The phone was ringing. I must have been asleep...
I didn't want to pick up the phone, but when you're groggy you don't really have a lot of sense.
"Hello?"
"Hello, is this Kevin?"
"mmm, yeah..." I yawned. I sat up in bed and put my glasses on.
"Good morning, sir..." I registered the English accent, with a vague alarm. My father went off to England and I haven't heard from him.
The Englishman continued, "...I'm with the British consulate." My vague alarm subsided.
"Ok"
"We're calling to inform you that due to your recent activities with the IRA, Her Majesty's Government has sentenced you to death by lethal injection, to be carried out at half twelve AM, tomorrow morning. If you do not show, you are subject to arrest."
"Oh, hmmm... well is there anyway we could not do that?"
"Terribly sorry no"
"Oh."
"The execution will take place at the consulate. Do you need directions?"
"No. I can google it."
"Right, try to come 15 minutes early. Have a lovely day."
"You too."
"Thanks."
I hung up the phone and went about my morning routine, half asleep like a zombie. I mentioned off-handedly to my roommates that they would have to find a replacement for me immediately.
Fuck it, I'll take the day off.
As the coffee worked its way in, the import of my morning phone call sunk in. I should probably put my affairs into order. I called my mom and my sisters, told them that I loved them. Called my band to let them know what was up. Called my girlfriend, who also happens to be my band's bassist. Every last one of them asked me, "Well, are you involved with the IRA?"
"No, I just go about my business, you know?"
"I think you should call them back and tell them it was a mistake."
"I already agreed to it. Bastards got me while I was half asleep."
"Well you should call them back, and tell them it was a mistake."
"No, that's too much hassle. Besides, they wouldn't buy it anyway."
I went about my business, as usual. Every so often my impending doom would dawn upon me and I'd choke up and feel a mix of emotions. Anger, frustration, sadness, regret. Whenever this happened, I would make note of the time and say to whoever was present how much time I had to live. Around lunch time this happened. "Twelve hours on the dot and I'm dead!"
It was a comfort mechanism. I'm one of those people who resorts to humor when they can't express themselves otherwise. I wasted the time away, thinking of what I should do for my last hours of life. Nothing really came to me. Too short of a notice.
Evening came, and there wasn't much time left. I went to Dorchester to see my girlfriend one last time, to have dinner and a couple of drinks with her, and have one last roll in the hay. When I met up with her we were talking about it.
"You know this doesn't make any fucking sense. I never did anything to warrant the death penalty, let alone from a foreign government. Why should I put up with this shit? Fuck it, I'm not going. They can come and get me. If I can squeeze in an extra 5 minutes all the better. Assholes probably won't even take notice, since I'm just a piece of paper."
This naturally was fuelled by a combo of whiskey and Guinness. We went back to her place and had that roll in the hay. As we were cuddling in the afterglow, I looked over at the clock, which said 12:35.
I smiled. Then I realized that the UK doesn't have the death penalty anymore.
The phone was ringing. I must have been asleep...
