What can I say? I was broke. I was desperate. Fear clenched, hunger clawed. I fantasized about zesty, tangy, double-size tacos. My home was grime. My car was rot. Suicide beckoned, fondly. It caught up to me on the scuzzy streets. It was the chummiest demon. It put its arm around my shoulder. Relief, it whispered. Relief and oblivion. But stubborn me, I was hanging in there. I figured that, if I could just score some quick cash, maybe I could make a comeback in life. Not that I’d ever had much of a heyday, but still.

Yeah, so. The misadventure with the videotape. That’s our story here. 

It began like this: A few weeks ago, I was having dollar beers at this dive place. Seated at the bar, getting snuggly with the free nuts. Behind me, at a table, was the local mafioso Uncle Nick, along with two of his flunkies. Uncle Nick had sleepy eyes and wore green suits. Green was his thing, no one knew why. I’d heard stories about the guy, even met him a few times. People called him Uncle Nick cuz he’d killed his own nephew. I’d always been real glad we weren’t related. Presently Uncle Nick was grousing about needing to hire a courier to pick up a videotape. Half-drunk, fully desperate, I ambled over to their table. Told them, falsely, that I had courier experience myself. I gripped an imaginary steering wheel, to convey the idea. Uncle Nick regarded me dubiously. 

“Your name’s Randy, right?” he said. “Nice to see ya, kid. But this is dangerous stuff we’re discussing here. Maybe just turn around and go back to the bar.”        

“Danger? I scoff at it,” I said. “It’s silly to me, it makes me chuckle.”

Uncle Nick stared at me for a long while. Then he looked at his flunkies, both of whom shrugged. “All right, then,” he said finally. “Have a seat, kid.” 

He gave me the lowdown. This videotape, which he also referred to as the newswoman tape, had been locked up in someone’s safe out west. He had hired a safecracker team to bust it out. Which they had. But now they were all spooked; the tape was allegedly haunted. None of them wanted to deliver it or mail it or even touch it. 

I told him that nothing spooked me. That I’d be happy to fetch the videotape for him. Uncle Nick thought it over, then nodded, then handed me a cash advance. 

I squinted back tears. The bills were so crisp, so beautiful.

*

My mom once told me that she didn’t like me as a person. That I was gawky and unkempt, whereas the people she liked were attractive. She of course loved me as a son, though, she said. Then she smiled and gave me a crumbled dollar for my school lunch.

*

The trip was an easy breeze. Uncle Nick had provided a map. It was green. I drove and snacked. Crossed several state lines. Saw the weather go from sunny to even sunnier. Scored the package from an empty house. A woman’s name, presumably the newswoman’s, was written across the top. Driving back, I took a peek inside the musty box. The videotape was real old-timey—the kind that resembled a small movie reel. 

Back at home, in my roachy apartment, I sat on the flimsy feather bed and waited for Uncle Nick’s call. I was stoked about my comeback. Huzzah! Maybe I could move to a less fearsome part of the city. Naturally, I didn’t like doing business with a guy who had croaked his own nephew—strangled him to death, legend was—but sometimes you had to make a compromise. I ate some ramen. I corralled the roaches. Then I took out my cell phone and looked up this newswoman online. I found articles about her right away.

As I read, my stomach tensed. Sadness swallowed me. The woman had worked at a news station almost fifty years ago. She shot herself in the head during a live broadcast and died soon after. Talk about tragic! And she sounded great too. Real smart, real pretty. Huge-hearted. Doted on her mom and brother. Did puppet shows for troubled kids. But she struggled to make adult friends. She was like a shunned wolf. Always trying to fit in, always failing. I liked her. I mean, I could relate. Everyday lately, no matter how upbeat I tried to be, no matter how hopeful, and even if I had money, and even if the sun was shining, I would at some point stare into space and wonder why people didn’t like me. 

And then it struck me like a vicious slap. 

The videotape, obviously, was the footage of the newswoman’s suicide. The articles said that it had never been released and was worth bundles on the black market.

I slept badly that night. Dark thoughts swarmed. Why was life so troublesome? Why were some people so unfit for the world? I wasn’t always so irrelevant. There was this one winter at ice curling camp, especially, when I had friends and even a girlfriend. Curling was the only sport I was ever good at. The coaches gave me the spirit award. It was a snow globe with my name engraved on it. If I had a heyday, it was that winter. If I had a rock bottom, it was this spring. The morning roaches scurried to life. I ate crackers and pretended they were tacos. Difficult me, I started rebelling. Hours passed. A plan formed. Late that morning, Uncle Nick called, asking when I could bring him the tape.  

“Uh, never?” I replied. “I mean, let’s rethink this. Do you really want to profit off some sickos? I mean, the people you’re selling it to—they’ve gotta be sick to wanna watch this lady die. Plus, it’s haunted, remember? We don’t want nobody to get hurt.”

Uncle Nick was silent. I gulped; I pictured him putting on green strangle gloves. “You got two options here, Randy,” he said at last. “Option one is, you bring me the tape. That’s the good option. Option two is, I send my people over to your place.”

“Ha! My street isn’t even on the city map. Your flunkies will never find me.”

But they did find me. Within an hour, actually. They crashed through the door. They found the videotape, then came for me. Improvising, I said I knew judo. I got into a fight stance and howled evilly and scissored my arms around. The flunkies frowned, then laughed, then tied my hands behind my back. They yanked me onto the street. Threw me in the back of a car. Drove us away. The bristly rope cut into my wrists. After the car stopped, they hauled me into a cold, vacant, echoey warehouse. Sat me in a chair, then untied me. One of them stayed close, pointing a pistol in my face. Straight ahead was an antique recorder contraption. Playback monitor on top, with a sort of reel-to-reel beneath.

Death had never scared me. In fact, well, it comforted me. Death by flunkies, though, or by a nephew strangler, was a different story. My palms were slick.

“Kid, you are the biggest dope I ever met,” Uncle Nick said, entering the room.

“It’s possible,” I said. 

He straightened his green necktie. “You know we gotta kill you, right?” His voice was filled with pep, like I’d won a prize. His sleepy eyes seemed almost awake.  

“Well, but here’s another thought,” I said. “Let me go and give me the tape.” 

He grinned and slapped me on the back, like we were old pals. “Let’s watch the tape before we do him,” he said to the flunkies. “Make sure we got what we need.”

Uncle Nick and his flunkies got the videotape going. We all stared at the monitor. The newswoman, seated at her broadcast desk, spoke numbly to the camera. But the playback instantly went glitchy. And then I remembered: the haunted thing. The air in the room turned rancid. Hideous visions sprang up all over. We were tranced; we couldn’t turn away. But none of it was the newswoman’s doing. Somehow I knew that. It was just a security measure—freelance spirits hired by humans, as extra assurance that the tape would never be viewed. And I knew the haunting would kill us. It was so evil, so nasty.

It was also, somehow, customized. 

I saw all the stuff I’d had nightmares about as a kid. A face with bloody fangs. A scorpion with a huge stinger. My mom and dad humping. Bah! And there was an extra layer to that one, because lately I wished I’d never been born. The weight of irrelevance was too much. It was like a backpack filled with huge, heavy, sinister rocks. I had tried college, jobs, volunteering. Nothing clicked. I tried hard, and was real friendly, but no one ever liked me. Did I smell or something? No! I showered, I wore clean clothes. I was fired from my last job, clerking at a drug store, a year ago. Unemployment checks kept me alive, barely. Uncle Nick and his flunkies, trapped in their custom visions, wept and screamed. I saw more terrors, but nothing seemed as dark, as scary, as just being me. I felt a soothing surrender. Death by haunting seemed better than getting shot or strangled.

But I didn’t die. Maybe that’s obvious? I mean, here I am, telling the tale.

The others weren’t so lucky. They collapsed to the floor. Their sockets were scorched, their innards were out. Uncle Nick twitched like a dying burro. I got the tape, and also the flunky’s pistol, and scrammed. Still broke, still desperate. So much for my comeback. Later that day, I mailed the tape back to its original keepers. Leaving the post office, I felt a tingle of victory, but then tripped and fell splat on the stenching pavement.  

*

My dad once told me that I’d never get laid. That I was too klutzy to interest a girl. His tone was angry and final, as if he’d actually seen my future. Then he yanked the hammer away and said to get him a whiskey. He was wrong, though. But not that wrong. 

*

Last week, late one sleepless night, the newswoman visited me. Maybe it was her spirit. Or maybe I hallucinated it. Who knows? Not me. She sat glowingly at the end of my grimy feather bed. Her hair was dark and sweeping. She was the brokenest angel. The bullet had been cruel; blood splotched her hair and head. But still, she looked real pretty. 

“Hang on if you can,” she whispered, then faded away.

I have questions. I mean, why hang on? Because life, all life, is inherently precious? Or because I’ve been spared death for an actual reason? It’s a scorching distinction. I don’t care about inherently precious; I want an actual meaningful life. Days are gruesome. I feel scummier than my apartment. Ramen keeps me lean and scurvy. Sometimes I eat dinner at a soup kitchen that I used to volunteer at. But mostly I stay home and think things over. Is one measly winter all I get? Will I never get another snow globe? Did the newswoman ever get anything like that? I wish she’d felt as valuable as that stupid videotape. I wish everyone did! But maybe if I hang on for a while, and focus on just getting through each day, she’ll visit again, and tell me whether life is really worth it, and if there’s even one small reason why I shouldn’t put this pistol to good use.

---

Mark Benedict is a graduate of the MFA Writing program at Sarah Lawrence College. You can read more of his writings at markbenedict.net.