment re:entered my mind.

Me need to make contact.

And then the self-destructive wheels that have nothing to do with one’s own preservation kicked back into gear. Maybe it was the sound of mechanistic trash compacting. Maybe it was the sound of something else entirely. 19 hours in. What I had done?

Note nough. Never enough.

Tried calling. Left voice messages. Tried emailing. Left typed messages. Followed-up with the concerned teacher. Re:followed up with the concerned teacher. Tried emailing the local school counselor even though she was on summer break. Tried calling + leaving a message for the local school counselor even though she was obviously still on summer break.

Sometimes silence, like, the kind that’s of the increasingly stressed out variety, can drag out into eternity even when your own life doesn’t immediately feel like it’s on the fucking line. Morgan Freeman’s character ‘Red’ in the ‘Shawshank Redemption’ says towards the end of the film that time can draw out like a blade. This silence. That silence. The sort of silence I found myself experiencing that particular day, the kinda quiet that reads “I can’t be bothered. You’re just a teacher. Actually, you’re not even a teacher you’re just some whatever ‘what’s your name again oh right I don’t care were you talking?’” feels painfully potato peeler slower. Like you’ve slit your wrists the wrong way and just can’t fucking seem to bleed out.

What hadn’t I done?

This was the only question.

The position I earned myself into many years prior provided itself with a plethora of unwanted intel. Intel I never had any interest in intersecting with. All the school records. Infractions. Distractions. You name it. And this within a school district comprised of 17 high schools and however many more middle and elemenatry schools.

So what hadn’t I done?

I hadn’t looked up suicide’s home address. Hadn’t accessed emergency contacts.

Until I did.

For the second time since I was hired into my omniscient online position, I found myself an address and I found myself there. In-person. And that’s when shit got really fucking weird. Like, far beyond Portland + Austin weird.

For first, the address Avalon Ron rolled right in front of registered a new ‘For Sale’ sign in the front yard. Speaking of the yard, grass was freshly cut. Like fucking, Whitman’s ‘Leaves of Grass’ may very well have been still drying out on the rolling curbside grass was so freshly cut. Then there was the trashcans. All full with rolled up rugs. Next there was the two-story house itself. Darkened but not dead. All blinds were up, and if there were curtians, they were all drawn. The only thing you could see if you could see anything at all were the dimensions of shadowy shelving in the garage. Everything else was stark dark. Shit was suspect as fuck.

I try calling all the numbers I’d already tried for a 3rd time. Then I try calling all the emergency contact numbers I have access to. I leave messages. So many messages. Hell, I even try calling the realtor.

The fucking realtor.

Then I get the feeling neighbors might be watching my seemingly sketch ass so I walk across the street. I knock on doors. I introduce myself. Do the whole shpeeal. Show’em my offical county badge and everything. Had my business cards ready too but nobody ever asks for teachers’ business cards (mainly cuz most teachers never get business cards).

One neighbor says they don’t know ‘em know ‘em but they knew ‘em’. They were friendly engough. Never any problems. But the neighbor next door, the wife, she used to help the girl with her math. So maybe she’d be of some help. So I go next door. Do the same shit and I’m all friendly like. Wife ain’t there but husband’s working on work in the backyard. Same schtick. Same results.

22 hours in.

Still 21 class schedules to go.

And I got nothing to show for it.

Me and Avalon Ron are rollin’ out and around missing suicidal girl’s cul-de-sac as I apprehensively exit whatever the fuck the scene is that I’m leaving when this voice from the past pops into my head:

“Mr. Neumann. I really hope you try to be this helpful with all your students.”

Internal Me: Fucking…bitch ass motherfucker. Alrightalrightalright. Have I done everything I can to be helpful? Like, have I given it my everything? In this matter specifically? Fuck. No. I haven’t.

It occurrred to me then that there might be a dead girl in the empty for sale house. Or if I not dead, dying. A dying girl. Who knows. Maybe there’s pieces of her in the rolled up trash can rugs and I don’t even know yet. And fuck that noise, man. Ain’t no way I’m living with that on my conscious. Fucking eh, man. No more dead bodies.

Me and Avalon Ron re:park in front of the seemngly free from peoples structure. I take a walk ‘round to the backyard. There’s a half basement. It’s as ghostly galvanized as the front. Then I walk back to Avalon Ron streetside. Pop the trunk. And there’s 4 choices.

Brass. Blood. Blunt. Bolts.

Brass = Knuckles.

Blood = Knives.

Blunt = (Metal) Dented Bat.

Bolts = Lock Picking Kit

I opt for bolts.