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Left-over | Nov 11 2001

I knew a man who killed himself precisely twenty years ago, November 11th, 1981. Except I didn’t really know him. We sat across from each other in a restaurant, at a dinner hosted by a mutual friend. This man, whose name may have been Marvin, said almost nothing the entire night. Then, just as we were about to leave, his watch started beeping. He stared at the thing in silence, transfixed. When he looked up again, he was smiling.

I asked what had happened.

“It was just 11:11:11,” he said. “I never miss it.”

Less than a year later, he killed himself. Shot himself in the head. On 11/11. Presumably at 11:11:11, although no one knows for certain.

Fucking life. He ordered Veal Parmigiana and didn’t finish it.