After having rescued the poet Hart Crane from drowning in the Gulf of Mexico, and then swimming over and helping John F. Kennedy successfully navigate the Dealey-Plaza episode of his charmed existence, I feel deservedly proud of myself. Now, neither of these great men ends up dying too soon; instead, each has remained one of us, the heavy breathers; thus they may partake of our tree of life, and eat, and live for ever.
Normally I answer the phone at the Suicide Prevention Service and tell the caller to get bent; but now I realize that if the person on the other side of the line is a famous individual whom I respect, then it’s kinda fun to save them. In the case of Mr. Crane and Mr. Kennedy, they could have swallowed the Sabachthani Cup of Fate, and then the results might’ve been unthinkable — imagine a world where the poetry of Hart Crane comes to a screeching halt after his smash-hit “The Broken Tower”! Or one in which JFK dies in 1963 — ay caramba, the U.S. might then fall wholly into the hands of its so-called Intelligence Agencies. So I begin to think twice about how I treat people, since I see that even my rashest actions are prone to generate spacetime-altering consequences.
This train of thought makes me desire to go save Abe Lincoln as well. If you’ve rescued Hart Crane and JFK, why stop there? Why would you not want to help out Honest Abram?
So I return to my folding chair at the card table and answer more telephone calls. The first is Father Abraham himself:
“O patriarch of multitudinous offspring, is that you?” I blurt into the mouthpiece after picking up the handset on the first ring.
“Um… is this the Dead-End Help-Line?” Abe inquires.
“Yes,” I say, “sorry, I was just so excited to hear from you that I forgot to maintain even the slightest modicum of professionalism when I answered. Let me try again.”
“OK.”
So I hang up; and the phone bell immediately begins to shriek. I lift it calmly and casually, because my supervisor has begun to give me the evil eye, after the fourteenth ring:
“Hello, this is Bryan from ‘Get Your Damn Hands Off Yourself’. How are you aiming to commit the dirty deed this evening?”
“Well… I was under the assumption that this was the Movie Line; you see, I’m calling to get the showtimes for what films are playing locally.”
“Sorry, I forgot to ask: Do you prefer ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’?”
“I guess ‘Sir’, for my name is Mister Lincoln, the 16th President of Ur in Mesopotamia, which is the Eagan of Ancient America…”
“Ooh, another prez! Great,” I say, “then I’ll call you Abe the Tall. Alright, it looks like we have only one motion picture in your area that will truly knock your sox off: it’s called The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) — however, if you’re a channel surfer, you’re not gonna get very far; for this title is playing on a continual loop at a place called Black Lagoon Cinema. The idea is that you buy one ticket; then walk in and watch the same film all day long, over and over. Perhaps you’re hiding out, after being assassinated. Oh, yes, and if you ever get hungry during your moviegoing experience, you can just eat popcorn.”
“And…”
“Yes, the theater is air-conditioned.”
“Ah, OK,” sez Abe. “I think I’ll purchase two tickets to paradise, then.”
“Alrighty,” I say. “If you let me know approximately when you’ll be arriving, I can have a killer set up and ready to shoot you. And, are you paying with cash or credit card? Or would you like to take out a second mortgage on the White House and make a big donation to The Bryan Ray Fund?”
“Cash,” sez Abe.
“OK, just stuff it thru the line.”
“I can pay you directly? How much is the total?”
“Twenty coins. And then an extra thirty for the killer. So fifty total. And we only take caesars.”
Abe stuffs fifty caesars thru the telephone line. I retrieve the payment and count it numerous times, very greedily.
“Actually, I didn’t realize this, but the prices have doubled,” I say; “could you stuff thru another fifty or more?”
Abe complies, and I end up also setting him up with a second mortgage, so that he can make a contribution to my foundation. This allows us to stock up on wine and vodka, which makes me happy.
“Thanks so much,” I say. “Now, before I let you go, would you like to choose your assassin?”
“Sure,” sez Abe. Then, hesitantly, he adds: “This is all just part of the playact, right? Like, a funny skit that happens during the intermission — a silly prank… just to wake the people up with a little audience-participation?”
“Oh no, Abe,” I say, “a thousand times no: your money is important to us. We only offer the highest quality entertainment. Your killer is real, and there shall be live bullets in his gun.”
“But I thought I called the Suicide Line,” sez Abe; “aren’t you supposed to talk me out of performing self-slaughter? It sounds like you’re trying to do the polar opposite — even to get me to finance and arrange my own execution.”
“Ah,” I say, “now here is where you slipped up, my dear Abram: for you claimed that you thought you dialed the number for the MOVIE LINE. — Now do you want to choose your killer, or should we surprise you?”
“I guess I’ll choose,” Abe sighs. (He just can’t catch a break.)
“Alright, we have three very fine young assassins for you to select from. Choice ‘A’ is Frank Booth Ray, my brother Paul’s first-born killer-male. (Remember, you read about the lad when you stole my diary.) I highly suggest that you choose him, cuz he can’t shoot very well — you’re more likely to leave with your life intact, still hanging from its inner cross. — The second-rate assassin is Judas Christ Ray (Frank’s cousin who never got born, that’s why he must make a living in literature). — And the third person in your Killer Trinity is a guy named John Wilkes Booth Ray — a total shit-for-brains: don’t choose him — for, if you do, you’ll be fuct.”
“Um… hmm…” sez Honest Abe, “I guess I’ll take your advice and go with Frank Booth Ray.”
“Yes!! Excellent choice!” I say.
“Do you really think that he’s liable to miss me, when he shoots his gun?” asks Abe.
“I can’t 100% guarantee it, because even a broken clock is worth its own weight in gold, on a spiritual scale; however, if you don’t mind, I’m going to hang up on you now, because I’m tired of holding this telephone.”
“Oh, OK; sorry I kept you so long. Goodbye,” stammers Abe.
I make the kissy-noise and then dash off to the theater to save my Dead Prez…
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