Ben C. O. Grimm

I had friends in high places. Unfortunately, they all jumped on the same day. I'm still trying to find the key to this phenomenon. They had one common denominator in their lives. Me. Only me. They must have bumped into one another, I'm sure. Without being aware of it. They never mentioned it anyway. No one ever said to me: "Hey, I met that friend of yours today. He told me to say hi." Nobody ever called me up to ask where he had seen "whatsisname, you know, one of your friends" before. As far as I know, they had all lived their separate and unrelated lives. Yet they all lived in the same city. Some of them were only divided by a single block. Whenever I had a day off, I would visit at least three of them in a row, because they lived in the same neighborhood. For some reason, I could never persuade any of them to accompany me to another friend's house. I tried to meet two of them at the same time, in a bar. But something always came up. I always wound up with one. All my friends knew about the existence of my other friends. I told every single one of them who the others were, what line of business they were in, whether they were married or single, and that some of them had children and pets. I tried to get them all to come to my birthday. Several times. But then the calls would come in. Mother ill. Grandmother dead. Babysitter didn't show. Wife bitten by the dog. Subway on strike. Sorry. Better next time. And I would end up with one troublefree friend, and a massive amount of snacks and beer. It never really dawned on me. I never sat down to put the pieces together. It was a matter of fact. One of those things you learn to live with. Inconvenient at most, never acute or depressing. And then they jumped. All of them. On the same day. From their office buildings and apartments, way on up. That day I was flooded with calls. Wives, children, brothers, sisters. "Oh, I have terrible news. John committed suicide today". And so did the others. I asked the inevitable question. Why? Nobody knew. There were no suicide notes, no incriminating papers or photographs. The stock markets were stable. The children were healthy. The wives were faithful. It was an incredible week. I had never attended a single funeral or cremation in my entire life. Now I had to hurry to attend all of my friends' final moments on the face of the earth. I cried bitter tears with dozens of devastated people. All were looking to me for the answers I was hoping to find. Coffins went down into the ground and up in flames. Prayers, hymns, psalms, salutes. I was looking for something that would explain all this misery. And all I could find was myself. The catalyst. A lonely spider caught by his own web. But it couldn't be me. I had been talking to every single one of my friends in the past few days. On the phone, in a bar, out on the street. Nobody owed me any money, and I hadn't borrowed any from them. We had been talking about life, friendship, relations, jobs, prospects, projects. Everything was going well for them. Their paintings were sold, their books got published, they made promotions, bought new cars, invented popular perfumes. No scandals. No rumors. No indictments. No subpoenas. Just me. After a horrible two weeks, I decided to invite all my deceased friends' next of kin. Nobody was unable to come. They came in, one after the other. The house was like a tomb. All sat there in silence. My suspicions were right: they had never met before this day. But they all knew me. Names were exchanged, and they were all new. Everybody felt uneasy. What were they doing here? Who were all these people? Why had I wanted them to come? I sat down and faced them. My throat was dry and my eyes were burning. I mentioned the names of the friends I had lost. First name, last name. I looked around. "I knew every single one of them," I said. "They were all friends of mine." Nobody moved. They still didn't understand. Then I told them that everybody in the room was related to one of my friends. And that they had all committed suicide on the same day, two weeks ago. After a moment of silence, the whispers began. People started looking about. The message hit home. Bull's eye. I walked out on them, into the kitchen. I needed a drink. I didn't need a glass. All I could hear outside the door was "Why? Why?", "Suicide? Your husband too?". After a few minutes the hum died down. I left the kitchen. The living room looked like a battlefield. Everyone was in shellshock. No one cried. A roaring silence. "Listen," I said, "can anyone tell me what the hell happened two weeks ago?" Silence. "Let me get this clear," John's widow started. "You were the only one who knew every single one of them?" I nodded. "Then you are the answer." A wall of eyes in front of me. Inquisitive stares. Combined reproach. I told them I didn't have a clue. That I had invited them to find the answer myself. The atmosphere changed. One after the other left. No one shook hands with me. No one patted me on the back. No one even looked at me. I waited for another two weeks. The phone remained silent. I called them up, one by one. I didn't even get a chance to ask. They hung up on me. I sent them letters. They were returned to sender. I went round to see them, but they had moved. Why? Why them? Why me? This took place three years ago. I think of my lost friends every single day. I picture them in high-rise buildings. I try to put myself in their shoes. But I die for no reason at all. Every single time.

© Ben C. O. Grimm