It was time. Kevin Shapiro, boy orphan had all he could take of his miserable life. He wrote his suicide note, carefully, using the best penmanship his 8th grade public school education afforded him, using a pen he stole from the post office -- a federal offense. He sealed the note with wax. The wax supplied by a crayon he found on the street -- burnt umber. He idly wondered what an umber was, and why someone would burn it. Holding a cheap cigarette lighter up to the crayon, he dripped twice-burnt umber onto the paper sealing the note. He nailed the note to a tree and walked to the train tracks and laid down across them, closing his eyes, and breathing deep. He was five minutes early. He knew the ConRail freight train would be passing over his soon to be broken body in a short while.
Then he heard a clammoring like no other he had heard before, he opened his eyes, to see the train, not bearing down on him, but turned on its side, derailed, and skidding to a stop. There were small rubber ducks headed for a New Jersy wharehouse everywhere.
Kevin, sighed, retrieved his note and began to walk back to the orphanage. "Figures," he sighed, "nothing ever works out the way I want."