MATTHEW SNYDERMAN

Charon.com

It wasn’t until he’d decided to kill himself that Joel Barkley gained the relief that meds and booze had failed to provide. Fading fast was the guilt for having laid off the employees at his floundering art gallery. Ditto the night sweats over his landlord’s increasingly loud threats to put his “shit out in the street.” And, as always, there was his dysphoria, still there, but content to play third fiddle to his more immediate concerns. In their place, he contemplated the “how” (swallowing a 45 hollow point) and the “where” (his parents’ stately home). But it was the “when” – a party celebrating his mother stepping away from a lucrative 35-year career shrinking the heads of Charleston’s upper crust – that brought him more peace than hearing Goodnight Moon as a child. 

Cheered by the thought of cutting off half-drunk Gloria Barkley in the most colorful fashion possible while she was referring to him yet again as the family’s “once and future Walmart greeter,” Joel took a seat and cracked his knuckles. All that remained was to craft the perfect suicide note. And with 48 hours to go, he had plenty of time.

 ———

One wadded-up ball of paper followed another, caroming off the wastebasket or hitting the wall behind it. Letting the pen slip from his hand, Joel took in the spreading mess with a soft, “Fuck.” 

He pictured his mother watching him, right hip cocked, arms folded under her breasts, theatrically checking her watch. Just as she always seemed to do when his feelings were most exposed, whether it concerned an emotionally abusive 3^rd grade teacher or begging for a modest bridge loan to keep the gallery afloat. A spectral version of his father was a no show, much like the real Arthur Barkley had been when needed most, probably two sheets to the wind, lining up an imaginary putt on an imaginary Myrtle Beach golf course.

Several choice phrases might banish the growing throng of spectators that now included a disappointed ex-wife and a baker’s dozen of his Lacoste-clad ΣΑΕ bros. But those words were nowhere to be found. The hovering voyeurs crowded in ever tighter; in turns dismissive, contemptuous, and, when he failed to produce even a syllable, bored. 

A tsunami of that familiar self-loathing was building. Not waiting for it to crest, Joel reached for his laptop.

 ———

“Thank God for Google,” Joel said staring at his HP and the array of AI ghostwriting options materializing before him. Ease of use trumped price, and a couple of reviews from an obscure online clearinghouse grabbed his attention. Two clicks and “Charon.com” emerged from the ether in the form of a wiry, bearded man standing in the back of a small Viking ship on the near bank of a dark river, long oar in hand. “Welcome,” he said to strains of muted cello music. “We are sorry for your struggles and know it is difficult to write when emotions are high. I hope we can be of assistance at this stage of your journey. First, a few administrative details.” A screen entitled “Payment” appeared in Copperplate font. Joel entered his name and credit card info to cover the base service.

“Much appreciated, Joel,” intoned Charon, waving him aboard as the “Payment” screen morphed into an interface under the heading of “Recipient(s).” Then he stood to the side and gestured toward the text boxes. “Please…” 

Joel checked “Mother” and “Father.” The next screen had the boat landing on a misty shore crowded with cypress trees draped with Spanish moss, which parted and framed a checklist dedicated to tone. The choices: Ashamed, Bitter, Curious, Fearful, Hopeless, Peaceful, Regretful, Resigned, Sad. Without hesitation, he opted for “Bitter.”

A parchment scroll followed offering styles from Hemingway to Harold Pinter. Unable to resist turning a reasonable facsimile of the English playwright’s acerbic wit on his parents, he agreed to pay Charon the supplemental fee.

Another click, another screen. “Recriminations (Optional)” this time. Charon conjured rows of text fields for keywords as the slow movement to Beethoven’s 7^th was replaced by Preservation Hall’s “Saint James Infirmary.” Joel scrawled some favorites on his legal pad and then winnowed the list to four. For mom: “Telling your mah-jongg pals about my most private business.” For dad: “Choosing golf over just about anything to do with me.” For both: “Never apologizing.” Again, for both: “Gaslighting me.”

“Pet Phrases (So They’ll Know It’s from You),” read the final screen. With “needless to say,” “Queen of fucking Sheba,” and “poor excuse” added to the mix, Joel’s work was at an end and he hit “Finish.” A half-page document began to print. The screen, which showed footage of a picturesque dawn, advised him to transcribe the message by hand “for that personal touch.” Then the ferryman invited him to take a short survey about his experience, something at which Joel couldn’t help but laugh. 

The note contained some stilted phrasing, but it had bite to spare. His favorite, “Now, watching my gray matter run down your wall, perhaps I’ll be heard. At least until that next cocktail hour,” had Joel nodding with satisfaction.

Fifteen minutes and he had a presentable handwritten version, supplemented by a PS: “Congrats on your retirement.☺” After that, a shower and a shave (he wanted to look his best). Then he laid out the same elegant outfit he wore for gallery openings and the 45 he’d purchased for the occasion. Making sure it was loaded with one in the chamber, he brushed his teeth, climbed into bed, and slept like a baby.

Matthew Snyderman lives in Northern California with his wife. When not writing, he enjoys swimming, watching old movies (preferably in a theatre), and collecting music. His work has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, Dark City, Fabula Argentea, The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Opiate, and Twin Bill.