goodbye

The goodbye letters and packages have been sent.  The shop is empty.  Hot Wax Unlimited is history.  The loose ends have been tied.  Nothing left to do but the doing.

I can't help but think of all the people whose lives my departure will affect.  My mother, absolutely.  The law officer given the task of informing my mother.  The person who discovers me.  The folks who'll have to handle me.  The family member asked to ID my body.  My sisters, who'll have the difficult task of trying to console my mother.  They'll also have to speak the words, "my brother killed himself."  To all of you, let me apologize in advance.  I am deeply, deeply sorry.

They'll say I was depressed.  I've read depression defined as "anger turned inward."  I'm not angry.  I'm just...finished.  I've done what I could with what I was given.

They'll call me things.  Loser.  Quitter.  Wimp.  Pussy.  All true.

They'll say, "But, he was so good at _______."  Well, being good at things hasn't made me rich, hasn't made me happy and doesn't get me laid.  What's the use?
 
Thirty years ago, a shipmate said to me, "You have trouble dealing with life."  I didn't want to hear that, especially from him.  He was right, of course.

I am grateful for my twenty-four years in the DJ business.  I routinely saw people at their best, enjoyed following pop music and got paid to do something that I would have done for free.  I was put on the Earth to be a DJ, and I've done it.

I'll say it again--I've become someone that the world can do without.  I'm an asshole that no one likes, and I can't deal with that any longer.  I'm tired of being alive.

This blog amounts to little more than a bunch of whining.  If you choose not to read any further, I'll understand.

Thank you for stopping by.

Peace out!
Jeff Fluker

one week

long sigh...(lots of those, lately)

I have one more week on this Earth.

Things seem to be working out.  I have just enough money to rent this hotel room for my remaining days.  I've enjoyed the shower, bed, A/C, TV and Wi-Fi.  Sleeping in the van was kind of a bummer.

I spent today assembling a cheer mix.  I like the finished product, but the editing gave me a headache.

For my last DJ gig ever, I will play at a wedding this Saturday.  Nice couple.  The bride is a real stunner.  Turn-and-stare gorgeous.

Sunday, I'll assemble and deliver the sound systems for my Mardi Gras float customers.  Monday, I'll finish clearing out the shop.  Tuesday, I'll send the goodbye letters and packages, and then...sayonara.

the thought

The thought has moved to the front of my mind--I'm planning something awful.   I'm scared.

Mr. Fix-It

When I get a call, I rarely hear "Jeff, let's hang out.  Jeff, let's go get a drink.  Jeff, I'm bored.  Jeff, I'm lonely.  Jeff, I'm horny."

I usually hear, "Jeff, I need your help."

I've always been good with my hands.  I can do stuff.  I can build stuff.  I can fix stuff.  I understand how things work.  I have tools, a van, a hand truck and fair-to-middling physical strength.  I'm the guy people call when they have a problem.

Being Mr. Fix-It is my lot in life, and I try hard to accept it.  Some people pay me.  Some say thanks and try to return the favor.  Often, there is no reciprocity, especially when doing favors for women.  After allowing several females to take advantage of me, I finally learned a hard lesson--being her "bitch" will not spark attraction.

I'm done being the handyman no one wants to socialize with.  Mr. Fix-It is retiring.  Permanently.

stuff

I've spent the past few weeks going through my stuff, deciding what to sell, what to send to folks, what to give away and what to toss.  I've been brutally unsentimental.  In the end, it's all gotta go.

These things are not just things tho...they're artifacts.  Timepieces from each phase of my life, with  attached memories, usually of some person.  Photos.  Newspaper clippings.  A perfume bottle and pair of panties.  Concert ticket stubs.  The pen-and-ink master Hot Wax Unlimited logo.  Navy discharge.  College diploma.  So much stuff.  So many memories made with so very many people.

A story of my grandmother, Miss Olga Jones, comes to mind.  After sorting through the many belongings of her late sister-in-law, she began a purge her of own "stuff," stating firmly, "I ain't leavin' all this shit for someone else to have to go through!"

Her words have stayed with me, and I'm doing my best to follow her example.  Clearing out the shop.  Closing accounts.  Getting rid of everything.

Saying goodbye.

like father, like son

Much like me, my father was a hating-life S.O.B.  Moody.  Violent.  Frustrated.  Impatient. Used-to-be jock and wannabe artist.  Socially impaired.  He had a sharp tongue and a big mouth.  He liked to fist fight.  He drank.  He couldn't keep a job.  Abusive husband.  Wholly unfit parent.  He couldn't get along, couldn't deal with life, couldn't figure it out.  He was tremendously unhappy.

He should have offed himself, no question.  Maybe he didn't have the guts.  Maybe he thought that course of action unmanly.  Perhaps he didn't realize that he was the problem.  It might be that the idea of "early check-out" just didn't occur to him.  Who can say?

My mom has told me that I'm a lot like him.  I inherited many of his personality traits.  Like him, I don't mesh well with this world or the people in it.  Maybe I've always been someone that the world can do without.

cats

I miss my cats.  During Eviction One, I took them to my sister's place in Poplarville, MS.  They freaked out, peed in every bed, got tossed outside and disappeared.  I hate myself for allowing this to happen.  They trusted me, and now they're gone.

I have loved and cared for many felines, beginning with a black-and-white tuxedoed stray that I named Velcro.  She had four babies--Amos 'n' Andy, Patches and Junior Kitty.  Mavis (from upstairs) moved in, and had an adorable little boy kitten that I named Boo.  A vagabond that I called simply "Mommy Cat" had four precocious male offspring--Noodles, Copper, Fluffy and Bottle Brush Kitty.  Baby was euthanized...cancer.  Another mommy cat showed up and gave birth in the days after Katrina, giving us the gorgeous but aloof Grey Kitty, and affectionate lap-cat and loyal friend of seven years, Tabby.

No cats, no connections, no future.  Tired of the isolation.  Tired of crying.

I am SO outta here--two weeks from today!

three more gigs

Twenty-four years in the DJ business are coming to a close.  Doing the first of the final three gigs tonight. 

Helping to create a fun and memorable dance party will distract me from myself, for a while. Playing the smiling, upbeat entertainer will be difficult, tho.  I'll need help!  I'll listen attentively for the muse.  Oh DJ muse--Please tell me what to do!

Professional pride will kick in.  I like these people, and want them to enjoy their wedding.  I'll do my best...

reasons

Why do I want to die?  Because trying to live with nothing to live for is just too fucking hard.

I possess none of the "normal" anchors that keep middle-aged folks in the game.  I've invested in nothing.  No house.  No savings.  No family.  No career.  My peak earning years have come and gone, and I have little to show for them.  I'm tired.  Here at age forty-eight, I don't have the energy (or desire) to start over again from zero.

I've mentioned health issues in other posts.  There exists a raft of middle-aged-fat-guy ailments, and I have them ALL!  Years of over-eating have yielded GERD, high cholesterol and Type-2 diabetes.  Obesity and repeated gout attacks have destroyed my knees.  All the result of lifestyle choices.  All preventable.

Other conditions are genetic.  My family tree has high blood pressure, cancer and heart attack on one side and Parkinson's on the other.  I'm heading into the decade where these killers begin to kill.  Why continue walking this Earth?  To waste away from some disease?  I watched my grandmother shrivel up and die, scared and helpless.  I just don't care to go out that way.  I'm gonna do this my way, on my terms, by my own hand. 

The "dick" thing--yeah, it's a real problem.  Don't have much, and what I've got doesn't work so well. I've learned that my words and actions telegraph my "shortcoming."  Attractive women just know that I have a small one, and stay far, far away.

"Nothing is very much fun, anymore."-Roger Waters

Of all the pastimes in this life, I have truly enjoyed only four: eating, sleeping, listening to music and masturbating.  Age and medical issues have forced a radical change in my eating habits.  Nowadays, gorging myself at some buffet makes my heart race and keeps me awake all night.  Pizza gives me indigestion.  Bopping the Bishop no longer provides joy or real release.  Just getting it up is a challenge.  The desire is gone, and I've stopped thinking about it.  Rock'n'roll music, my greatest love, has gone by the wayside, too.  Tinnitus in my left ear keeps me from cranking it like used to.  Every song I hear dredges up a memory that I'd just as soon not remember.  Thank goodness for sleep--it's the only thing I still sorta enjoy.  

I display mental illness and a personality disorder.  I can't get along with anyone.  I'm unable to focus.  I'm lazy.  I'm a crazy, cranky asshole that nobody likes.  I have most definitely become someone that the world can do without.

classic signs

About three weeks to go, and I've begun to exhibit all the classic signs.  Outwardly upbeat because I've made the decision.  Tying up "loose ends."  No energy.  Giving stuff away.  I've lost weight.  I've lost interest.

It's a puzzle.  No one person sees all of the pieces, but if they did, would they put them together?

Jeff, are you really gonna do this?!?!

goodbye letters, pt.2

I'm almost done writing the goodbye letters.  My God, I haven't cried this much...ever!

As I re-read the letters, I find that I'm not saying goodbye--I'm saying I love you.  I've shared some measure of genuine friendship with each of these people.  I've tried to describe for them the special place that they held in my world.  I've thanked them for sweetening my existence.  I hope that I've chosen just the right words.

Why now, tho?  Why have I decided to express all these lovely sentiments on my way out?  Why didn't I write these things in a Christmas or birthday card, or just say them out loud?

Yes, I've had rich relationships with some extraordinary people.

Rich enough to make me want to stick around?

No.  Sorry.

crying again...

what will they say

What will people say when they hear the news?  Some guesses:

Mom-"This is just like Jeff--doing exactly what he wants to do.  No consideration."
Jeana-"He said he wouldn't do this as long as Mom is alive..."
Shannon-"He was an asshole.  I won't miss him at all."
Michelle-"Shot himself?  That figures.  When things get real, he RUNS!  Pussy!"
Russell-"If he'd just gotten married, he mighta been happier."
Joan-"He was troubled..."
Gretchen-"I'm sorry he's dead, but he was a freeloader."
Lee-"Why? There was nothing wrong with him."
Rebecca-"Permanent solution to a temporary problem."
Sammy-"I liked Jeff.  He just didn't like himself."  (Thank you, Sammy!  Always a kind soul.)
Jeff-"He hinted at this. I didn't see him actually going through with it."
Gene-"He was like a raw nerve."
Dr. Jensen-"I tried to medicate him."
Lydia-"I tried to counsel him."
Dorothy-"I tried to save him."