When I was seventeen, I worked as a delivery boy at Afullmo's in Chicago.It was the perfect job for me at the time because I could steal enough sleeping pills to kill myself.I don't know how many slices are enough, so I just take it for granted that twenty slices are enough.I proceeded discreetly, only sneaking a few pills into my pocket each time, so as not to arouse the suspicion of the pharmacist.I had read somewhere that mixing whiskey with sleeping pills was deadly, and I made up my mind to do it so that I would surely die. It was Saturday—the Saturday I had been looking forward to for a long time.Father and mother are away, while brother Richard is at a friend's house.I am alone at home, and no one will interfere with my plans.

At six o'clock, the pharmacist announced on time: "Close the door." He didn't know how well he said that, yes, now is the time to shut down all the mistakes in my life.I know it's not just me that's wrong, it's the whole country that's wrong. It was 1934, and the entire United States was going through a devastating crisis.The stock market crashed completely five years ago, thousands of banks closed down, businesses all over the place closed down, and more than thirteen million people fell into the desperate situation of unemployment.Wages plummeted to five cents an hour.There are well over a million homeless people across the country, including two hundred thousand children.Everyone is in panic, former millionaires are committing suicide and former managers are selling apples on the streets.The most popular song at the time was "Desperate Sunday," and I remember a few lines from it:

There was a cloud of gloom all around me, exactly as I was feeling.I fell into a deep despair, seeing no reason for myself to live.I was helpless, miserable, and longing for something unspeakable and nameless. My house is near Lake Michigan, just a few blocks from the shore.One night, I came to the lake and tried to calm myself down.It was windy and the sky was overcast with clouds. I raised my head and said to the sky, "God, if you really exist, appear before me." Just as I stood on the shore and looked up at the sky, the dark clouds gathered into a huge face.A flash of lightning flashed across, and the face was instantly brightened.I was terrified and ran back home.

At that time, our family lived on the third floor of a small apartment building in Rogers Gardens.The biggest names in show business say he's broke all the time and never feels poor, but I don't feel poor all the time because we live in a state of extreme poverty that is torture and degrading .In order to save money, you have to turn off the heating in the freezing cold winter, learn to turn off the lights when not in use, and squeeze out the ketchup bottles and toothpaste containers.I can get away with all this soon, though. I went back to our family's spooky apartment, which was empty.My parents went away for the weekend, and my younger brother was not there.No one is going to stop me from doing what I want to do.

I went into the small bedroom I shared with Richard, carefully pulled the bag of sleeping pills from under the closet, then went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of my father's bourbon from the shelf, and folded it again. Return to the bedroom.I stared at the pills and the whiskey, wondering how long it would take them to work.After this, I poured a little whiskey into the glass and lifted it to my lips.I didn't dare to think about it any more, so I raised my head and took a big sip. The spicy taste almost suffocated me.Then I grabbed a handful of sleeping pills and was about to put them in my mouth when a voice rang in my ear: "What are you doing?"

I turned around quickly, some of the whiskey in the glass was spilled, and a few pills of the medicine were also dropped. My father stood by the door of the bedroom.He came forward. "I didn't even know you could drink." I stared at him and stammered, "I—I thought you were out." "Forgot something. I'll ask you again: what are you doing?" He snatched the glass of whiskey from me. I thought desperately. "Nothing—nothing." He frowned. "That's not like you, Sidney. What's the matter?" Then he saw the pile of sleeping pills. "My God! What do you want? What is this thing?"

I really couldn't think of any clever lies, so I just went all out and said, "It's sleeping pills." "what happened?" "I want—to kill myself." After a moment of silence, the father said: "I just realized that you are so unhappy." "You can't stop me, even if you stop now, I will still commit suicide tomorrow." He looked at me carefully. "Life is your own, and you can dispose of it as you wish," he hesitated. "Since you're not in such a hurry, why don't we go for a walk?" I know exactly what he's up to.My father was a salesman, and he was trying to talk me out of the project.But he won't stand a chance, and I know exactly what I want to do. "Ok."

"Put on a coat, it's not good to catch a cold." The sarcasm in this sentence made me laugh. Five minutes later we were outside the house.The cold wind howled on the street, and no one was walking around because the temperature was too low. After a long silence, the father finally spoke: "Son, tell me what's going on. Why did you commit suicide?" Where do I begin?How can I make him understand how lonely and depressed I am?I desperately long for a better life - and there is no better life at all.I want a wonderful future, but there is no such thing as a wonderful future.Every day I daydream colorfully, but at the end of each day, I'm still the little delivery boy in the drugstore.

I dream of going to college, but I don't have the money.I've always wanted to be a writer, and I've written dozens of short stories for Story magazine, Collier's Weekly, and the Saturday Evening Post, only to get typed rejection letters.Finally I made up my mind not to let myself spend the rest of my life in this suffocating misery. Father was talking: "...there are so many beautiful places in this world that you haven't seen..." I didn't take his words seriously.If he's gone tonight, I can go ahead with my plan. "...you'll love Rome..."

If he stops me now, I can wait until he's gone.I was so busy thinking about my own business that I didn't really listen to what he was saying. "Sidney, you told me that your greatest wish was to be a writer." His words suddenly caught my attention. "That was yesterday." "What about tomorrow?" I looked at him confused, "What?" "You don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. Life is like a novel, isn't it? It's full of suspense. You never know what's going to happen until you turn the page." "I knew what was going to happen, and that was, nothing was going to happen."

"You don't actually know, do you? Every day is a new page, Sidney, and it can be full of surprises. You can't know what's coming until you turn the page." I thought about his words.This is true, every tomorrow is indeed equivalent to a new page in the novel. We turned the corner and went down a lonely street. "Sidney, I can understand if you really want to kill yourself. But I don't want to see you close the book too soon and miss the next page - the one you're about to write - It could be wonderful." Don't close the book too fast... am I really closing it too fast?There may indeed be some wonderful things tomorrow. Maybe my dad was a super salesman, maybe I wasn't determined enough to end my life, but by the time we got to the next block, I'd decided to put my plans on hold. However, I didn't completely abandon this plan, it is still an option for me.

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Notes: (1956) won the Academy Award for Best Film and died in a plane crash in 1958.Todd has experienced many investment failures in his life.