I See You've Called in Dead

by John Kenney

We sat staring straight ahead, never touching, speaking more in the pauses, and yet still, if you listened closely, said I love you.

he made me see differently. He made me see that it all mattered. And I worry … I don’t think anything matters to you anymore, Bud. And that kind of breaks my heart.”

are the stories of people’s lives. And their deaths. And they matter. The facts matter. Because otherwise … otherwise their lives didn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I literally thought you were telling a nun joke.”

“You are an obituary writer who does not understand the first thing about life. Wake up.”

People walked with New York purpose, at speed, confident strides, on the phone, crossing against the light. There were places to be and things to do.

the limitless possibility of Manhattan and youth.

Standing above the river

looking west to the fading light, oil painting brushstrokes, colors that defied name, orange-reds, yellow-oranges, changing each second it seemed, the cold wind stinging your eyes as you looked out at Governors Island, to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, the Staten Island Ferry, seagulls flying below you, under the bridge, causing you to turn and stare in wonder at the giant ragged teeth of the buildings all the way up the island, Chrysler and Empire and ten thousand more. To feel even a small part of this place.

To have come here and thought, Perhaps I can make a go. To come to the realization that you didn’t, that your chances were running out, that time—something that once seemed to move so slowly—had sped up when you weren’t lo...

It isn’t a city so much as a collection of small neighborhoods where whole worlds take place.

“Could be nice. No winter. Sunny every day.” “How awful. Nice to visit. But I like weather. I like being inside on a rainy day, making a cup of tea, listening to the radio. I like the cold, the snow. What’s more magical than snow?

“Oh look. He rises on the second day, not the third. Even in death you are a disappointment.”

“Please, sit. Death must be exhausting.”

I nodded. “Just tired. Ashamed. Embarrassed. A Monday, in other words.”

“I know how to live,” I said. “I’m just … I’m in a transitional phase, according to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.”

assumed we were making small talk. I would come to realize Tim didn’t do that.

Maybe it was the six-year age gap, never going to the same schools, never being interested in the same things.

“I hope I’m not asking too many questions.” “No. I’m just glad I know the answers. Wait until we get to state capitals.”

With anxiety and fear and greed and smallness and what’s next and hurry up and I’ve got a meeting and all the … stuff … that gets in the way.

“I mean, I used to read,” I prattled on, a faucet I couldn’t turn off.

I read The New Yorker. Fine, I leafed through and read the cartoons. Then I stopped doing that and let them pile up. It’s just that … time has a

way … of … weighing on you. I had three Oreos with my coffee this morning. That’s a lie. I had four. I was embarrassed that I had four. I live in a city with art and music and theatre and except for the rare visit to the Frick, I mostly wander the streets for hours at a time on weekends.

Forgive me if I don’t stand.”

“You’ll get to meet her new boyfriend. Who I think is her husband now.” “Bad form that they didn’t invite me to the wedding.” “This is going to be so wonderfully awkward I can hardly wait.”

I felt like something was passing me by. Time, maybe. Opportunity. A life. I felt, like a million people before me, that something new, something better, was possible in New York.

She kept apologizing and talking, a nervous talker,

It is hard to fully describe what it’s like to arrive in New York City, to live there, still reasonably young.

This energy that is New York, this riptide you can’t fight. This endless offering of life. What do you want? it asks. Art? Music? Theatre? Drugs? Sex? Money? Dog parks? Good Korean food at 4 a.m.? Say the word and it’s yours.

There are 161 songs about New York City, more than any other city in the world. There is a reason for that.

Despite

the noise and the outrageous cost, the crowds and truly repulsive smells, it is unlike anywhere else. To move there, even at my advanced age of thirty-eight, was to be reborn, revitalized. If human beings are ene...

You wait for a reason. You wait because life is so fragile. Because to create it, to sustain it, well, sometimes it doesn’t take.

Who would write that obituary?

“She was older than her years, poor thing. A smoker, drinker. But who isn’t?” she said, laughing quite suddenly.

Jen said, “I saw on Facebook that you died?” “Just on the inside,” I said.

“I tried golf for a while. Doing this now.”

“Totally agree. So yeah, as soon as she started having sex with someone else and told me she wanted a divorce, I put my foot down and … you know … granted it.” “You let her know who was in charge.”

“This must have been awkward for you?” “Awkward is my middle name.

An older couple passed us on the way to their car. “Clara,” she said. “That woman?” “No. Me. That’s my name.” “Oh. Sorry. I’m a dope.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m still kind of confused about the going to the wakes of people you don’t know.” “Also funerals.” “Have you tried going to, like, a movie or a play?”

People leaned on their car horns, eager to go, anxious to be elsewhere, to keep moving, keep going, a New York

thing, impatient to stand still.

“She didn’t know Judy. She goes to the wakes of strangers.” “Why does she do this?” “She said it was the secret to life.” “You sure she didn’t say living in Paris?”

“Does the underground thing bother you? Is that why cremation?” “Not really. Also I’ll be dead.” “Yes, but that’s the quandary for me. I can’t imagine a complete lack of feeling.” “You should read your own writing.”

He sighed, the weight of his knowledge pleasing to him.

said I had to tap ten times but she said what if I just tried five times and if I did I would get a stamp in my good emotions passport which I still have and so I tried just five times and it was soooooo haaaaard. But I did it. And then you know what she said?” “No.” “She said try tapping just two times. Can you believe it?” “I can’t,” I said.

“So what I do now is blink ten times. I haven’t told her that part.”

“Did you tap ten times about things?” “No. But I can understand wanting to do that.”

“Did she use finger puppets?” “I wish,” I said.