At long last, freedom has finally arrived for Chandler Bing!
The clock struck five, which meant that Chandler was free from the chains of his corporate job. Everyday he counts down the seconds until the hour hand finally touches the blessed number and he could jump up from his chair and go home. The longer he's been working for this company, the more he's learnt to love the number five. The number reminds him what it feels like to have fresh air breeze against his skin, instead of being stuck in the grimy humid office building– or what it's like to have blood rushing through his legs when he's finally allowed to stand. Five meant his time was over, and even if he had tasks that were still waiting to be done, he was no longer responsible for them. It was home time.
In an attempt to cut back on taxi expenses and to keep active–something he didn't really care for but Monica always nagged him about– he decided he would walk home from work everyday. Mornings he dedicated to the bus because he couldn't bother waking up early enough to walk, but his afternoons were reserved for his pedestrian ways. His office wasn't too far from his apartment building, but it was a long enough commute to become a significant part of his daily routine; his favourite part, actually. He gets to walk out on the magnificent New York streets and see the road filled with yellow as taxis rush up and down to accommodate all the others who just got off their day jobs. He wears a smirk as he looks down on the people crowding the roads.
Look at all these people riding their taxis! Not me, I'm an upstanding member of society who walks! I am much better than everyone else.
He doesn't entirely believe in that sentiment, but it's enough to satisfy him in the couple seconds of quiet he has. To accompany him on his journey and suppress any meddling thoughts that could possibly bring him down, he takes along his walkman and whichever CD he feels like listening to that day and hums along to the sweet guitar melody as he skips down the street. This is what it's like to be alive, he thinks. To bathe in the sunlight and listen to The Smiths and anticipate meeting his lovely friends at their favourite coffee place.
He rushes out of his office building without a second to waste, which was easy to do, because he didn't have any friends who he needed to bid farewell to. Did it bother him that no one at work seemed to like him? Maybe a little, but he didn't need them. He had his friends back at home. He can suffice with just those five– afterall, that's his favourite number.
The time came for him to rush out the door, think about how he's so much better than everyone else, and refuse himself the moment to reflect by immediately throwing in his ear-buds and focusing on the music– however, when he reaches into his pocket and feels only a crumpled up sticky note from earlier that morning, his heart drops. He did not have his walkman.
It shouldn't be this serious, but it was. Without his walkman to keep him distracted, he was alone with the obnoxious voice in his head. He wonders how people can ever bear a conversation with him.
It's fine. It's just a walk. I don't care.
By convincing himself that there's nothing to worry about, he's able to start his journey and get to walking. His daily walks were usually great fun, but there wasn't much to enjoy without his favourite song ringing in his ears, loud enough to prevent a single thought from forming in his pretty little head. How do the people around me do it? He wonders, because no one else has a walkman. For starters, the majority of the people walking past him are talking to people– be it on the phone or walking with a friend. That must be it, the people around him were actually likeable enough that they didn't need to resort to burying themselves into music.
No! Stop it! Change the subject! Divert! Divert!
He doesn't like thinking about the sad stuff. He'll do anything he can to avoid the sad stuff. For example, he's been smoking again. After trying so desperately to keep away from the dangerous sticks, he was successful for a full month! Chandler was convinced that this time, he was really going to make a permanent change in his life– but who was he kidding? He says this all the time. He promises he'll stop, and then he goes through a series of minor inconveniences that slowly pile up until he thinks "Well, one can't hurt, can it?" until he's down to half a pack in one day and he hates himself more than he did in the morning. But he just can't help it; the feeling of the smoke in his lungs is too familiar now, like an old friend who he knows is a bad influence on him but he just can't shake out of his life.
If there is one thing Chandler doesn't fear committing to, it's his cigarettes. There's not a single thing about them he dislikes. He loves the smoky taste that serves as punishment for all the wrong he does. He loves the river of adrenaline in his veins that makes him feel the best he's ever felt, even if only for a few seconds. He loves the thrill of knowing he shouldn't be smoking, but having control over his life by doing something behind his friend's back. Was it bad to lie to them about being clean for the past several weeks? Maybe, but it's okay. His cigarettes will still love him even if his friends don't.
The ramifications of his actions were never a big concern for the man. New York has gotten pretty graphic with their advertisements lately, plastering photos of black lungs and rotten teeths at nearly every bus stop in an attempt to scare people away from smoking. Chandler always thought this was hypocritical, because if the government cared so much about helping its people, then they would have just banned cigarettes by now instead of mass producing the packs as much as they do. With this in mind, he continues to buy new cartons every day. Was he addicted? Of course not! He can stop whenever he wants, he tells himself in the cashier line. He does this to upkeep the economy, because he is an upstanding member of society who is much better than everyone else. The weight of the world balanced on his shoulders, it was absolutely not because of the mind-numbing feeling he had when he goes too long without a smoke.
Maybe he's an asshole for worrying the people around him all the time. Monica is always buying nicotine gum for him, and Phoebe's always doing seances to cleanse his misery, but Chandler always manages to sneak out and get a quick smoke in before returning with the group and blaming the smell on "It's New York City, it always smells like smoke!"; an excuse that started to work the more he used it. Was he getting better with his delivery, or did everyone stop caring? That's something he doesn't want to think about.
And here he is, thinking about the bad yet again. It's so easy for his thoughts to snowball out of his control.
Think of anything else! Anything! Look around, and focus on something that isn't your pathetic life.
He looks around at the beautiful New York City and notices how it's much more grey than usual. Perhaps it was the fact that he didn't have his music to accompany him, but he realized just how much his route to work and back sucked. There was nothing nice to look at.
The most difficult part of walking through the streets is having to pass by the many homeless people who took residence on this sidewalk. Chandler grew up wealthy, but he had a great deal of empathy for the people he walked by, always making sure to spare a dollar or two. Even though he had a luxurious upbringing and a well paying job, Chandler felt like he belonged with this crowd more. He sees a bit of himself in them. Eventually, when he gets fired from his job for being so incompetent and isn't able to find another career due to his lack of motivation, he'll be just like these guys. Maybe that's why he spares the change, not out of pure generosity but as a ticket for when he joins their clique– or to inspire the people around him to become more giving so that by the time he's homeless, he can rein in the donations too. Either way, Chandler knew it wasn't out of the goodness of his heart. How long will it take for him to reach this stage of life? Maybe by the time his friends are all married and successful and he's nothing more than a bitter old man, or maybe in as little as just five years.
If he can't have his music, he might as well have a cigarette, because no one is around to reprimand him. He digs his hand into his pants pocket and hastily pulls out his carton of cigarettes, freshly bought yesterday but down to just a single one. For a moment, he hesitates– not because he doesn't want to smoke, but because of the possibility that he might need this cigarette later. Is it best that he saves it for a moment more deserving of a smoke? Or does he redirect his taxi money to buying another carton? Before he knows it, he's walking into the first convenience store that pops up along his route. He's not worried about detours, no one would notice if he was later than usual anyway.
There is one thing he dislikes about cigarettes, and it's the process he has to go through in order to purchase them. He has to go straight to the check-out line empty-handed and pick out a box of cigarettes at the front. There's something so strange about going to the check-out line empty-handed. In doing so, the cashier will immediately know he's a worthless man addicted to smoking. "Look at this guy, he comes in for nothing but a cigarette. What a pathetic human being" is definitely what they're thinking. So, to disguise himself as an upstanding member of society, he looks around the aisles for a while before picking up something random and heading to the cash register, giving a curious look to the rack of cigarette cartons, and throwing it onto the counter as if it were an impulse decision and not something he had been eagerly aching for.
He perused around the various aisles for minutes at a time, holding his hand to his chin as if he were in deep thought over the selection of ramen noodles he was staring at. A collection of useless items wait for him at home, he's been accumulating them for the past several weeks. Things he buys so that the surrounding citizens don't think he's a loser; he catches himself mid-thought, am I so self-centered that I really believe that these people care about what I buy? He feels a little worse than he did when he entered the store.
Perhaps he could get a little gift for one of his friends. That way, when he meets them back at the apartment building, they would actually have a reason to be excited about his arrival. After a very quick scanning of the shelves, he settles on a soda. It wasn't particularly hot outside, but Joey is a fan of sugary drinks, so Chandler moves to the next phase of his mission. The convenience store was nearly empty today, so thankfully he didn't need to wait forever in line just for his cancerous delight. He walks up to the cash register and triumphantly places the soda on the counter, before glancing at the cigarettes and letting out a hum, as if he had never seen them before.
"Apparently these are all the rage nowadays." Chandler lied, picking up the carton of cigarettes and inspecting the box. Just like the bus stops, there was a gnarly image of rotten lungs that took up the whole package. "Tell me, is this brand good for beginners?"
The cashier working today was an older lady who didn't appreciate his joke.
"Son, do you know how hazardous those are for your health?" She spoke slowly, as if each syllable was a struggle.
Chandler chuckled at the elderly woman's innocence. "Oh, I thought the black lungs were just for decoration."
"I had a grandson about your age. The bastard smoked so much, he got lung cancer. Today marks five years since his death."
An intense guilt tugged at Chandler's heart the second she finished. Admittedly, he wondered what her personal tragedy had anything to do with him, but he did feel a bit shitty for speaking so lightly about something so serious. He often forgets that people can actually take offence to his jokes.
"I'm sorry, I'm sure he was a great kid."
"He always wanted to be an astronaut. Such a smart boy he was, he talked about space all the time. Ever since he was young."
She continued going on and on about her late grandson, his goals and dreams that were now left forever unfinished. It would be rude to interrupt her as she mourned, but he really did not want to hear any more of this story– he simply didn't care that her grandson was so much more hopeful and accomplished than he could ever be. He waited patiently for the woman to scan his carton and leave him be, but she continued to stare as if she were waiting for something too. Chandler slowly nudged the carton forward with his little finger as a reminder that she still had to check out his items, but she didn't budge.
"Look, lady, I have places to be-" he lies again, because lying just tastes so good in his mouth these days "-my lungs are just fine, if that's your concern."
The lady sighed deeply, and groggily scanned the cigarette box before placing it in front of Chandler along with his soda can. She wore a frown that hurt just to look at.
"You can't help those who don't want to be helped."
The line caught Chandler off guard, causing him to forget to give his thanks when he rushed out of the store, wanting desperately to escape the intense glare of the elderly woman.
What a weird thing to say to someone. "You can't help those who don't want to be helped?" She doesn't know a single thing about him! How could she say such a thing to a stranger? Among his many questions, he couldn't stop thinking about her grandson. She must obviously be distraught over her boy's death, and she felt a similar distress when she noticed that Chandler was on the same path. They were complete strangers, and yet she was concerned for his health. What did that mean?
Again, health was not a big concern for Chandler; neither was death. In fact, he welcomes it dearly. He never understood what it was about death that was so scary to others. He remembers a long talk he had with Monica once on a late night when both of their respective roommates were fast asleep and they were both in a particularly grim mood.
"I hope I never die. I have so many things left to do, and I'm already missing out on half of it." Monica sighed with a deep swig of her wine glass. Neither of them knew how much time had passed, but they were both slouching on the couch in the girls' apartment and passing around a bottle of wine that Monica had been saving for months, only to never find a boyfriend whom she wished to share it with. That was part of her misery tonight.
"I hope death comes quickly for me. I don't have much else left to do." Chandler admitted. He was a lot more sober than Monica was, but it was that fact that let him be honest. Knowing Monica wouldn't remember a lot of this conversation the next morning made it a lot easier to speak what was on his mind.
"Don't say that! It's a bad omen." Monica scolded.
"Car crash, stabbing, disease, you name it. I'll take it." He rambled on. At this point, Monica was too tired and drunk to console him. So they continued discussing their views on death until the girl fell asleep and the boy retreated to his own apartment. By sunrise, Monica had reverted back to her usual self with no memory of their discussion, but Chandler continued hoping for tragedy.
Chandler was by no means suicidal. He would never go out of his way to get a rope and tie it around his neck, even though he dreamt of it often. It was simply too much work and he feared what would happen in the event of a failed attempt. However, say there was a mysterious button that promised an immediate and painless end to his suffering, he would not hesitate to click. That's not suicidal, though, because no such button exists. Albeit being a long and painful process , he saw his cigarettes as his button; a natural way to run out of time quickly. His health decayed more and more with each smoky exhale which meant he was closer to his quick demise. Anytime he goes to the doctor's office for a checkup, he thinks to himself that lung cancer wouldn't be so bad. He deserves it for smoking all the time and lying about it too, and it'd be a nice and easy way for him to be void of all responsibilities for the rest of eternity— but then the checkup is over and he's perfectly healthy, which is fine, too.
He wonders how often his friends fantasise about finding a loaded gun at work, but that's not something he can ask without a spitfire of questions coming his way.
There, he was doing it again. He's been thinking about bad things since the moment he told himself not to. Just smoke your cigarette and move on. Everything is alright. You are better than everyone else.
The positive self-talk doesn't work because he knows it isn't true at all. He wasn't better than anyone– hell, he wasn't equal with anyone either. He fell far below the rest of society, right to the Earth's core, where he and only he would have to wallow in his incompetence forever while his friends went on to do great things. The more he thinks about it, he wouldn't mind falling into the Earth's core. That could be his button.
He pulled out the single cigarette from the old box with more security, knowing there was a brand new one waiting for him. Hastily placing the cancer stick between his lips, he ignited it with a flick of his lighter. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the little flame; with just one wrong move, he could light himself on fire. He was in complete control of his safety; a thought that filled his being with thrill.
After a deep inhale, the smoke quickly filled up his lungs and he no longer had that nagging empty feeling he had all day. The cigarettes suppressed his appetite, his only meals being whatever Joey ordered for lunch or Monica made for dinner– but food couldn't satisfy him anymore. The only hunger he feels nowadays is for nicotine. All of the tension in his body comes out in the form of a small grey cloud once he exhales. The biggest thing that prevented him from quitting for good was this feeling; the feeling that nothing else mattered but him and the paper between his teeth. Smoking is now an easy activity, as natural as breathing— because technically, that's all it was.
He leans against the side wall of the convenience store to fully enjoy his smoke, running his other hand through his hair everytime it feels too empty. Another thing he liked about smoking was that it made him feel cool. Joey was the hot one, Ross was the smart one, so maybe he could be the cool one. No, Joey was cool too, that just leaves Chandler to be the diseased one. Occasionally, he'd glance at his watch, but time didn't matter to him right now. His assumption was that he'd come home an hour later than usual, and no one would notice he was gone in the first place. Chandler is aware and accepting of how boring his life is. When he first got the job, he'd tell people his full title.
"I'm in statistical analysis and data reconfiguration. I process the numbers and make sure none of it is wrong, because a lot of it usually is."
Soon he'd pick up on everyone's body language. Rachel rolls her eyes, Monica zones out, Joey pretends he understands and Ross pretends he cares. Phoebe doesn't acknowledge him whatsoever. At this point, Chandler knew that no one cared about what it was that he did because they all had much more interesting jobs and stories to tell. Now, when people ask what he does, he gives a much shorter response
"Oh, y'know, office stuff."
Sometimes he'll be at work and eavesdrop on the water-cooler conversations. Someone's got a date, someone's pregnant, someone's getting fired. Not nearly confident enough to join the conversation, he stands from afar and thinks of relevant jokes that would have been funny had he been part of the exchange. He saves them for later to tell his friends, but when he stands at the door of Central Perk and peers in through the window, he knows they wouldn't get it. He knows if they did get it, they wouldn't laugh. He knows if they did laugh, it wouldn't be genuine. So he tucks the joke away in his brain and lets it be forgotten. Instead, he walks in and sits down on the couch, just silently listening to whoever is already speaking. They've stopped asking him how his day went.
It was fine. So what if his friends didn't care for him? He wouldn't either if he had to be friends with himself. He's honestly surprised that they all kept him around for this long. What did that mean?
The self-deprecating thoughts always came with a tinge of guilt. His friends have put in so much time over the years, why would he doubt their love after so long? How much of it was because of the treatment from his friends and how much was because of the way he viewed himself?
He thought too much and now the cigarette didn't feel good anymore. Great. He put it out against the brick wall, silently apologising to the store-owner in his mind for what he's aware is a bad thing to do but had no other place to do so. Perhaps he still had time to make it to the coffeehouse before his absence became suspicious, but he wasn't really in the mood to go there anyway. Unsure of what to do, Chandler walked along the streets absentmindedly, the pavement guiding him as he carelessly crossed streets and went down unfamiliar roads. Maybe he'd get shot and killed and they'd have his face on the news and his friends would finally care about his whereabouts and they'll all forever mourn his death wishing they told him they loved him more– or maybe nothing will happen and he's just an idiot wandering a random alleyway. God will decide for him soon.
It feels like God has been playing against Chandler all these years, which was weird, because God was supposed to be the loving divinity that would assist him through all his hardships. Lately, it feels as if God had been the one giving him the hardships in the first place. Chandler was never particularly religious growing up; he self-identified as Christian because his parents did the same, but they very rarely engaged in any of the practices. He had church on the occasional Sunday and Christmas in December, but that marked the end of his worship. That must have been it– God was angry with Chandler for his lack of reverence. If Chandler didn't care for God, why should God care for Chandler?
He didn't have much of a reason to believe in God in the first place. After all, what kind of God breaks apart your family at only nine years old? Or at all? If God has Chandler's best interests at heart, why did he allow for the boy to live a life of addiction and misery? Heartbreak and denial? The most reasonable conclusion being that there is no God, only Chandler. A sorrow like his could only be attained through complete and utter free will, because divine interference couldn't ever be responsible for a life like his.
Hands already clenched in fists, he dug his nails deeper into his palms; a punishment for himself when he became too self-centred. Chandler had a nice apartment in a big city, warm food every night and a well paying job. To have all these things and still complain about life is more miserable than any other reason why he claims his life sucks. After walking aimlessly for an unknown amount of time, he eventually landed back on his usual route. Stumbling upon the gas station he regularly passed, he looks to the homeless man who always lays by that same sidewalk with nothing more than a blanket and a jar. He sits there everyday and greets Chandler on his way home from work, and Chandler has the audacity to think his own life is awful.
The man was sound asleep on the concrete which made Chandler wince at the thought of having to rest there every night. With the traffic that this city is so notable for, how does this man ever get a wink of sleep? I guess the lack of nutrition can exhaust one enough to sleep no matter the conditions.
His eyes flutter open and the two men make eye contact. Chandler feels the need to give the man money now that his acknowledgement has been acknowledged.
Digging through his wallet, Chandler scrounges up five dollars in coins and drops them in the man's jar. The loud clunk between the metal and glass startled the man, with the jar only a couple centimetres away from his face. Chandler feels guilty for making this man's day worse than it probably already was.
The man mustered out a weak 'thank you' with a smile on his face, his voice proving evident that he was still exhausted—That's what sleeping on the side of the road does to you. Normally Chandler would give a smile and go on with his day, but he wanted to ask the man a question that may or may not be inappropriate to ask.
"So, how do you do it?" He decided to propose the question because realistically, there were no consequences to asking a homeless person something weird. Chandler could just leave and never pay the man any attention ever again. "Y'know…being…without a residence."
"D'ya think I'm easy to offend? Go on, say it." The man smiled, showing off his decaying teeth, almost the same colour as Chandler's khaki pants. "I'm homeless. Livin' in poverty. It's okay."
Chandler's chuckle wavered in pitch as he was unsure if it was okay to laugh, despite being explicitly told it was; gauging by the welcoming look on the man's face, it seems he was in the clear. He sat down next to the homeless man and took notice of the curious look on his face, suggesting that this may have been the closest he's ever been with another person. People in the big city don't usually care for the poverty stricken, giving Chandler another delusion that he was better than others. He can make up for his incompetence through made-up moral standards.
Wanting to refer to this man as anything other than 'this man', Chandler asked for his name, which was Patrick. Unfortunately, Patrick asked the same, and Chandler had to give his hilarious answer.
"Chandler? Why, I've got a nephew named Chandler."
"Really?"
The roaring hacking and laughter from Patrick probably meant he was kidding. After taking a minute to compose himself, he answered the boy's question.
"You ask me as if I'm gettin' by easily, but I'm just the same as everyone else. I'm living, I'm breathing, so that means I'm doin' it."
Chandler wasn't satisfied with his answer. "No- well, yeah, obviously. I meant in the sense that…"
He trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words. Not in a way that sounded good, at least.
Patrick was fortunately able to pick up on Chandler's trail of thought and finished the sentence for him. "How have I not killed myself yet?"
Shocked by Patrick's bluntness, Chandler took a moment to think before nodding in acceptance.
"I don't know what to tell ya. I tell myself I will the next day, but then the day comes, and I don't really want to anymore. I think it's somethin' to do with God, like he wants me here for a reason."
And with that, Chandler knows he won't ever get a proper answer out of this man. He hates the God answer. 'God has a plan', 'God works in mysterious ways', he can't take it seriously. It's too convenient of an answer and fails to provide him any idea of how to continue on. He can't keep waiting around for God anymore.
"Well, don't you think if God had a reason, he would have helped you out by now?"
Patrick stayed silent for a moment, which made Chandler realise how much of a prick he sounds like right now. He not only asked why hasn't a homeless guy killed himself, but also why God hadn't killed him yet either. Hell isn't hot enough for a person like Chandler Bing.
"You could say that if God didn't have a reason for me, he'd have killed me by now too." said Patrick. "I think it all just comes down to how much we care. Say God doesn't have a reason for me to stay, that doesn't mean I can't have a reason. If that makes any sense."
It didn't really make any sense. Chandler raised an eyebrow, unsure of how anyone could find hope in conditions like these. "For what reason would you possibly want to keep living like this?"
"I don't know, I like seeing the cars on the street. I like how it feels to wake from a good nap." Patrick listed, and Chandler saw the same smile from before when he had woken the man up. "I like seein' you walk home."
That last item was a bit concerning to Chandler. While he held great empathy for the poor, he was well aware of the statistics that surrounded them. Crackheads and alcoholics make up the majority of the street people, but was he in any place to judge them? He's a smoker, which made him their cousin in the family tree of substance usage. It finally occurred to him the dangers of getting close to a stranger on the street. "Oh, that's not weird at all."
"Calm down, I mean that it's nice to see you walk with that pep in your step- you must love your job. You always go home at the exact same time, you got a routine. I like followin' people's routines."
How sad that one of Patrick's few joys was a complete lie. Chandler wasn't at all passionate about his job, but that wasn't something he wanted to tell Patrick, because at least he had a job. With gratitude keeping him in place, Chandler christened his brand new box of cigarettes by smoking his first one from it. Patrick watched closely, so Chandler pulled out a second for his new friend, but Patrick surprisingly declined.
"You want to kill yourself? Then go ahead. But if you're still looking around for a reason to stay, I think that itself is enough of a reason. Don't ask me permission to live— find it yourself."
Patrick's tone sounded as if he were an angry parent scolding a child, and Chandler's memory was at odds with himself– did this remind him more of his parents grounding him for skipping school? Or Monica slapping his hand anytime he got too close to the special cookie jar? Either way, he looked down, wanting to disintegrate right into the sidewalk. Emotional talks always made him feel embarrassed, and for some reason, he really cared about what Patrick thought of him. He didn't want to be the pathetic and weak grown man, not even to a stranger.
At this point the conversation, much like Chandler, felt like it had nowhere else to go. Chandler bid farewell and wished his homeless friend good luck for the rest of his day, to which Patrick responded with the same. Those five minutes were likely the most abnormal five minutes of Chandler's life, but he came out feeling different than when he came in. A good different? Unsure. He was grateful for Patrick's attempt in bestowing hope upon the sad boy, but it meant that Chandler had to face the truth of his feelings: he was responsible for his own self. It's not like he wasn't aware of this, the control over self was what drew him to smoking– but he couldn't keep wallowing in despair and waiting for something to cheer him up. Like Patrick said, he had to find his own reason.
Chandler's deepest secret is probably that he doesn't have a reason. He loves his five friends so incredibly much, an amount that wouldn't make sense to the average person. However, if that button were to appear in front of him, he doesn't know if he'd hesitate. The love he holds for his friends is unmeasurable but somehow not enough to keep him from death, which is the worst thing Chandler could have ever possibly thought of, so he keeps it hidden deep in his brain amongst his other jokes and anecdotes.
Being a liar is among Chandler Bing's many accolades.
"If I needed an organ transplant, would you guys donate for me?" Ross asked randomly. He was looking down and fiddling with his fingers, just in one of his moods.
In Chandler's memory, all six friends were gathered at the coffeehouse and having one of their usual conversations about nothing in particular. Ross was still reeling over Carol leaving him while bearing his child, and it put him in a state where he'd ask weird questions.
"Of course I would, man! I'd do anythin' for ya. For all you guys." Joey answered sincerely. He spoke in the soft voice he wore anytime he spoke truthfully, showing off his big heart. Joey might not be the brightest of the bunch, but he had a welcoming aura built on the love and loyalty he held for his friends. Chandler was jealous of this quality too.
The group continued discussing which organs they were willing to donate and how quickly they would, claiming that no matter what, they'd always be there for eachother even if it meant danger for themselves. The stakes slowly increased before Monica turned to ask Chandler her own question, since he had been silent the whole time.
"Chandler, would you take a bullet for any of us?"
"In a heartbeat." He lied.
It wasn't entirely false, but the incoming of aww's made him feel guilty for misleading his friends. He would take a bullet in a heartbeat, absolutely, but not out of the good and love in his heart. It would be to end his own suffering, because Chandler was a selfish man who only cared about himself. He never even considered how awful it'd be for his friends if he were to die; partly because he thinks they'd be better off without him.
The way he sees it, killing himself would likely not cause much emotional distress for his friends, but would merely inconvenience them and anyone else who was ever involved in his life. His parents would be forced to be in the same room and would have to organise and pay for a full funeral service– assuming they'd care enough to attend. His friends would have to take time out of their precious important schedules to show face at his remembrance as they waited for the clock to move faster and they could go on with their valuable lives. In order to save them from the hassle, Chandler has to find a reason to live, even though it was so difficult to find.
But there has to be a reason. There has to be a reason why Chandler didn't kill himself when he got promoted at his awful job, when his parent's divorce was finalised, or after every bad date that tainted his Saturday nights. There has to be a reason why the cigarettes haven't done severe damage to his lungs or the cars haven't hit him despite his daily jay-walking. There has to be a reason why he went down an unfamiliar road expecting to get killed, but met Patrick instead. If there was still doubt in Chandler's mind about life, something holding him back every time he eyes the knife on his kitchen counter, that means that deep down he still wanted to live. He just had to figure out why.
Maybe his reason was these daily walks with his walkman, because he loves this time dearly. It's amazing how he goes one day without music and all of a sudden he's thinking of suicide. At this point he's given up on training his brain not to think of the bad stuff, he just decides to fully embrace it now. It's not like the hatred in his heart goes away, it just stays dormant whenever he has his earbuds in.
Like Patrick, he looks around for something mundane to focus on. His reason could be the blades of grass. His reason could be the scratches in the pavement. His reason could be the same cup of coffee he gets from Central Perk everyday. Although, thinking about coffee didn't really excite him as much as it did the others. Truthfully speaking, he wasn't a big fan of coffee, despite drinking it all the time– but he enjoys the time he spends drinking it. It's less about the coffee and more about the people he speaks to when he drinks it. He knows that when it's five o'clock, he can join his friends for a cup of espresso and hear about whatever interesting adventure they went on that morning. He doesn't need sugar, his friends make the beverage sweet for him.
God, he misses his friends so much.
With pain coursing through his legs, Chandler decides it was time to take an intermission. At this rate if he were to continue walking any further, his body would materialise into a jello form and he'd never get up ever again– which wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if it meant he lost his consciousness as well, but he's learnt not to dwell too much on hypothetical escapes from mortality and just focus on what was real, which was the aching in his knees. He sits on the first bench he finds and lays his head as far back as his body will allow him. Completely parched, he finally opens up his soda can and lets the cool drink moisten his mouth. He had to admit, the feeling of pure liquid sugar sliding down his throat could rival the feeling of smoking, but the thought of drinking a can of soda for every cigarette he smoked sounded absolutely disgusting– how ironic.
The second the drink is finished, he immediately remembers why he had gotten it in the first place, and the guilt that's become his new best friend comes washing in stronger than the cold drink could ever. It's not like Joey asked for the beverage– he didn't even know he was receiving such a gift, so it shouldn't have been a big deal. However, Chandler tossed the can to his side and immediately sunk his face into his hands. Why was it so hard to be a good person? Can he not do one simple act of kindness? Was he capable of ever putting his selfishness aside and thinking of other people for once? He's no upstanding member of society and he was far from better than everyone else– the lies weren't strong enough to keep him at bay anymore.
All of his friends were filled with kindness and humility and potential that Chandler couldn't even dream of reaching– he brings them all down just by being around. All he does is complain about his life and ruin their days, he welcomes hazard into his life which means that everyone else had to take care of him like a baby, he drinks their gifts because he forgets what he bought them for and now he sits there with zero purpose. He had no good reason to go back to the coffee house anymore. He had no good reason to stay alive.
The empty soda can brings back memories of the convenience store owner's grandson, a boy who was apparently destined for great things but had his future stolen by cancer. Chandler wonders if anyone would speak of him in the same light, would they say he had so much potential but died too soon? Would they dare lie on his grave?
It should have been me.
He doesn't even know the kid, but the sentiment rings in his ears like a gong. That kid deserved to live. That kid had big dreams and a bright future ahead of him, people who loved him dearly and miss him so much that they still talk about him five years later– what did Chandler have? An empty soda can, a crumpled up sticky note, and an empty space in his pockets where his walkman should have been. It should have been Chandler who got cancer and died in that man's place, because with Chandler gone the world would just continue to spin; perhaps even a little faster.
If not his lungs, then the nicotine was definitely messing with his brain. He couldn't remember to save the soda for Joey and most importantly, he couldn't remember to bring his walkman with him. His morning bus ride was quick enough that he didn't usually listen to music, but how could he not notice that his pockets were lighter than usual? Seriously, how could he be so stupid? His friends always claim Chandler is smart but that wasn't true, it was the farthest thing from true– it's just the easiest compliment you can give to someone. They couldn't say he was attractive, they couldn't say he was talented, so they just say he's smart, but smart people wouldn't be as forgetful as Chandler.
Time continued to move forward as Chandler remained motionless on the bench, with less and less people walking by. Soon his emotional distress became physical, with his ears burning up and his heart beating faster. At any moment he could burst into tears right on the streets of Manhattan, but he had to use everything within his power not to, because to be a grown man crying in public would be embarrassing enough to trump any possible reason he had to live.
He covers his burning hot ears with his hands and presses hard, trying to drown out the city sounds. The chattering and traffic and children crying overwhelmed him and with each sound that hit his ear drums, he felt his chest getting tighter and tighter. It was getting difficult to breathe, which meant he couldn't resort to his cigarettes to cope right now. Without his walkman, he attempted to sing to himself in his head, but the jarble of thoughts made it impossible to coherently remember one song. He kept mixing up lyrics and getting the melody wrong and it sounded nothing like the music he listened to everyday, which annoyed him even further.
I can't imagine how stupid I must look right now. Everyone is looking at me. They're all judging me. They all think I'm a pathetic loser. They probably wish I was dead right now.
If he were to kill himself, how would he prepare ahead of time? Should he quit his job first, or donate all his belongings to friends and family and anyone else in need? Chandler didn't have much to his name, nothing that anyone would really enjoy. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea to write some sort of will before he leaves, just so that his items weren't left in the limbo of his rotting bedroom. Do people write wills in their late twenties? That might come across suspicious, people might guess that he was planning his suicide. No- that wouldn't matter, because he'd be dead anyway. Nothing would matter in the time leading up to his demise; that was a comforting thought in the midst of all the misery. He could do anything he wanted without worry of the consequences, because there was only one ultimate consequence: sweet, sweet death. This would be the most control he's ever had over his own life, he gets to decide when it's all over.
It would be a good idea to leave notes for each of his friends, so that they're not too confused when they find him hanging from the could staple a little bag of confetti so that they could celebrate, which would go perfect with their new 6ft pinata.
There wasn't exactly much he had left to say to anyone, though. Maybe apologize for the gruesome sight and for the decade they wasted with him, and a parting knock knock joke so that he could end off with one last classic Bing zinger- too bad he wouldn't be around to make sure they laughed. With him gone, he wouldn't be able to see their reactions to his final message, which might prove useful for him. He could write whatever was lingering on his mind, anything he wanted. If he wanted to, he could leave a scathing message about things he secretly hated about his friends.
I hate how much you all love your jobs!
I hate how beautiful you are!
I hate how much you've accomplished!
I hate how easily you socialise!
After creating the world's worst list of hatred, he crumpled up the idea into a mental paper ball and threw it with the rest of his forgotten stories. His friends mildly annoyed him at times, sure, but there was nothing he truly hated about them- he just needed someone to blame for his shortcomings.
The hate idea was definitely too strong. He had enough hatred in his heart to write books about, but none of it needed to be immortalised into a physical form. His final message should perhaps be some sort of explanation, so that everyone knows this wasn't an impulse decision but rather years and years of sorrow piling up until the balloon finally popped.
It all became too much. I'm not cut out for this life, so I decided it'd be best to just end it short before the real shitstorm hit. I'm sorry that you all had to put up with me for so long. Congrats, children! You're free!
Better, but realistically, who cared? Everyone knows Chandler is a sad man, he never shuts up about it. How anticlimactic would it be if Chandler finally kicked the bucket and all he had to say was "The sky is blue!"
If he leaves an individual note for each of his friends, he should personalise them. He could leave everyone with final apologies so that he can move onto heaven with a clean conscience; assuming that was where he was even deserving to go.
I'm sorry, Ross, that I never paid you back for those Knicks tickets you got for me. That was a really fun day, and I know I promised to take you out one day as a 'thank you'. You always said there was no need, but they were courtside tickets! You can just go into my wallet and get yourself whatever you want. Maybe go on that excavation tour you always talked about.
I'm sorry, Rachel, that I ruined those boots you really liked. I tried them on while joking around with Joey and had no idea the zipper would just break so easily. I swear, I was going to replace them, I was! I could just never find a pair that I thought you'd like. You always said you preferred a specific material and a specific type of heel, and I didn't want to disappoint you.
I'm sorry, Monica, for all the messes I've made. I'm sure it drove you crazy everytime you walked into my room- how did you ever deal with me? Promise me you'll find a husband who can actually take care of himself, you don't deserve to be a housemaid for the rest of your life. Maybe I should have hooked you up with some guys from my office. I'm sure they would all love you, because who couldn't?
I'm sorry, Phoebe, that I never told you about the surprise trip I had planned. One day you told me you had never been to an arcade before, and I thought that was insane, so I wanted to take all of us out for a game night and show you how fun it was to lose all your coins to a buggy platformer. I hope you get to go to one soon, and make sure to look behind all the machines– I carved in cheat codes!
I'm sorry, Joey, for all the times I doubted your career. I know you'll get your big break and become a huge actor with tons of girls lining up for your autograph– or at least, more than there already are. If I had stuck around, I'd get to watch your trailers in theatres and whisper to the guy next to me "Joey Tribbiani is my best friend!" and they'd probably think I was lying, but we'd know it's true.
While he felt much more satisfied with this revision, drafting these final messages in his head left a pit in his chest. He yearned for the eternal rest that came with death, but by recounting all of his unfulfilled promises and plans, 'forever' was really starting to sound like 'forever'. It was obvious that he wouldn't see his friends after killing himself, that was the whole point of killing himself, and yet those doubts that always held him back began resurfacing. Can he really just give up the time he spends with his friends?
It's a weird feeling, the conflict between knowing his friends wouldn't pay any mind to his death and the little bit of hope that they would. As much as he believes that his friends all secretly hate him, there's still the rational part of him that knows that can't be true– or maybe it's the emotional side praying that it isn't; either way, he had to mediate between the feelings of wanting to do everyone a favour by leaving the mortal realm and wanting to continue doing the things he liked with his friends.
His watch reads 7:26pm, meaning that his friends were likely finishing up dinner right about now.
They either miss him or they're glad he's gone. They're either counting down the seconds until he comes back or they don't even know that time is passing. They either love him or hate him. Chandler hopes there is no God and no afterlife, so once he passes away, he can spectate his friends and see what they say about him when he isn't around. He's not sure if they'd say anything at all.
He fiddles with the empty soda can in his hand for a couple more minutes while debating his next move– the sky was getting dark, the air became cooler and the streetlights were on. If he starts walking now, he can make it before 8pm.
His intermission is over and he's back to the sidewalks, officially marking the end of today's suicidal ideation. There really was no point to all the fantasy because no matter how much longer he thinks about it, he knows he won't kill himself– he's too cowardly to. Whether it was because of the basic human instinct to survive or the mythical reason God had for him to remain on Earth, Chandler Bing was alive for another day.
All that was left of Chandler's existence was the purgatory he found himself enduring everyday. Each day had its good and it's bad, which ultimately meant that Chandler was living the most normal life possible– so why was he struggling so much? Surely no one else felt this same agony that he did? Unless they were, and he was too self-centered to notice, which affirmed Chandler's belief that he was the worst person alive– far from an upstanding member of society who was better than everyone else.
Each step he takes is as meaningless as the last and he reflects on the time he wasted contemplating about life without making any sort of significant revelation. He'll reach his apartment, say hi to his friends, watch some television, and go to bed– no different than any other day.
He'll just tell his friends he got distracted on the way home, and throw in a "Could I be any more late?" for a cheap laugh, and while everyone continues their warm conversations, he'll sit with the empty void within him that has yet to be filled. Forever will the turmoil bubble under the surface because he's too afraid to do anything– to fix his problems or to end his life. Stuck between the desire for one final breath but the inability to go through with it, he'll have to accept a life of uncertainty. Eternally residing with the numbness that has become one with his name. Everyday will be the same routine of running from his problems and dreaming of an escape, working a job he despises and rushing through awful dates, hiding from his friends while desperately aching for their attention, and walking home from work with his walkman.