Adrian calls to tell me that his partner, Rene, tried to kill himself.

“Rene almost did himself in last night. He put one of those dry-cleaning bags over his head. It didn’t work. There was something wrong with the bag.” Adrian sounds distraught.

I swerve onto the shoulder of the road as Adrian says this—the white line snaking up into my vision. That’s me: Trying to talk on the phone and drive convincingly. Note to self: Not good to combine dark northern California overpass with the aforementioned.

I can’t help but detect a hint of something else in his voice. Something submerged there in his opening. I let it go. The cel charger stares up at me from my unused cigarette lighter—a cat eye in the night.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. Wow…. A hole in it?”

Then also from me: “How long did he have the bag over his head?”

“It had a hole in it, yeah. I don’t know how long he had his head in he bag.” Pause. “Then he tried to stick his head in the oven.”

“The oven.”

“Yeah, but that didn’t work either. He just got too hot. He had to pull his head out. He has an electric oven.”

“Oh.” So gentle reader, get me here: My sympathy is abundant, yes, but so is some panic. There’s also something else: I’m on the verge of letting myself be entertained by this.

“Did he know that you can only kill yourself by sticking your head in a gas oven? And I’m not sure that would even kill you, really. There’s too much outside air coming in.”

Silence.

Rene lives in Seattle, so I imagine Adrian will probably take a short flight out from SFO.

I’m still empathetic. “Adrian, I’m so sorry. Is he on antidepressants that are reacting with
something else? Like booze or amphetamines?”

“No,” Alan says. “He’s not doing anything like that. He never has.”

“Which, the booze? The coke? Or the prescribed drugs?”

‘He’s never done drugs.”

“I see.” What I picture just then are sheep lying together in slumber, 20 enmeshed in a field. The sunset casts a mist above them. Occasionally, one of the sheep peeps back at me, as I gaze, inspired.

“Adrian, if there’s anything at all I can do for you, will you call me? Call me from Seattle. Better yet, do you want to meet somewhere now?” I like to help my friends when I can.

“No, I couldn’t meet you now. I’ll call you from Seattle.”

Adrian sighed and I could hear him choking back tears. “Jesus,” he said, “you have no idea how bad it was.”

I pass over the overpass and pull over. The road is one of those twisty, tiny roads buried deep in a Redwood forest. I put on my blinkers and say a silent prayer that nobody misses the lights. I pause a bit, seeing if Adrian had anything else to say. I want to see where this goes.

“You know what else he tried?”

“What?”

“He parked his car in the garage and turned the car on to try and choke to death on the exhaust fumes.”

“Jesus. What happened?”

“Nothing- he drives a Prius.”

“I’m sorry Adrian, I’m so sorry.”

“And the police found an empty bottle of pills and think he tried to OD on pills.”

“What? Why didn’t that work?”

“They were Flintstone chewable tablets.”

“Well, that was his favorite show…”

“And I don’t even want to get into his attempt at hanging himself.”

A vision comes to me of Rene as a Boy Scout, fumbling his way through his merit badges. Once, when the Scout Master was trying to tell everyone how to tell what poison ivy looked like, Rene picked up a bouquet of it to ask the Scout Master if he got it right. The Scout Master had to take him straight from the Boy Scout Jamboree to the hospital to keep him from swelling up. “He never was really good at tying a knot.”

Adrian is now crying on the other end of the phone. I feel sick about the whole thing, for poor Renee, for poor, doomed Adrian, and for having to bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing at some point.

In a flash so striking I almost drop the phone, I’m reminded of Prof. Shneerkums saying “Laughter iss Korrosif to the Zocial Order” in the Haas Auditorium. Rene, Adrian and I are like three sardines in a liberal row, studying “bidnit” as we call it. At their request I have to sit between them so they won’t get too distracted by their lust and love for each other.

Frankly? I’m jealous because I’ve never really felt anything like this for anyone.

“What?”

Back to the future: I haven’t heard a word Adrian just said. Minutes may have passed.

“I said, I used to hate those bags, but I’ve never been so happy about their crappy quality.”

“Sounds like your ropes aren’t much better.” There, that should put me back in the flow.

“What are you talking about?” – a sobbing yell. I’m hearing some other sound in the background, like something frying with an occasional pop.  

“Adrian, are you cooking?”

“Cooking? Of course I’m not cooking. It’s 3 PM. You know I don’t snack.”

“What’s that hissing noise then?”

“Hissing noise? That’s rain.”

Goddamn cell phone reception. I just can’t seem to focus on what to say.

“So, do you think it’s a plea for attention? Is he feeling isolated  or … neglected?”

Slight pause on the other end.

“I’d be open to that, but considering he just tried to kill himself in six different ways…”

This isn’t going well. “Yeah, I see your point. Where is he now?”

“Seattle General. I’m going back there in twenty minutes.”

“Are they evaluating him?”

“Uh yeah, but mostly … I don’t understand, have you been listening?”

“You’ve been cutting out…”

“I told you his last attempt almost worked out. If it hadn’t been for the building’s incredibly sturdy and apparently flexible awning … God I wonder what kind of fiber that fabric is made of … Anyway, it was only a three-story fall, so he bounced right off instead of ripping through. He landed on poor Mrs. Raymond.  Good thing she’s fat… She’s in the hospital too, with a few broken ribs.”

 “And Rene?”

“A few scratches and a twisted ankle. I met the counselor, this woman Sarah… I don’t get it…” More sobs. “Why would he do this? We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re a great couple. We’re happy right now. I thought … I thought I knew him.”

“I know, I know. I wish I could be there to give you a hug. Imagine I’m giving you a hug right now… There. Can you feel it.”

Short, sniffling chuckle. “Yeah… Thanks. I’m so glad I have you to talk to. I don’t know what I’d do…”

“Don’t worry about it. What does Sarah say?”

“Well, there’s the obvious stuff. She wants to see if there’s any underlying condition. Manic depression, bipolar, all that.”

“What about Adrian?”

“He won’t talk to me. I think he’s ashamed.”

Honestly, I’d be too, if I had botched six suicide attempts in the same day.