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Henry L. Palmetto had made too many mistakes to count, and he had let too many opportunities to make up for them slip through his fingers. His failure whittled him down to half a man—worse than a coward, because at least cowards were reliably unreliable. He wasn't even that.
Henry's chief regrets all stemmed from his complete failure to take responsibility for anything he'd done. Namely, his sorry attempt at starting a career and accidental demolition of any good-will that anyone could've afforded him.
Well, listing every regret of his was a waste of the little time he had left. Time to get on with it.
Oblivious, milling commuters swarmed the platform of Times Square Station. Sweat beaded Henry's brow as he shoved through the sea of suits and skirts towards the front. He wiped his forehead, breathing hard.
Only a minute left until the next train, according to his watch.
Only a minute left to live.
The sharp tang of an overheated crowd filled the air. A businessman, reeking of cigarettes, lit up again, apparently unaware of himself. Henry blinked furiously, hoping to soothe his stinging eyes.
Great, to make matters worse, the old man brushing shoulders with him wouldn't quit coughing. Didn't even bother covering his mouth. Why wouldn't he just shut up?
Bells called out monotonously. Perhaps thirty seconds, now.
Henry stared at the dirty train tracks, massaging his temples. Would anyone miss him? It didn't seem likely; he'd skipped out on so many funerals, refused to show up when friends needed him most. It was only right that people skipped out on his, that friends hadn't shown up when he needed them most.
An indignant youth was arguing with his mother somewhere; his voice kept cutting through the noise, and so Henry couldn't help overhearing: "Mama! I don't want to see those guys no more! I'm tired of it—can't you just drop me off with Johnny?"
The chugging of wheels drowned out the mother's reply—fifteen seconds left. Less, maybe.
He'd tried this once before. Tried to throw himself off a building. Failed then. Would he fail now?
Just another addition to his long list of letdowns. Should've showed up for one person—even that man Gatsby, the one who'd thrown those parties back in 1922. Henry still wasn't convinced he hadn't dreamed up the whole thing; one day there, one day over with. Strange how these things go. Hadn't seemed important then.
The train was closer now, bearing down on him.
Someone would have to clean his body up—apologies to you, whoever you are, but these tracks needed cleaning and it's now or never—running start—he'd done track and field back when he went to Chicago University—the jolt of falling—buddy of mine got crushed under a tank during the war, still remember that day—blaring horn—gone.