Just Like Suicide pt. 8

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[cont.]
Maggie smiled at her. “That’s sweet of you. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. It really is a shame about his new work. Tommy’s first two shows here in town were dynamite. The third looked remarkably like work that didn’t quite make the cut to be in the second one. Like you said about that artist in Laguna Beach, all that energy, that Sturm und Drang, dissipates with age. Storms never come to stay. Tommy, though, clearly wants to evolve. Shifting into a different mode of production is almost impossible, though, in the midst of depression. Depression makes it like trying to sprint in a foot of mud.” How like Maggie to offer a kind take on the situation.
“Barbara, dear, the coffee’s ready. Do you want some? Forgive me for pointing this out. Hondo is so hot right now. I’m surprised you decided not to just focus on him. Is it because you don’t want to compete with the upcoming article in Vanity Fair about his life?”
“I didn’t know anything about it. I had only heard about the PBS piece his grandmother is funding.”
“PBS takes forever to produce its documentaries. And you don’t have to worry about the magazine article. It’s pure fluff. The writer called me since I’d written one of his obituaries. He was only interested in the self destruction, not in the work. We do like our bad boys to die young and unnecessarily.”
“Death by overdose has become such cliché, hasn’t it?” Barbara scoffed. “Think about it. Diane Arbus, Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Sid Vicious, Chet Baker, Elvis Presley, Basquiat, Fassbinder, Heath Ledger, Philip Seymour Hoffman, even that China Art Objects dealer, Giovanni Intra – all of them dead by overdose. It seems to be a rule – if you’re a convention-breaking creative eaten alive by the pressures of success, you are required to commit suicide the most traditional way – by overdose. You know, all suicides are self indulgent and selfish. My mother’s was.”
“It’s impossible to determine conclusively if an overdose is a suicide, isn’t it? Unless there’s a note? Ledger’s death was ruled an accident.” Maggie was always trying to shift the conversation away from the specifics of Barbara’s mother into more neutral territory.
“If you ingest drugs in large quantities with or without alcohol, it’s suicide. Every fourth grader knows not to do it.”
“Creatives have a history of pushing limits. They may well think they are exempt from the normal rules,” Odessa suggested.
“Or,” added Maggie, “they may be so high that they’ve lost track of what they’ve already taken. That happens a lot.”
Barbara shook her head. “If you think these suicides are accidents, I have a bridge to sell you. Take Elvis’ death – he had everything his fans could strive for. He was the embodiment of the classic rags to riches life story. So is it any wonder they refused to believe in his death? Who would want to believe that his great success and their undying devotion weren’t enough to keep him living and singing happily ever after? If someone who had everything could decide to kill himself, what chance did they have?” Barbara paused, sipped the coffee. It was a pretty good quality. “So, Odessa, do you think Hondo was a genius?”
“I’ve never been as certain about Hondo’s genius as others have. And while I understand the struggles involved in clinical depression, I must admit that I’ve acquired an intolerance for overdoses.”
“Like my mom’s? Look, I completely agree with you. Even before your husband’s death, you’ve watched so many cancer victims struggle so hard to live. It must be hard to have sympathy with anyone who would just throw a life away, whether from suicide or drug addiction.”
“I am not categorically opposed to suicide. Assisted suicide for the terminally ill is an act of pure mercy. We are kinder to our pets than we are to people. That last week, Dennis was in such pain. There is no dignity in pain, no transformative grace involved.” Odessa took a deep breath, covering Maggie’s hand with her own. “But have you two visited Alex yet? Tell me what he’s up to. He was always full of clever ideas.”
“I haven’t been to his studio yet. We’ve just talked tons on the phone, but I’m planning on flying to see him over break. Alex is great, isn’t he? I see him as the hero of the film. He is the survivor, the one who is not simply a mirage generated by the boom years.” Barbara smiled. Like clockwork, Odessa and Maggie smiled back.
“I agree with your assessment. Alex will always land on his feet. Well, you two, I hate to say it but I am plum tuckered out. Just leave the plates on the table and I’ll attend to them tomorrow morning. You two might should stay here tonight. You’ve both had too much to drink and I don’t want to go to jail for supplying alcohol to a minor, even if the minor was the one who brought the wine. It was a lovely Bordeaux. Thank you for that.”She reached over and patted Barbara’s hand. “I’m glad you and Maggie are together, Barbara. Welcome to our family.”


Return on Friday for the next chapters of Just Like Suicide.

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