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  More tears followed. I collapsed next to the toilet bowl, sobbing. Where had it all gone wrong? Carolyn and I had been so happy during our senior year. I had a terrific arm in football and a promising scholarship. The world was mine and I was God. I used to tremble after our lovemaking, which is what it was back then, not the obscene pantomime it had become now. I had loved her so much.

  “Do you love me,” she used to ask me afterward. “Do you really love me?”

  I always replied, “I’d die without you.”

  Then Carolyn got pregnant halfway through our senior year and I kissed college goodbye. The baby was stillborn. We never tried again. I guess that was when I began the downward spiral.

  The phone rang. I rose unsteadily, leaning on the sink for support. My head throbbed. The phone rang again, more insistent this time. It reminded me of Carolyn.

  I gripped the receiver so hard that my knuckles turned white. Probably Clarence, calling back to berate me some more.

  “Hello?”

  There was a pause and a series of mechanical clicks. Then a female spoke, offering me a free appraisal for storm windows on the home I couldn’t afford.

  “I’m not interested,” I said. “Put us on your do not call list.”

  “Can I axe you why, sir?” It sounded like she was reading from a script.

  “You can’t ‘axe’ me anything. You can ‘ask’ me if you’d like, but the answer is still fuck off!”

  The telemarketer launched into a tirade then and I ripped the phone from the wall. I flung it across the room. It smashed into a lamp that Carolyn’s mother had given to us for our fifth wedding anniversary. I stared at the fragments, felt fresh blood running down my chin again, and sighed.

  I’d been contemplating it for weeks, but it wasn’t until then that I decided to die.

  I went to the gun cabinet. Inside were my hunting rifles, kept for a pastime that I didn’t enjoy, but that I had to partake in to be considered a normal guy. My hand was steady as I unlocked the case and selected the 30.06 and a box of shells. The bullets slid into the chamber with satisfying clicks. I sat down on the bed with the gun between my legs.

  I had seen pictures online of failed suicide attempts. Cases where the poor slob had placed the gun against the side of his head and pulled the trigger, writhing in agony when the bullet traveled around his brain and left him alive. That was no good. I needed to do this the right way. I placed the barrel in my mouth, tasting the oil on the cold metal. I breathed through my nose, deep-throating the gun the way I’d done my Uncle’s shriveled pecker when I was nine. As the barrel touched the back of my throat, I gagged, just like back then. Tears streamed down my face.

  I glanced at the wedding picture on the nightstand. There was me and Carolyn. Two smiling people. Happy. In love. Not the balding loser who sat here now or the fat cow the woman had turned into.

  The woman who I had promised to love forever so long ago.

  “I’d die without you,” I mumbled around the barrel.

  Then I pulled the trigger.

  The initial force jerked me backward. The gun barrel impaled the roof of my mouth. I felt it blast open my head and heard the wet slap of my brains hitting the wall, turning the ivory flowered wallpaper crimson. Grey chunks of brain matter and eggshell splinters of my fragmented skull embedded themselves in the drywall. My right eye dribbled down my face as my bladder and sphincter let loose, staining the bed sheets.

  The pain stopped abruptly, as if someone had flicked a light switch. One moment I was writhing in agony and trying to scream around the gun. Then there was nothing.

  But I was conscious.

  I wasn’t dead. I’d fucked this up, too.

  I pulled the trigger again. The second shot erased what was left of the top and back of my head. My face sagged down a few inches, making it hard to see clearly. Bits of skin and gristle dangled down my neck. The room stank of blood and shit and cordite.

  The gunshots echoed throughout the house, drowning out my heavy breathing.

  Letting the rifle slip from my numb fingers, I shuffled to the mirror and looked at the damage I’d inflicted. I had to shrug my shoulders a few times in order to get my face back up to eye level.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  I should have been dead, yet there I stood. I reached behind me, letting my fingers play across the gaping hole where my brain had been. There was nothing. No bald spot, no scalp, no skull. Nothing.

  The phone rang again. It sounded muffled, thanks to my one remaining ear. After four rings, the answering machine clicked on.

  “Hi, honey.” Carolyn. “I just wanted to see how you were feeling.”

  “My headache is gone.” Laughing, I spat out a piece of myself. “I’ve cured the common headache.”

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I’ve got to get back to work. See you when I get home. I love you.”

  “I’d die without you.” My voice dripped with sarcasm.

  Then it hit me—the reason that I was still alive.

  So now I’m sitting here at the kitchen table, writing this while my insides dry on the bedroom wall. I’m almost free of this hell that is my life. Carolyn will be home soon, and I will fulfill the promise that I made to her so long ago.

  ***

  The original version of this story appeared in my first short story collection, No Rest For the Wicked, which is long out-of-print. Several years ago, I revised the story considerably for a collection called A Little Silver Book of Streetwise Stories (which is also now out-of-print). I’ve always liked the idea, but hated the writing in the original—it was the amateur work of an author still struggling to find his voice. I like this version much better and am happy to share it with you here. The story was inspired by a late-night conversation with an old friend.

  I Am

  An Exit

  I found him lying along the interstate, bleeding in the moonlight under the sign for Exit Five. It was bad—real bad. Blood covered everything; from the guard rail and median strip to his frayed blue jeans and crooked birth-control glasses with the cracked lens. They called them birth control glasses because wearing them insured that you’d never get laid. You only got glasses like that in the military and in prison. He didn’t look like a soldier to me.

  Far away, barely visible through the woods, an orange fire glowed. A hint of smoke drifted towards us on the breeze.

  I knelt down beside him, and he struggled to sit up. His insides glistened, slipping from the wound in his side. Gently, I urged him back to the ground and then placed my hand over the gash, feeling the slick, wet heat beneath my palm. The wind buffeted the Exit Five sign above our heads, and then died.

  “Don’t try to sit up,” I told him. “You’re injured.”

  He tried to speak. His cracked lips were covered with froth. The words would not come. He closed his eyes.

  With my free hand, I reached into the pocket of my coat, and he opened his eyes again, focusing on me. I pulled my hand back out, keeping the other one on the gash in his side.

  “Robin.”

  “Sorry friend. Just me.”

  “I was—trying to get home to Robin.”

  He coughed, spraying blood and spittle, and I felt his innards move beneath my palm.

  “She’s waiting for me.”

  I nodded, not understanding but understanding all the same.

  He focused on me again. “What happened?”

  “You’ve been in an accident.”

  “I—I don’t—last thing I remember was the fire.”

  “Sshhhhh.”

  He coughed again.

  “My legs feel like they’re asleep.”

  “Probably because you’ve been lying down,” I lied. “They’re okay.”

  They weren’t. One was squashed flat in several places and bent at an angle. A shard of bone protruded from the other.

  “D-do you have a cell phone? I want to call Robin.”

  “Sorry friend. Wish I did, so we could call 911. But I’m
sure someone will come along. Meanwhile, tell me about her.”

  “She’s beautiful.” His grimace turned into a smile, and the pain and confusion vanished from his eyes. “She’s waiting for me. Haven’t seen her in five years.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Been in prison.” He swallowed. “Upstate. Cresson. Just got out this morning. Robbery. I stole a pack of cigarettes. Can you believe that shit? Five years for one lousy pack of smokes.”

  I shook my head. I’d been right about the glasses. And the sentence indicated he wasn’t a first time offender. Pennsylvania had a three strikes law, and it sounded as if he qualified.

  A mosquito buzzed in my ear, but I ignored it. In the distance, the fire grew brighter.

  “We’d been dating before it happened,” he said. “She was pregnant with my son. I—I’ve never held him.”

  “They didn’t come visit you?”

  “Not enough money. Cresson is a long way from Hanover—almost on the New York border. We didn’t have no car.”

  He paused, struggling to sit up again. “My legs are cold.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “The important thing is to keep talking. Tell me more.”

  “I—I got out this morning. Couldn’t wait to get home and see her and the kid. Kurt. We named him Kurt, like the singer, you know? The guy from Nirvana? She wrote me letters every single day. I used to call her collect, but Robin still lives with her folks, and it got too expensive. I’ve s-seen pictures of Kurt. Watched him grow up through the mail. I want to hug him. My stomach is cold.”

  “It’s a cold night,” I replied, trying to take his mind off of it. He was losing a lot of blood. The smoke was stronger now, heavier. It blanketed the treetops and drifted over the road like fog.

  “The State got me a Greyhound ticket from Cresson to Hanover. Rode on that damn bus all day, and I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. Too excited. There was a McDonalds at one of the stops, and that’s the first time I’ve had a Quarter-Pounder in five years! Couldn’t wait to tell Robin about it.”

  His eyes grew dark.

  “There was this one fucker on the bus though. Guy from Cresson, just like me. Never saw him before. He was in a different block. He was on his way to Harrisburg. Fucker started the fight, but the bus driver didn’t believe me and threw me off.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah!” He broke into a violent fit of coughing, and I thought that would be it, that he would expire. But then it subsided. “Fucker threw me right off the bus. Right here on the road. I had my thumb out to hitch a ride when I saw—I saw the fire!”

  He sat upright, eyes startled.

  “Shit, I r-remember now. There’s a house on fire!”

  “Yes,” I soothed him, forcing him back down. “Yes, there is. But there’s nothing you can do about that now. Somebody should be along shortly. What else do you remember?”

  His eyes clouded.

  “T-the fire—and then—a horn? A loud horn, like on a tractor-trailer, and bright lights.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “Mister? I don’t feel too good. I don’t think I’m gonna make it. Will you d-do me a f-favor?”

  I nodded. His skin felt cold; the warmth was leaving his body.

  “Give my love to Robin and K-kurt? Their address is in m-my wallet, along w-with t-t-their phone number.”

  “I’d be happy too.”

  “I—I s-sure-a-a-appreciate t-that, Mister.”

  He smiled, safe in the knowledge that I would give his wife and child his love. Then he turned his head to the fire in the distance. His brow creased.

  “I s-sure h-hope the p-people in that h-house are a-alright . . .”

  “They are fine now,” I told him. “There were four of them. Daddy, Mommy, and the kids, a boy and a girl. The Wilts, I believe their name was. Exit Four. I killed them long before I started the fire. So don’t worry yourself. They’ll never feel the flames.”

  “W-what?” He tried to sit up again, but I shoved him back down, hard.

  “They were Exit Four. You are Exit Five. Hold still.”

  I pulled the knife from my jacket and cut his throat. There wasn’t as much blood as I’d expected, most of it already having leaked out while I kept him talking. I wiped the knife in the grass and placed it back in my coat. Then I fished out his wallet and found Robin and Kurt’s address and phone number. I smiled. They lived just off the Interstate, at Exit Twenty-One.

  Twenty-One. And this was Five. Sixteen more exits, and I would keep my promise to him.

  I walked on into the night, the distant wail of fire sirens following in my wake.

  I am an exit.

  ***

  Many readers tell me this story is one of their favorites. “I Am An Exit” appeared in my second short story collection, Fear of Gravity, and was reprinted in A Little Silver Book of Streetwise Stories. Both of those collections are now out-of-print, and people who don’t own them and don’t want to pay an exorbitant amount of money for them on eBay keep asking me to reprint it, so here you go.

  The tale came in a single, sudden burst. I usually write to music. The night this was written, I was working on the first draft of a novel called Terminal, and listening to Johnny Cash’s “Give My Love To Rose” and Nine Inch Nails’ “Mr. Self Destruct.” When the story idea came, it was the perfect fusion of fatigue, music, coffee and creative energy. The lyrics from both songs kept running around in my head. I thought about Cash’s protagonist dying along the railroad tracks, begging the stranger to give his love to Rose, while in the background, Trent Reznor whispered “I am an exit.” I wrote the first draft in the next half hour, and the second and final drafts the following day.

  The story was so well-received that I eventually wrote a sequel to it (which follows).

  This Is Not

  An Exit

  “You ever kill anyone?”

  He licks his lips when he asks me, and I can tell by his expression that he doesn’t really want to know. His eyes dart around the hotel bar before coming back to me. No matter what I say, my answer will barely register with him. The question is perfunctory. He desires the act of confession. He’s killed, and it’s eating at him. It weighs on him. He needs to tell.

  “What?” I pretend to be shocked by the question.

  The young man is maybe twenty-one or two. Still learning his limits when it comes to alcohol. His slurred words are barely noticeable, but the empty beer bottles in front of him reveal everything. He leans closer, nearly falling off his stool.

  “Have you ever killed someone?”

  This is his conversation starter. A chance to unburden. Or to brag. This is a beginning.

  An entrance.

  I close entrances.

  The first person I ever killed was named Lawrence. I’ve killed so many people over the years that they blur together—a nameless, faceless conglomerate. But I remember Lawrence. Pale and pasty. Hair on his knuckles. Rheumy eyes. He drove a red Chrysler mini-van and the glove compartment was full of Steely Dan cassettes and porn. Lawrence cried when I cut the sigils into his skin. Mucous bubbled out of his nose and ran into his mouth. Disgusting back then, but oddly amusing now. It brings a smile to my face, like thoughts of a childhood friend or first love.

  In the years since, I’ve streamlined my efforts. I no longer bother with sigils or ceremony. I no longer speak the words of closing. The mere act of killing accomplishes my work. Spilling blood closes the doors. I don’t need the rest of the trappings. Indeed, I prefer to act quickly these days. A shot in the dark. A knife to the back. Burn them as they sleep. Over and done. No muss. No fuss. Move on up the highway to the next exit. There are miles to go and doors to close before I rest, and I am getting older. Robert Frost took the road less traveled, but I take all roads. Speed and efficiency are the key. I didn’t know that, back when I killed Lawrence.

  I know it now.

  I am swift. My avatar is a hummingbird. Metaphorically speaking, I move through the night at eighty m
iles per second, traveling from blossom to blossom, taking their nectar and then moving on.

  I tell the young man none of this. Instead, I say, “No, I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “I have. A few years ago.”

  I sip my scotch and dab my lips with the napkin. When I respond, I try not to sound disinterested.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “Seriously. I’m not bullshitting you.”

  I say nothing, waiting, hoping he’ll unburden himself soon so that I can go to my room and sleep. Dawn is coming and I must be on my way.

  He signals for another round. We sit in silence until the bartender brings our drinks. The man glances at my half-full glass of scotch and I smile. He sets the drinks down and helps another customer. The young man picks up his beer and drinks half the bottle. I watch his throat work. He puts the bottle down and wipes the condensation on his jeans.

  “My girlfriend’s name was Janey,” he says. “I was eighteen. She was fourteen. I mean, that’s only four year’s difference, but people acted like I was a fucking child molester or something. I wasn’t, dog. I knew Janey since we were little kids. Our parents took us to the same church and shit. We were in love. Her old man freaked when he found out we were doing it. Somehow—I don’t know how—he got the password to Janey’s MySpace page and he read our messages. He told her she wasn’t allowed to see me anymore. Then he called my folks and said if I tried to contact Janey again, he’d call the cops and have me arrested as a pedophile. He actually called me that—like I was one of those sick fucks Chris Matthews busts on that show. You know?”

  I don’t. The only television programming I watch is PBS, and only when the hotel I’m staying in offers it. But I nod just the same, encouraging him to continue. I hope he’ll hurry up. I am bored.

  “Well, Janey sent me a text message the next day. Her dad found out and he smacked the shit out of her. So I went over there and knocked on the door, and when he answered, I told him I wanted to talk. He was mad. So mad that he was fucking shaking, yo. But he let me in. Said we were gonna have this out once and for all, and then he never wanted to see me again. He made Janey stay upstairs in her room. I heard her and her mother arguing. I asked if I could get a glass of water and he said yeah. So when he went into the kitchen to get it, I followed him. They must have just gone grocery shopping, because there were a bunch of empty plastic bags lying on the counter. I picked up two—double-bagged, like they do for heavy stuff, you know? There was a little bit of blood inside, probably from steak or hamburger or something. I remember that. And while her dad’s back was still turned, I slipped those bags over his head and smothered the motherfucker.”