If it ain't no different from pre-retirement, retirement ain't nothing to look forward to. If all you got to dream about is dribbling showers, screaming neighbours, and silent TV dinners, you might as well not dream at all. And if you ain't got dreams, what's the point of being alive?
It probably ain't easy to imagine how it felt when Waldo's world fell in on top of him. He didn't have nothing in his present, now he didn't have nothing in his future. That, for a guy so alone and so desperate, was the end of all hope.
That's what was going on in old Waldo's head that night as he lay in bed. He hadn't been able to bring himself to tell Aretha about what happened. Fact that he'd only ever kept one thing from her made this secret hurt a lot more than it should of. Weren't no way he was gonna fall asleep with all them Mexicans in the dream waiting to mock him.
He even skipped supper that night. Wasn't hungry for the first time in sixty five years. Disappointment was a great killer of appetite. Anyhow, if you're planning on doing away with yourself, it seemed like a terrible waste of food, if you know what I mean.
Waldo didn't figure anyone'd miss him. He could go away someplace, pretend he was going to Mexico, and throw himself in the sea instead. No, that wouldn’t work. Weren't enough rocks in America to stop Waldo Monk floating. And there couldn't be no blood. He couldn't stand the sight of blood, specially his own. So that counted out shooting, jumping, wrist-slashing and train tracks.
Didn't leave much did it? Only one thing really. And he knew what that was and where to get it. Instead of sleeping, he planned his suicide down to the last detail. Odd thing was it made him feel better. By morning he was wide-awake and ready for work. He didn't hate his God-awful apartment no more cause he knew he wouldn't have to spend another week there.