There are no houses there and as far as I know it has no name. In its entirety it is only referred to by the name of a path that cuts directly through its heart. Many tributaries stem from that path resulting in a maze of BMX fast track and plenty of places to hide. I have hidden there for a variety of reasons that seemed to change in importance as the years ticked by. No man that has ever looked up with sad eyes at the streetlights starting to burn on any side has not at one time or another speculated about the origin or meaning of that name. And no one really knows. We call it the Pig Path but there are no real pigs for miles in any direction.

Direction is something that escaped John, not all at once, but slowly, and he chased it everywhere, most recently back to the Pig Path. In fact if you would have been on the upper most path last Tuesday you might have seen John sitting peacefully on a fallen Poplar tree making decisions, 12 years removed from the last time he beat peddles racing to the top. He might have been picturing that in his head, or remembering the first time he touched the lips of a girl with his own not far from that spot, maybe even his first taste of alcohol, or the hundreds that followed all over that hill. Perhaps if you had been wearing polarized glasses you could have caught a fleeting glimpse of his direction floating between the rocks in the creek at the bottom of the hill. The picture in your head would have been that of a man in desperation. You could not have mistaken the shotgun lying across his lap for anything other than what is was. I know John.

I know what it was that had John down and out. I know because we had shared some of these things over the years, and Lord only knows John is anything but quiet when it comes to trouble. He was always chewing on someone's ear about the inevitable and the reasons we all do those things we couldn't or wouldn't explain. He would call it fear and let it be well known that we were just too lazy or afraid to take a real good look. He seemed drawn to the sides of us that we only thought of under the covers at night and rarely shared with anyone, save for the bats or the crickets sawing legs in a dewy morning lawn. John was fragile.

John was one of millions caught up in the technology run, a fast and furious world where entire companies sent the troops packing upon seeing that the venture gods had turned their backs. Deep pockets were made overnight and visions of ever growing economic freedom overshadowed the need for caution, a thread that bound them loosely. But as the cuts continued and the bootstraps tightened it became a venue for wickedness, one-upmanship, and chaos. Friction like that can wear through the staunchest of threads and day after day friends disappear or wind up at other companies in subordinate jobs, if they're lucky. My grandfather used to say that people can only hold up so long under pressure, and watching people succumb to the inevitable without ever knowing their place in line can do things to the mind that the Nazis would have loved to harness in a pill. He was a P.O.W. John was a free American.

Intertwining themselves in and all around John's troubled thoughts were the vices;, merciless and arguably necessary. One prompted another which ultimately resulted in the need for yet another, and so the cycle would go. He came from a long line of troubled and highly functional alcoholics, who all seemed to acknowledge the problem and the potential dangers, but ironically these remained intangible and out of mind when the river was running dry. But it flowed frequently past hundreds of shore fires that roared and crackled along the way. I remember sometimes seeing a far away, desperate look in his eyes as he stared past everything and smoke curled towards the ceiling from his perched hand, completely silent in the midst of music and merriment. He was off watching himself die somewhere in time, wondering why and if anything really could have been done, if taking it easy would have made it easier. His eyes held an apology like a man in a coma with just enough juice left in his organs to hear the final rights. John would say he was just thinking, that's all, just thinking.

John had a copy of the Bible. He had a copy of the Koran. He had copies of the Tao Te Ching, the Writings of Rumi, some books on Quantum Physics and Zen, and a printing of the Tibetan Books of the Dead. He claimed they said everything and nothing and that was the real problem anyway. He read many other books as well and had even been known to punt one across the yard because he couldn't believe how right on it was. He gave them all away but suspected that no one really ever read them, and because of things like that he could not understand what the hell it was that people thought they were really supposed to be doing, that maybe they knew something he didn't, or that he was meant to be alone. I would almost bet that the last book he had been reading before he climbed that hill was his favorite, the Stories of Breece D'J Pancake. John felt really close to certain people, some dead, some alive, and some just from the sound of their words echoing in his head.

He said he felt ethereal sometimes, like he was floating and mostly invisible. At these times he said he could move silently through the world, both real and imaginary, but he affected no one and no responsibility could stick to him. And strangely everything seemed to overflow with sound and color, and because nothing was personal, he could see the real meanings behind even the subtlest of movements. He said that shit was real important and that more than likely it was the purest source of knowledge but once you tried to talk about it, it became cheapened like the midday recap of a good dream. No one really wanted to hear about it anyway and no matter how good you got at flying, weather would always appear somewhere in the distance. John might have thought there was freedom in dying.

John could never decide what the desirable sequence of deaths would be for his family. He could not bear the thought of standing beside a casket looking down upon anyone who had helped him keep it together through all the years that would have led to that point. Their eyes would never open again. He could not accept that, not even explained from the mouth of God. He would feel his own breath sneaking away and a dull crushing force would push on his diaphragm in the face of a void like that. He said the loss of any member of his family or any one of his friends would leave a hole in the world, kind of like a cartoon ripped from a page, and that cold winds would blow through them and send a chill down his spine for eternity. It was clear for some time that he would have to be the first to go. John is not the only one.

And so he raised the gun to his mouth and slid it in. He arms shook, trying to hold it firm and reach the trigger. He teeth clinked on the metal as he plugged the barrel with his tongue. He closed his eyes, his mind frantically trying to decide what his last thought should be. He tried to put together a final statement but the words were loose and disconnected. He tried to imagine a pretty place. But everywhere he looked those people that loved him gathered in a circle and wept, their bodies shaking like dashboard ornaments. They were trying too hard to understand, as if they felt responsible for not picking up the signs, like they had some explaining to do. They looked like he did when he attended their imaginary funerals. He could not bear the thought of making them hurt and felt worse for them than for himself having died. A lightning fast twitch shot through his thumb as he thought about the implications of applying pressure with it. Suddenly the circle opened and inside was a small boy dressed in tiny black suit, a crooked lapel and dirty shoes. His face crinkled tightly, his fists clenched, and a stream of tears flowed from all four corners of his eyes. He could not understand why his daddy would not be coming to pick him up anymore…

If you would have been on the upper most path last Wednesday morning you would not have seen John sitting peacefully on a fallen Poplar tree making decisions. The shotgun would no longer have been lying across his lap. You would not have seen his body lying lifelessly on the same dirt where he stood and learned about life, and his thoughts would not be splattered in clumps and sticky red streaks among the trees. He would have been sitting at his desk, at the mercy of his vices, putting them down on paper, forcing himself to be honest and trying to make some sense. They needed to come out but not violently, at least not today. John will see this through to the end.