The Advice

Blake Johnston wakes up at 7:30, sharp. He looks wearily across his California King towards his wife, still entombed in the rigorous pleasures of Sleepland. Johnston puts on a robe, lumbers across the room and towards the shower, where he will spend an extended and somewhat emotional amount of time.

Walking downstairs, Johnston notices the kids are still asleep. Let them sleep, he whispers to himself. Let them enjoy the day – just because he can’t, does not mean they have to suffer. Especially the little one…Zenith? Yes, Zenny.

Adjusting the tie carelessly tossed across his neck like a rodeo lasso, Johnston mentally flips through phone numbers. He wants to make sure this goes right. Ah-ha. He dials calmly, spending the extra time to acknowledge his each finger thrust.
“Mr. Beckwerth? Yes, this is Blake Johnston. Good, good, thank you. Well, to be honest, could be better,” Johnston stammers, now losing himself in his thoughts. “I just wanted to make sure everything was in order,” Johnston says. “Okay.
Wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Beckwerth. You are a gentleman and nothing less.”

As the most popular funeral home director in town, Mr. Beckwerth was Johnston’s immediate choice. He didn’t even feel the need to speak with his wife, Glenda, concerning his decision. She would have, as usual, put up an exquisite fuss, which he believed to be her way of “coping.” But as he learned from his therapist, Todd Forndith, everyone took a unique path to healing. Plus, she was a bitch to live with, which played a role to some extent.

Johnston now turns his attention to his laptop, where he makes minor changes to a budget chart before sending it to his manager and would-be mistress (under different circumstances). He calls his lawyer next, thanking him for years of loyal service, but mostly reviewing the basics of his will. After a brief explanation of why he is not more concerned,  Johnston hangs up and turns his attention to the lonely mini-bar, the glue holding his kitchen together. Usually, Johnston thinks, his lawyer can read his aura like a trash-laced erotic novel. How could he not see that I truly am concerned? 

With little forethought, Johnston makes his way to the bar, pours an amaretto sour and slams it back. One down, three to go. His entire life, four amaretto sours had been his “standard.” He could drink fewer, sure, but never more than four. Four amaretto sours represented everything he stood for. Five? That was like asking God to reproduce Jesus, just for a weeklong Holiday exhibit at the Guggenheim. It never even entered Johnston’s mind. There was a subtle, oft-invisible line dividing self-loathing and genuine disregard for one’s mental health, and five amaretto sours pole vaulted across that line like Carl Lewis, had Carl Lewis pole vaulted at the 1984 Olympics.

Blake Johnston finishes his fourth amaretto sour and heads upstairs, to his office. He falls ungracefully in a heap to the couch, then slides to the floor. For the next four hours, in a familiarly snug fetal position, Johnston sobs quietly, breaking the monotony with intermittent bursts of nervous moaning. He screams, twice maybe, but seems to keep to himself. He pauses only to masturbate, but stops when he realizes the family dog, Brenda, has been lying next to him the entire time. This makes things weird.

It is 7 p.m. when his wife walks into the office, now unconvincingly worried for his well-being. Johnston is sound asleep, a puddle of tears soaked into the surrounding carpet like a shadowy halo. He looks at peace; a white, suburban angel sprawled in the environment he loved so dearly.

That sonofabitch, Glenda thinks. He has the world at his fingertips and he doesn’t even know it. Three weeks ago, everything was fine. Sure, he wasn’t the most attentive husband. Or father. Or human being. But he was at least socially and personally productive. I keep telling him, this is not how things are supposed to be. This is not healthy. Ever since that Todd Forndith character told him to live each day as his last, it’s the same scene every night. I’m just glad the kids don’t have to see this. You know, since they’re dead.