He needed a stiff drink or a double dose of morphine, Thorazine, anything to calm himself down. Being unconscious would be fine! His nerves were at an all time condition of disrepair. The term “frazzled” did not even come close to explaining the feeling of ‘electrical short-circuiting’ that was happening throughout his body and especially his brain.
“How can this day get any worse?” he asked himself. In truth, he did not want to know the answer as he knew that there was no stopping this downward spiral he was feeling any time in the near future.
Continuing his drive north on PCH, his feelings unraveled. The stress of the day was just too much for him. He disappeared into a feeling of nothingness — a darkness of cold and shaky emptiness. “How about a leisurely drive off the road, down one of these 100 foot cliffs, and just, just end it all!” Anger and frustration created another sharp blow to the steering wheel with the palm of his right hand, made the wheel shudder violently, making the whole car shake as if it were being buffeted in a violent windstorm.
It also, finally, broke the dam of years of tears, held back by pride and shame, and memories of his parents telling him those ‘sacred words,' “Big boys don’t cry!”
He drove along for another five, maybe ten minutes. In the daze he was in, it was hard to say how long it had been. Time seemed unimportant, anyway,except that there was too much pain in this life to live another second.
“It was just too much! Life had been one big letdown after another. What a pattern! Why does ANYONE continue like this? You are born, you accomplish things only to be knocked down, and then do it all over again. Big deal. When you are a child, you have a pet. You learn about love, you become friends with it, and then it dies. You get a job, do your best, only to have some idiot tell you moronic statements like “you are too good to be promoted, so we are laying you off.”
“You do your best to love your parents, and they go away. This is life? Big deal! What a waste — happiness experienced, only to be let down. No, not let down, SLAMMED down into the emotional “dirt," only to be ground in deeper by the boot heel of the next idiot who comes along who walks over you. I do NOT want, . . . no, . . . I CAN’T take any more of this! I have had it! No more!”
A few moments later, while looking for his ‘unique’ exit from this nightmare called life, he noticed, ahead on the right side of the road, a sign that said simply,
Before he took his fateful swan dive off the PCH cliffs, he figured he would venture to see what this sign meant. One last fling in this disastrous life. On went the right turn signal.
Up the driveway he drove slowly. The path seemed to rise and go back about a quarter mile, where there were maybe six or seven onestory buildings of various shapes and size, built in a Spanish design. They were spaced out loosely, each one either facing the ocean or diagonal, facing south.
Between the buildings were gardens and grassy areas. Blazes of color from a multitude of flowers seemed to glow among the dark green foliage. In these “greenbelt” areas would be an occasional redwood gazebo, dotted here and there. The shrubbery was not new, but it did not grow above the ‘line of sight’ to disrupt the view of either the sea to the west or the mountains to the east.
There was a small stony path-like area in front of this “community” for lack of any better words, which appeared to lead to a parking lot that might hold up to ten or twelve cars. Not what one would expect from a locale that had such a beautiful vista of the ocean and such beautiful grounds. “What is this place?” he pondered continuously. As he turned off and exited his car, he didn’t even bother locking it. If someone wanted to steal it, that was good enough for him. They could have it. It’s just one less thing to have to worry about. He was not going to need it as his life was finding this as his “grand finale” for his last day on earth. There was a walkway which entered the garden-like setting around these modes buildings. There were no signs but one, that was like the one he saw at the entrance of the driveway which, again, said,
The gardens, he noticed, were manicured to perfection. There was one area with roses, with colors more brilliant than he had ever seen. Irises were in bloom in another area, which is odd as it was not the season for them to be in bloom. “They are early spring flowers,” he told himself. Odd. Azaleas in one corner, Oleander in another. Throughout the grounds, there were small paths made of a soft material that resembled a cross between macadam and cork. It was black, yet it was soft, and quieted the hardest of heals of any step, whether it be barefoot or booted.
At intervals, he saw small benches, which were placed in the most “perfect” places, either with a most picturesque view of the sea and the flowers in the garden, or a view of the flowers with the background of the neighboring hills and mountains.
There was no litter to be found. The grounds were spotless, but not “antiseptic.” He had always hated the “sterile” gardens as it made him feel unwelcome. They were always “too perfect”. This was not the case here. There was almost a feeling of “warmth” here. Very, very strange.
As he started observing the wooden gazebos, he saw they had hanging clay pots, each cradling flowers or some form of greenery.
There were a few people, both men and women, walking around the grounds. Some were having subdued conversations, some just walking in silence. Others were gardening and tending to the flowers, soil and shrubs.
Most were wearing robe-like clothing, what one might say would be similar to what the Franciscan monks would have worn, as they were made of cotton or wool, or some sort of natural material, but the look was not quite the same. They were more colorful, but not gaudy. They had no “hood” draped behind them for which the Franciscan robes are known. And again, there were both men AND women wearing these robes. If they were not smiling, they had at least a look of a relaxed nature on their faces.
He noticed again, that any conversations were in carried on in subdued tones, as if they were being considerate, not only of other people, but also considerate of the flowers and the overall nature or beauty of the place. This made no sense to him. How could, with all of the troubles and horrific things happening in the world, this place be so peaceful and serene? It felt unnatural, as it was “too perfect”. The world is chaos, entropy, not of peace. This is just “not right!”
Instead of the peace and serenity of this “Eden” calming him, he became more agitated, more unable to hold in his confusion and his anger. He walked out of the parking area, into the garden area and sat down inside one of the closest gazebos to regain his composure. God forbid if he were to lose control of his emotions in such a wonderful place as this. They would probably have him arrested for disturbing the peace, property damage and possibly assault — just one more thing to add to the eternally long list of things that seemed to be making his life “hell on earth.”
As he sat, he felt a pressure building deep within him. It was not in any particular part of his body, but from everywhere. It was building in his head, in his heart, in his lungs, in his stomach, deep, deep inside. He grew more and more tense, more confused, and the worst part, much more afraid.