I See You've Called in Dead

by John Kenney

Mostly what I know is this. I know that you—all of us—should have the answer to one question: What would you write if you had to write your obituary? Today, right now. What comes to mind? What memories, days, moments? What people and experiences? I realize, at first glance, that the idea of writing one’s own obituary while still alive may sound morbid. It’s not, though. I promise you. It’s a needed reminder of who you are, of what truly matters. Because

it’s your life and there’s still time to write it. Before I have to.

It was going to be an amazing year. This is what I had told myself, had promised myself.

And so the year had started, as years often do, with wide-eyed resolutions, illusions of a new life, as if the turn of a calendar page, the drop of a ball, could somehow jump-start a life in quicksand, change long-ingrained patterns. That’s negative thinking, Bud!

I would start reading again, something I used to do instead of what I now did, which was watch things.

I would rewire, be a better me. More patient, more hopeful, more empathetic. I would be the change I wanted to see in the world. Because I would change. I would not be me. It lasted a day.

sans the divorce this person just described me and everything i want to change about me lol

It lasted as long as it takes to try and fight the voice in my head that says, Other people can change. Not you.

lol brooklyn

Men are stupid. Or maybe it’s just me. How foolish to tell myself a life story about a person in four seconds, based on her hair, how she moved it back from her face, behind her ear, only to have it fall again, the black skirt and black tights and large, darting eyes, lips shining from the rain. What

Why was I acting this way? Surely part of it was my lack of practice, the paucity of dates over the last few years.

I couldn’t stop talking. I hated myself.

She appeared confused. As was I.

He stared at me, then looked at the flowers, then back to me. I hoped that somewhere deep in our shared male psyches he could sense my pain.

jumped in. “Happy to buy you a quick drink since you’re here. We can celebrate your being back together with your old boyfriend.”

I winked at her like we were old friends. I was floundering badly, watching myself, a kind of out-of-body experience where I was repulsed by this person. Me.

She smiled and waved at him. I did the same. So did the bartender.

i am HOWLING rn

“Cool,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a blind date where someone brought their boyfriend.”

On occasion I buy flowers and place them in an old glass milk bottle on the table. When I do this I feel like an adult. Three days later, when they’re drooping and lethargic, I throw them out.

One side made a reasoned, persuasive argument for a good book, some tea, soothing music: simple, wholesome actions that would contribute to a restorative night’s sleep, one that would birth a fresh, life-affirming worldview come Monday, a renewed vigor to my of late less-than-enthusiastic attitude toward work.

The other side made a half-baked, mildly buzzed argument to screw it; pour yourself a whiskey, put on some music, maybe open a bag of Cheetos. Sleep when you’re dead. The argument was brief, foolish, and embarrassing. The jury went for the latter in a unanimous decision.

Go to sleep, Bud. But Bud wasn’t listening. Bud had pushed past tired into numbness, the brain buzz of too little sleep, the mistake of topping off his drink. What’s the worst that could happen?

On occasion, I write my own obituary. I know what you’re thinking. How is this guy single?)

snorted and was enjoying myself on this rainy, cold Sunday night where I was imagining my own death, a sentence that, upon review, I fear does not convey the frivolity of the moment.

What fun! Of course I don’t want to die. Oh sure,

who doesn’t think about it from time to time. Fine, maybe fewer people than I’d thought.

I spent an unimpressive four years in college, neither lazy nor diligent (potential gravestone epitaph?),

My naïve hope was that dragging myself halfway across the world would somehow change me. I thought I would find clarity in what my life should be, perhaps a change in personality and outlook, a newfound confidence, a worldly-wise demeanor, an answer to what to do. What happened instead was that I ran out of money after three months of train travel around Europe and found myself no closer to understanding much about myself.

The job became my social life. Drinks with colleagues after work. During long, frigid New Hampshire winter evenings, I

played pickup hockey with guys from the paper and went out for beers after, occasionally engaging in casual, deeply unsatisfying hookups.

“One advantage for the dead is that they never have to read your writing.”

Strange to think, but Britney Spears’s obit is ready to go. Just need the time, place, and cause of death.

“Bud Stanley, forty-four, former Mr. Universe, failed porn star, and mediocre obituary writer, is dead.” Tuan took an emery board from his desk drawer and began carefully tending to his nails. “One out of three isn’t bad.”

God. Go.” “Yes. But his real name is Todd, he loves yoga, and he lives in Darien.” “God would never live in Darien. Too bland, too white. He’d live on the Upper West Side, just off the park.”

“Because you are a straight white man.” “Oh. Well, I can’t really control that.”

I remember Tuan’s first words to me: “The good news is that someone died today.” I also remember I stared, not sure what to say. He shook his head. “You don’t understand yet.”

okay i’m sad for him?

“What did you like best about your job?” “I was fond of the money.”

There’s no crisis. When and if there is, there’s a number to call. If no one answers, leave a message.”

that sounds bleak

“Howard? Well, for my birthday one year he gave me a thing called a genius paperclip holder. It’s Einstein’s head and he’s sticking his tongue out and Einstein’s head is magnetized so you can keep paper clips on it. So, how do you not succeed with that?”

But of course all this wasn’t her fault. It was mine.

“Your stupidity takes my breath away,”

“What were you thinking?” he added. “Well, I was a little drunk.” “A superb answer for the defense.” “I messed up.” “You think? You know what the crime of it was?” “That I’m not actually dead?” “That it wasn’t a very good obit.”

this hit me like a ton of bricks

“I was supposed to pick up her dry cleaning. Today. I forgot to.”

“Who the fuck writes their own obituary as entertainment for the evening? Have you heard of SportsCenter? Tinder? Pornography?”

I assumed he had thrown cold water on his face. He did this throughout the day at work, his frustration at news and his journalists and editors, at life in general, causing him to need cooling.

“Fuck you. Stop reminding me that you’re my friend.” He sipped his scotch. “She’s wonderful. Thank you for asking.”

The invisible, palpable energy of a New York night.

I subscribe to a channel on YouTube called Relaxing Mowing. It’s speeded-up footage of people mowing their lawns, trimming their hedges. The world made clean and perfect. They put classical music over it. If someone described that to me five years ago, I would say that person was insane. Now, I love it.

Where has that gone? Now we have twerking.”