His plan, weeks in the making, was going to be executed at
dawn. When the sun rose slightly above the San Gabriel Mountains and started to
paint the L.A. Basin with its yellow-glowing light, he would take the pills.
When the full golden disk broke free from the range, he planned to draw the 9mm
from the messenger bag, point it at the right front of his head and pull the
trigger. It would be a single, quick movement from grabbing to removing to
pointing to shooting to finally being free from all of his inadequacies. He had
failed at everything, or at least not succeeded. This would end the pain.
His 50th birthday gift to himself would be his
freedom from the torture of more coming-up short. His C-minus to sometimes a B-plus
rollercoaster-of-a-life had to end. Whoever said “there’s always hope” either
never had much disappoint or simply was a lying sack of shit.
If his own self-grading meant anything, then he’d given
himself an A-plus on death prep. Assets were liquidated and deposited into a
single account, a living trust established and filed with the court, he had
gotten a co-worker to agree to execute the trust in the “unlikely” event of his
death, condo was clean, belongings mostly sold or donated to Goodwill and all
the food disposed of, life insurance was updated and notarized (seven people
would get 10% each and 30% would be deposited into the Trust), burial and
cremation arrangements made and paid for.
His family, if anyone could sensibly refer to his blood
relatives by such an intimate word, would be notified. Undoubtedly, they would
ask about money and not about him, whether he suffered much or at all, or
whether there was anything they could do. His blood relatives would forget to
add his name to their annual Mass for the Dead when they gathered November 1.
Generations of Raginharts and Reinhardts, Schmidts and Schneidermans,
Leffeholzs and Grubbenbachs, Jaegernachs and Bloomquists gathered at the rural,
hilltop Saints Peter and Paul Roman Catholic Church for the mid-day mass which
invariably was followed by a luncheon of sliced beef, mashed potatoes ladled
with the darkest brown silken gravy, piping hot rolls, steamed corn or green
beans, and a vast assortment of pies.
Making the rounds to shake this uncle’s hand and to hug that
aunt, meant phrases such as “Remember the time old…” and “Hey, think back to
when dad (or grandpa) bought the new pickup…” He lived for family stories.
There were hundreds of stories to hear and at least a dozen
different ways each were told. In the late 80s to mid-90s, the Mass of the Dead
and its accompanying luncheon, was a highlight of Shep Trenier’s year. When he
joined the Brothers of the Christian Schools religious order, he suddenly took
on a prestige which he had neither earned nor ever felt comfortable wearing. He
loved the November 1 gathering because he could listen to as many stories as
possible, then rush home to write down as many as possible. Since becoming
Brother Robert and taking on the promises of poverty, chastity and obedience, his
role in the family was no longer his own. It was an unwanted role.
After altar boys and before priest he would march in
carrying the lectionary raised high. He read aloud the first and second readings,
he stayed awake throughout the entire Mass since everyone could see him sitting
and kneeling up there to the right of the altar. The feeling of a spotlight
being aim right between his seldom left him.
No longer could he rest is chubby butt on the pew when he
kneeled. No longer could he overly-rely on the pew in front of him to help him
lift his heaviness from his own knees. At 6’2’’ and near four hundred pounds,
Brother Robert had become more noticed whereas he had thought joining the order
would have helped him melt away.
If had been lucky enough to talk with him during his dark
days, then he would have shown how his joining the Brothers is a good example of
one of his many bad life decisions. Lining the series of bad decisions up in a
timeline put him on the path to where he found himself at dawn on the morning
of his 50th birthday with pills in his pocket, a loaded gun at the ready,
and the rising sun giving him the cue for his final decision.
The sunlight glint on the metal trim of the new USC/LA
County Medical Center in East L.A., rays continued creeping along the 10
Freeway as any other early morning commuter does. Sitting atop the white wall
which rings the edge the Griffith Park Observatory, Shep looked at the pills
now in his hand, felt a cool Pacific breeze caress his face, looking east he
saw the white marble of City Hall come to life, he raised his hand and opened
his mouth. Then he heard the voice.
