THE SUICIDE SHOP

The suicide shop

When I first saw Kevin Trask, he was almost naked. Perhaps fully naked in my mind's eye, but he was wearing the skimpiest of bathing suits as he got out of his pool, stretched, and toweled himself in the noonday sun. He could have modeled for any underwear ad; he was that chiseled, with long angular lines from head to toe. I was both disappointed and relieved when he put on a purple silk robe. How appropriate, I thought, for the king of his world.

 He had yet to speak despite acknowledging my presence with a brief nod. He was dead wrong if he intended for me to feel cowed by his superiority. I hated what he did for a living.

“Inside or outside?” he asked as he came closer to me

I must have looked confused or perhaps still caught in the daze of watching him get out of the pool

“The interview?”

“Oh, OK,” I stammered, instantly regretting how I must have sounded to him, but then quickly recovered. “Inside,” I said, “too much sun out here, and I did not bring sunscreen.” Inside, I groaned, thinking I could not sound any more stupid and thrown off by his looks, like any schoolgirl, instead of a crack reporter for the Daily Interview, a serious national magazine, a Pulitzer Prize finalist for god's sake. Jeannie Hawk, crack reporter, bowled over by a Chippendale.

“Follow me.” He turned and walked away from the house and then through a hidden door in the outbuilding next to the pool. “I like to use this room, out of earshot of the staff. NDAs can only cover so much. I don’t want to be overheard spilling state secrets,” he said with a smile.          

  “The interview will take about an hour,” I said

 He sat down and pressed a button on the side of his chair. The wall on the right side rolled away to reveal floor-to-ceiling windowpanes, revealing a view of the valley and city below.

“Nice view,” I said, “fit for the lord of all he surveys.”

He chuckled,” I like it. Ok then, Jeannie Hawk, ask away.” He got up and went to the wet bar.

“Drink?”

“Just water.”

Kevin Trask rarely did interviews, and I wanted to take full advantage of his time. Indeed, other than a few transitory answers at press conferences, he had never given a full interview.  I placed my recorder and notebook on the coffee table before me, then dug into my purse for a pen. He watched me as I set up the tools of the trade.

“Why both, he asked. “Why both pen and paper and recorder?”

“I always like backup,” I said.” I never did trust technology.”

He shrugged. “I do”

I studied him, taking in the sculptured beauty of his face, the one plastered all over the country on magazines, billboards, and buses. He took you into his eyes, forgiving all, a confessor and father, brother, even lover, all at once, leaving you wanting to do nothing but fall into those eyes and let it all go, listening to his voice as he told you to come find the peace you sought, the release you need, the end you had to have. And here I was, sitting before the real person behind those ads. I shook myself back to the task at hand.

“This is Jeannie Hawk, date June 1, 2035”

“So, Mr. Trask,” he stopped me with a hand. “Call me Kevin,” he said, inviting me to continue.

“So Kevin,” I stressed the word, “how did it all start? Where did you get the idea for the Suicide Shop?”

“People have always wanted to kill themselves, Jeannie. I made a way for them to do that and live should they choose and also to die should they choose that. It turns out that being able to do that all-in-one place made for an attractive business.”

 My turn to hold up a hand. “Kevin, if I had wanted to listen to one of the suicide shop ads, I could have simply turned on the television. Every idea starts somewhere. I want to know your start. What drove you at the beginning and made you create all this?”

Trask watched me interminably, emotions playing deep in his green eyes. Then, he seemed to come to a conclusion.

“I walked into the ocean to die, and I did not die.” He paused a long second and then began again. “I walked into the ocean to die, to let the waves wash over me and take me away. I thought the pills I had taken with the booze I had drunk would kick in and block any pain. I had been depressed for a long time and wanted it to end. I picked a spot where, when I sat down, the water came up to my neck. Then I waited. Oddly, I did not think about much; I just sat and waited. Perhaps it was the booze and the drugs, I don't know, but what was ahead of me was just a blank, nothing that held any terror. I fell asleep for what I thought would be the last time: the water would take me, and I would be at peace.”

         “When I woke, the first light of dawn glimmered on the horizon. I was now sitting on wet sand, naked, the water's edge now five feet behind me. The tide had gone out, not in, and now I was sober and exposed and very, very naked. I raced to my clothes, still piled on the sand; I pulled the shorts on and then slipped back into my hotel room. No one saw me on the beach at that time of the morning. I would have made quite a sight to the old couples who strolled the early morning hours on the sand hunting for shells and health. You cannot imagine how foolish I felt, both lucky and a total failure simultaneously. The odd thing was that I no longer wished to die; my depression was gone, lifted from me like a weight that held me down. I felt light and released and did not fear the future.” He stopped, not looking at me, lost in thoughts of long ago.

 I asked, “If you did not want to die anymore, then why did you start a company that provides suicide as a service?”

He returned to the present, looked at me with those eyes that poured deep into my soul, and smiled. “Have you ever wanted to kill yourself, Jeannie?”

“of course not,” I said, perhaps a bit too briskly,

“I don't believe you. Most people want to at least once at some point in their lives, only to be stopped by circumstance or fear. Morality offers only partial protection. When you do it, it seems like a good idea at the time. I never forgot that. I had truly wanted to die; I had no reservations, and yet I did not die. And in that not dying, my life was given back to me.

I went to work in various businesses, creating a living for myself and doing very well. I watched as society's attitude toward suicide changed, and a new movement started. My life, My Body movement swept the country, sometimes not easily, but it continued to grow. People had become tired of being told what to do, no matter whether it meant being told what to do to live or being told what to do to die. They looked at it like a new war of independence, and they won. Congress eventually passed the My Life My Body Act, making suicide legal. I helped, worked for the movement, and gave my money and time. I had a plan that I had ready for the time that came. I saw a need to provide people with a way to explore the suicide scenario safely, to see if that was indeed what they wanted or if, like me, they would find that it was just a good idea at the time. So, I opened my first Suicide Shop. There, you could try the various ways to do yourself in. I expected that many people would regret the act if saved from it, just as I had been. I arranged multiple ways to try, a menu, so to speak, death à la carte, all safe unless you flipped off the safety switch. Then, it became permanent, but it was rarely used. Most preferred the safe try. The first shop was so successful that I franchised it, and it became the largest chain of any company in the country and, over the years, in the world.  Would you like to see the inside of the Shop?”

“Absolutely”

I followed him out of the house, down to a parking area with a large blue Rolls-Royce and a red Lamborghini. The chauffeur was waiting by the Rolls, and I expected him to get in that one, but he crossed the parking lot floor and held the door of the Lamborghini open for me.

“I like to drive.”

“Do you feel you are doing all this for the money?” I asked when we were driving

He just looked straight ahead, weaving in and out of the traffic, expertly guiding the car. I thought I saw a small curl in the corner of his lips, just the beginning of a smile.

“That’s an old gambit, not very inventive, and surely you can come up with better. I provide a service; others could do it as well, but I think my way gives people a chance to reconsider, to change their minds, and not complete the task if they are not truly committed.”

“True,” I said, “what about those who come back repeatedly? Are they not adrenaline death junkies, getting ever closer to the deed to keep getting high?”

This time, he did not smile.

“Off the record?”

“Okay, “I answered

“I have worried about that. At first, it was just a blip on the data screens, but at least there was a distinct uptick in the repeat visits. There may be a sexual adrenaline component to it.”

“How often have you done it? “I asked

“Many, Many times”

I sensed that there was more he wanted to say, but he just added,” It does make the bottom line look good.”

“Do you have much security “

“Oddly not much, but we must guard the cars. We never know which trip could be their last. I let them park on site. Public lots complained about the abandoned vehicles.”

 He parked the car, and we got out. We went to a private elevator, then up four floors, and then out to a large room. A hallway led out from it in four different directions, each lined by large glass doors on either side.

He waved a languid arm to either side, and I watched pride form on his lips in a slow smile.

“Each room is a different experience,” he said. Each room will be tuned to an individual's desires, just like tuning your radio dial to the deadly channel of death. “

“This one,” he said, pointing to the room to his right,” is the overdose room, complete with all the world's favorite drugs, packaged in pill or IV form. If you want to go right to the edge and be pulled back, you must leave the safety switch in the safe position, and an aide will administer the antidote.”

“Tell me of the other rooms.”

 He moved on, waving his hand to either side, pointing out rooms for gunshots, cutting your wrists, throwing yourself out of a building or a cliff, car wrecks, death by misadventure, even death by cop. There were many more rooms.

 “Some take more preparation, mixing virtual and real reality in ways that can keep you alive unless you've turned off the safety switch. They are proprietary trade secrets that I can't tell you. We are quite adaptable.”

 I felt the hair rising on my neck as he said this, realizing what appetites were being fulfilled here. I made a few notes, and my mind was racing.

“It’s a cultural phenomenon., People use suicide as entertainment.”

I looked up at him and saw great weariness in his eyes, more than I would've expected. He was not a young man but looked older than he should have when he did not smile. I suspected that he was unhappy with his creation.

“Let's have a cup of coffee,” he said. He let me down the hallway around the corner. “There is a cafeteria coffee shop for people needing a timeout or a family that comes with them. Usually, if they bring family, they don't take the final plunge. Most of the time, they do that alone.”

 He sat me down at the table and brought us each a cup of coffee; mine was exactly what I wanted: heavy-duty with lots of sugar. I wondered if he had if he had been researching me.

“Off the record?” he said, watching me put my book away and ensure the recorder was powered off.

“The rest of our discussion should be off the record as it might be bad for business. Going back to our previous discussion, people often ask why the person kills themselves. As I told you, I've always said that it is because it seems like a good idea at the time. The premise of my business was to have a way to explore that and find out if that's what you really wanted to do. Once the laws were changed and suicide became legal and a recognized right, it took on a life of its own. As you know, I have thousands of Suicide Shop franchises worldwide and gather data on the people who do it themselves. At first, it was a small number, but most people seemed to be looking for experience without true motivation. I've noticed, though, that the more you try, the more you return. And the more they return, the closer they get to the end. I believe you're right; those people have developed an addiction. What is not known is that more people have died in the last three years of my shops than in all the wars the world over in those three years. To quote that old line I have become death. “He chuckled mercilessly. “Beware of unintended consequences.”

“Can you stop it?” I said. He looked at me and smiled, but the smile seemed to have the weight of the world in it, preventing it from ever becoming full.

“Turn your recorder back on. Let's finish the tour. You know I've never given an interview like this before. You may win a Pulitzer.”

 We went to the last room. inside the center of the room was a guillotine.

“One of my new additions. This device is one of the most efficient ways to kill ever invented. It's foolproof with the proper machine, quick in its finality and I hope it is painless, although you can't ask the subject after it's done. Of course, it has a safety switch. And as with all the rooms, I can measure all the physiologic signs right up to the actual death moment. This room has not had a customer yet. I would expect it to be the same. The sensors review the data and come up with what I call the fear acceptance ratio. The closer to zero that that ratio gets, the more certain it becomes that the person will go through with it and kill themselves. I have placed a monitor in each room that the customer cannot see, but my technicians can. That's it, there on the far wall. If my technicians see the number getting close to zero, they know to be ready to call in the cleanup crew. That's a detail that is never been revealed. Be sure you write that down. The safety switch is there by the right hand. In order to have the machine complete the task, you have to push it all the way to the right, and a green light will come on, and the computer will ask you if you are sure. If you say yes, the blade drops.

He looked at me and asked,” Are you getting everything?”

 I nodded.

“Stay here then and watch.” Then he slipped inside the room. I was unsure, but I thought I had heard him lock it. I saw him lay down on the guillotine and put the bracket over his neck, and heard it click into place. I heard his voice tell me the sensors were built into the machine. I looked at the monitor on the far wall and saw a flashing number that started at seven and then crept quickly to zero.

“Are you getting all that?” I heard him say.

“Yes,” I said, feeling a tremor of doom start to shake me. I wanted him out of that room. I saw him grasp the safety switch. His hand slowly pushed it towards the right.

“Remember everything I said,” I heard him say as I tried to force my way through the door but realized it was useless. Through the glass, I saw the safety switch turn green and heard the computer's voice asking if he was sure. Holding what I felt was my last breath, I heard him say yes.

“No, don’t!” I screamed,” No, don’t!” The blade dropped. The last thing I saw as my scream faded was his head rolling on the floor, stopping next to the glass, his dead green eyes on mine.

I was still crying, “No, don’t.”