Who Will Find Me When I’m Dead?

Friday, January 2

I only wish my life would flash before my eyes. All I can see is the end of it. Not the actual, absolute end, but a variety of options that audition for my attention the moment my head hits the pillow. Of course I have my preferences, but realize I have little or no say in the matter. I am, after all, a realist.

I just can’t get to sleep lately. I struggle to dumb-down, as I lie there, wide-eyed, entertaining countless scenarios of themes involving my eventual demise, my body too exhausted to move, my mind too active to embrace the inertia. If only I could focus on something else.

The only diversion at this point is the sound of the TV in the living room and I can well enough imagine that customary tableau; Uncle Gus sprawled across his easy chair, head back, mouth open, eyes back in his head, sometimes shut, oft times fluttering in a passionate REM inspired boogie. Gus is a great guy, generous, non-judgmental, witty. He took me in when I was ten and devastated, and never for a moment allowed me to believe I was in the way. Yeah, Uncle Gus is a prince of a man, just not one who would be mistaken for a seeker of wisdom or a soldier of fortune. The only adventure he knows is planted in his mind's eye by cop shows, reality TV, and inane situation comedies. I am sorely afraid that one morning I will find him propped up in front of the droning box, sprawled across his easy chair, head back, mouth open, eyes back in his head, and dead.

Saturday, January 3

Once the thought crept into my head I have been consumed by it. So I lie here another night, unable to find peace in the arms of Morpheus, imagining my very feasible discovery of Gus’s body. Someone has to find it at some point and the logical candidate is me. When you stop to think about it, which I am prone to do, everyone is found by someone. We are all discovered, mourned, and disposed of. Gus is just the morbid tip of the casualty iceberg. How many bodies will I discover before my number is up? It hasn’t happened so far. I did not find my parents. I was informed. How much tougher would it have been if I’d been with them? Probably not tough at all since I wouldn’t have survived the crash either. I should have been there though. I might have made a difference.

Wednesday, January 7

The landscape has changed drastically. Uncle Gus, that lovable slug who abhors all senseless activity that can’t be confined in his imagination, has found himself a woman. She is coming over tonight for a preliminary introduction and will probably stay for the customary seduction. There will be shaving and showering and dressing in ironed apparel this evening, a tradition long honored in the breach around here, if I may paraphrase the Bard. Instead of ignoring the muffled drone of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ tonight, I will be compelled to inure my ears to ‘Somebody Loves Gus’. I need to arrange for a sleepover, an action that would be much appreciated, I am sure, by the born-again swain Gus and company.

Sunday, January 12

Winnie is a peach. Her given name is Edwina; she is a feminist and an agnostic. She seems to fully appreciate Gus and she is casually inclusive regarding me. No pressure, no histrionics, no big show. Just a, “Hey, glad you’re around,” attitude. We both lucked out, Gus and I. I feel relieved that I am now not the only candidate on deathwatch.

Saturday, January 18

Now that the refreshing Winnie is sharing the burden of cadaver detection on the home front, I am no longer consumed by the prospect of finding Gus and his inert carcass. The focus has now turned on me and my own potential discoverer. It is amazing how that aspect never occurred to me before. I will be found by someone, unless I am lost and expire in the wilderness or buried under an avalanche of debris. So now I lie awake and conjecture on who will be handed the daunting task of detecting the dearth of vitality in my stiffening musculature. Who will stand before my corpse and declare to the world, “Here lies a Caesar, when comes there such another?”

Will it be someone I am now acquainted with, and if so the chances of an early demise are almost guaranteed, or some person I am not yet aware exists, in which case I have some miles to go before I sleep? Another possibility vying for consideration is the total stranger who comes across me and doesn’t have a clue who I am and has never heard the sound of my voice, except maybe for the last screams that might define my life if I have the ill fortune to end it in pain.

I am beginning to lose sleep again. After Winnie’s arrival on the scene, I began to fall out rather easily. Instead of keeping me up with distasteful images of their lovemaking, I felt rather comforted by her presence in the house and the noiseless way they went about everything they did. Instead of tossing to the sounds of Letterman and Leno, I was lulled off by the strains of Mozart and Beethoven. I was cradled snugly in a treetop and I was unafraid. Now I am back to square one and seem manically determined to discover the identity of my usher into the obituaries.

Sunday, January 20

I am not having children. My official reason for all who inquire about my motives is that the earth is overpopulated as it is. My personal take is fairly evident to all who are reading this; I will not saddle my potential offspring with the legacy of finding their father bereft of life. As far as their mother is concerned, the solution is simple and adds another facet to this decision. She does not exist.

Friday, February 20

I have been sleeping a lot better these days, not because I am any less obsessed. The solution is more due to exhaustion than anything substantive. I have been working the night shift at the toy fair on 23rd Street and 5th Avenue and have not had a day off in a month. Add to this ingenious tactic a willingness to absorb all the overtime required of me each and every night, and you have a man less manic in his sleeping habits, more robust in his outlook, and not at all likely to be entertaining any meditation beyond what the menu has in store.

Tuesday, March 2

“You think too much.” That was all he said. Someone found him, his wife I believe, this morning, stiff, cold, and purple on the toilet. It sends shivers up and down my spine. He was my foreman at the toy fair and he caught me taking one too many cigarette breaks just yesterday. He made his comment simply, without sarcasm or anger, and I responded dutifully. He then walked me back to the storage room, an arm draped paternally around my shoulder. Carl was not a petty man. He had a fairly stern work ethic, but an understanding nature. His attitude toward me seemed to be, “I know you’re young yet and you are working hard to earn as much as you can while the job lasts, but you knew what you were taking on and, after all, work is work, and you can’t take breaks whenever the spirit moves you.” Carl was from the old country, somewhere in Bavaria I think. He didn’t want to be a prick, but he had to be the foreman.

The job ends tomorrow. I can’t wait to get some time for myself, although this episode with Carl has me worried that my peaceful slumbers are a treasure once again lost in the turbulent tides of an uneasy awareness. What if he had suffered his stroke while in the line of duty, shoulder to shoulder with yours truly? I can imagine the devastation to my fragile psyche. On the other hand, I might have been able to deal with the prospect head on, once and for all, and cleared my fretful slate of mind. And how much will the anticipation of a setback affect the creation of the problem? Carl was right. I think too much.

Thursday, March 4

Today is the first day of my unemployed life. I woke up refreshed and ready. The refreshed part is appreciated. The ready portion is confusing. I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t have a resume. I have worked at odd jobs here and there, mostly in a maintenance capacity, and that is not a future I care to pursue. I have no prospects, no clear direction. I am in Limbo, but I feel rested. I need a mission, a project to complete. I don’t have the patience for long, lingering prose at this point. I need a good, clean, clear-cut path to follow, quick, staccato actions to apply myself to, and terse, sharp results to clarify in sober, uncompromising terms. I need to become less of an adjective and more of a verb.

Saturday, March 6

I dreamt of Carl last night, or was it this morning? I slept so fitfully, it is hard to tell. In my dream I am in the stairwell at the Toy Center, smoking, and Carl opens the hallway door. I begin to snuff the butt, but Carl stops me with, “Don’t bother. It’s okay. I just came to say goodbye. Tell my wife where the treasure is.” I bolt the stairwell and run after him down a long, winding corridor that is not the Toy Center. “Where?” I shout after him. “I don’t know where the treasure is.” I hear him laugh. “Of course you do!” is all he adds, but he does not turn around. I push open a double set of doors and find myself outside, in a cemetery, an endless display of gravestones surrounding me as far as I can see. The sun is shining brightly and despite the disquieting setting, I feel a strange exhilaration. I have a purpose, a mission. I know I have to check under every headstone to find the treasure and, as daunting a prospect as that is, it doesn’t dissuade me. I am on the very brink of discovery and I yearn to go forward and complete the task. I just don’t know where to begin.

I woke up feeling alive and oddly composed. I could feel the vitality of anticipation pumping through my veins. I felt alert and motivated, that maybe great things were ahead of me today. I showered and dressed, choosing carefully what I would wear for the occasion. I was going to Carl’s funeral.

* * *

Her name is Magda. She led the procession with a poise and dignity that is usually reserved for movie stars in red carpet mode. She seemed aware of, and attentive to, everyone attending the services and burial. She knew who I was and greeted me warmly, although we had never met. It seems Carl was a real talker once he got home and his daily accounts were deliberately related to her in detail. I was a particular favorite, it turns out, and she approached me as the others were leaving and asked me if I had a cigarette. We stood there, side by side, watching the procession diminish appreciably as car after car pulled away into the waning afternoon, a motorcade of mourners pensively returning to their individual breathing lives. She asked me to accompany her home and I obliged. We sat in her car enfolded by a curiously comfortable silence, and remained that way long after we had arrived at her house. She suddenly turned toward me, smiled, and, familiarly patting my hand, said “Come, I’ll make coffee”. Later, over coffee and too many cigarettes, she asked me to spend the night.

Monday, March 8

I woke up Sunday morning embraced by soft, yellow sunlight and the sounds and smells of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling. It took me a bit to figure out where I was. I had spent the night sleeping soundly in Carl and Magda’s spare room, a small but cheerful little den with cream colored drapes that insured a sense of privacy during the dark hours, then emitted all the buoyant gaiety of the sun in daylight without the harsh intensity of direct exposure. I felt as if I were floating on a sea of cotton, so light were my spirits and tranquil the setting. It bode an ideal and uncomplicated existence feasible in real terms and, accompanied by the lively sounds of preparation, the indication of a good breakfast to boot.

Magda had needed amenable camaraderie the previous night and I was delighted to comply. We talked like two old friends into the finality of night, then set our expectations to the birth of a new day around three AM. She appeared exhausted, but released of the burden of indulging her widowhood. My company had served her well. The morning would bring the first day of the rest of her life.

It was a first day for me too. I was greeted warmly as I approached the kitchen table and the genial promise it held for my eager appetite. We gleefully stuffed our bellies with Grade AAA eggs, our bladders with morning coffee, our arteries with bacon fat, and our lungs with cigarette smoke. We laughed at the little discrepancies in life that is our common legacy in a kind of gallows humor banquet and contented ourselves with an afternoon of doing absolutely nothing. I felt strangely at ease for the first time in weeks. It seemed as though I belonged here, in this place, at this time, with this alliance. Also I was fascinated with the fact that Magda had experienced something that had held only dread for me, the discovery of a lifeless carcass and the loss of a partner. I had been exposed to the loss of my parents early on, but that was more like yanking the nipple from a cub, the dependency all one-sided. I had yet to be denied the companionship of a true confidant and the prospect terrified me.

Monday, November 1

I’ve had a pretty eventful spring, summer, and fall, with no time for my journal or the self-examination that accompanies each entry. I have been engaged in activity again for the most part, completing a challenging stint as a counselor at a summer camp for the developmentally disabled in upstate Hunter, New York. It didn’t pay much, but it was a job; one that impacted directly on the well being of others in an exhausting and challenging arena. It didn’t leave me much time to muse, mope, or fantasize irrationally. This in itself was a blessing. I was occupied with the outflow of mental decision-making and the exertion of physical energy, while my incoming channel, which accommodates my propensity to ponder, was absorbed in the writings of Wolfe, Camus, and Garcia Marquez. I even perused the bible for inconsistencies.

I had decided to apply to the camp after my falling out with Magda. It was a difficult decision, but I knew I had to get away. I didn’t write to her or even inform her of my choice to devote my summer to a cause other than the wooing of her maternal sensuality. She was in denial, I could see that and even understand it. What caused my ardor to sour was her suggestion that I would make an ideal companion for her daughter when she arrived from Europe. She didn’t even have the courage to pursue me first hand. Until that moment I had been a weekend guest for two months running and could feel the bond between us increasing with each encounter. I was certain she would be responsive. I was patient because of the age difference, but I thought she possessed the courage to overcome it. Instead, she slid out a side door. So I made arrangements, left for camp, and never looked back.

Tuesday, November 3

Today I find myself looking back. I miss her … Magda. I adored her maturity, something that had eluded me with girls my own age. Her sense of humor was shrewd and apt, not frivolous like younger girls. Her sexuality was ripe and yielding and all I wanted was to immerse myself in her eternal assurance of being. I wanted to breathe in her, feel alive in her, and learn how to please her. Instead I was offered a surrogate in absentia, a reserve player that pronounced my proficiency as not in her league. I complied with her suggestion. I said, “Sure, I would like to meet her”, but I was despondent for days afterward.

Magda had even showed me a photograph. The girl was pretty, sure enough, but she looked like an incomplete version of her mother and the prospect held little appeal for me. Her name is Revina and she was born before Magda met Carl. She was away in school in London and would have been available this past summer while I was caring for those less fortunate than myself. I prided myself on my altruism, but I was mostly running away from the sting of a rejection that was forthcoming had I expressed my feelings for Magda.

Sunday, November 14

A new low. This morning, or afternoon possibly, I woke up naked on Tara Foley’s bathroom floor. Tara found me and was aghast, not at the prospect of discovering me there, but of finding me sprawled on the tile a second time. She had already walked me to the living room couch sometime after her other guests had left and gently deposited me there for, what she thought would be, the remainder of the early morning, respectfully cleaning the remains of stale vomit from my face and neck and stripping me of my soiled clothing. She had brought me a pillow and some blankets and had gone to bed herself. I must have felt the need to spew more bile sometime afterwards. I don’t remember getting up again. I do recall snatches of her tending to me earlier though, as my head was spinning away from my body in a marijuana and vodka induced state of torturous euphoria. Bad combination, pot and booze. I am touched by the concern and loyalty exhibited by my good friend Tara.

Wednesday, November 17

I have been searching the web for employment without much luck. I’m up most of the night doing this so the phone can be free for callbacks during business hours. I have become a vampire, all because I can’t afford anything more than dial-up. I haven’t heard from Tara, although I called her Monday to apologize and thank her for her thoughtfulness. I am becoming increasingly depressed. I don’t look forward to the weekends like when I was spending them with Magda. In fact they draw no further significance from any other point of the week. Without a structure my sense of time has lost all relevance.

Thursday, November 18

I rode the subway into the bowels of Brooklyn today to interview for a job as a hotel desk clerk, which doesn’t make sense because the hotel is located on the upper west side of Manhattan. I didn’t want to go at all, but feel as though I need to take a more pro-active approach in securing a position. Uncle Gus has noticed me moping around and sleeping until noon and Winnie has asked me if there is anything I want to talk about. I feel like I’m in the way here and that I need to give them more space. They include me in all their plans and I am grateful for their allegiance, but it is time for me to break from the womb and establish my own cadence, such as it is. A job is a good place to start.

On the train I had a vision. Magda is in her garden tending to some newly planted seeds. She finds a shoe beneath a row of hedges separating her perfectly manicured plot from the woods behind it. She looks beyond the hedges and spies the other shoe. After disappearing into the house she emerges again looking completely different. Whereas before she had on an old flannel shirt, probably one of Carl’s’, a pair of baggy shorts and flip-flops, she is now wearing a low-cut peasant blouse, tight jeans, and high heels. Her golden brown hair is swept up, her mouth is bright with red lipstick, and her earrings hang in large, gaudy hoops. I believe she is chewing gum. She pushes through a sparse section of the hedge and approaches the second shoe. She picks it up and holds it in her hand as she scans the woods for further clues.

I jumped up at Avenue X and just made it through the doors before they closed. I realized that I had fallen into a dream state and had almost missed my stop. I walked around the neighborhood a bit asking directions and finally found the address I was looking for. The man who interviewed me was somewhere in his sixties and seemed singularly unimpressed with me. He looked me up and down, checked out my resume, looked at me again, then asked, “So, what do you want with us?”

I knew that I would not be hired. I have always been a bit of an oddball among my peers. While they were reading Playboy, I was reading Dickens. When they went to see Vin Diesel or Eminem, I rented Fellini, Kurosawa, and Welles. Being verbally prolific was considered nerdy and unmanly, and I liked to be indisputably understood with a barrage of descriptive and precise discourse. My interviewer probably gleaned as much during our conversation, but I don’t think that was the killer. He kept glancing at my resume. I was overqualified and would leave in short order is what his expression said. “We’ll get in touch,” is what his mouth finally offered.

The F train back to Manhattan offered me a choice of seating and the opportunity to continue my semiconscious reverie. This time the scenario has me sitting behind a large desk in a modest hotel lobby. It is night, the lobby is empty, and I am writing something down in my journal. I look up as the outside door opens and in walks Magda, dressed exactly as she had been earlier, hoops, lipstick, blouse, jeans, and heels, only now a pair of sunglasses serves as an added accoutrement. She carries no luggage.

“Would you like a room?” I ask her as if she were a stranger to me. “I have a very comfortable accommodation with all due amenities provided.”

“And just who will do the providing?” she asks in a dismissive manner, never addressing me directly.

“My services will be available,” I answer evenly. I don’t seem to catch her contempt as the deskman.

“I won’t be needing them. I’m not staying.” She lowers her sunglasses a bit and turns my journal around so she can read it. “The Story of My Life” she howls in delight. “How very charming. I notice that the rest of the page is blank.”
“I am just beginning it,” I inform her.

“Not with me you’re not. No, I won’t require your services tonight, but I will let you in on a little secret. I’m here to hunt for the buried treasure. This is the Hotel Carl, is it not?”

I honestly do not know what to answer. I leap over the front desk and run through the front door to check the marquee. When I return Madame Magda has vanished from the lobby. I notice the cleaning lady, an old hag with a broom and an apron, crossing the floor.

“Where did she go?” I ask her. She looks at me as one would regard an innocent.

“In the garden, of course.” She shoots me a sly little wink. “She beat you to it, didn’t she?”

I run through the lobby to a side door and barge through it as though possessed by an energy that is beyond my comprehension. The deskman has lost his detachment and has fused with the observer and we are in a desperate mission to … I don’t know. I was in the dark when I quit the well-lit lobby and I am surrounded by dark in the garden where I had envisioned Magda earlier. I run directly to the spot in the hedge that Magda had crossed then. I make my way into the woods and frantically look for any sign of movement.

Now I hear her sobbing. I follow the sound of her grief until I can make out her silhouette in the night madness of fluttering branches and sinister clouds. She is on her knees and weaving to and fro in inconsolable grief. I hear the crackle of something beneath my foot and I know that it is her glasses. As I draw nearer to her I am seized with a terrifying dread and I begin to turn away, but she senses my presence and holds out her hand.

“No, you must see this. I can’t bear this alone. Not again”

She takes my hand and gently draws me to her. I can now see the form of a man lying prone on the ground before her and I begin to step back again. Her grip on my hand tightens.

“Now I can love you the way you want me to,” she weeps solemnly. “Do you understand? Only now.”

I am overcome with shame. How could I have been so self-absorbed and insensitive?

“ I do understand. I will keep his memory with you.”

I approach the body and turn it over, prepared to make my reparations and embrace a larger truth with all my powers of perception. The face of the dead man is not who I expect to see.

“Only now,” she adds in dirge-like manner. Magda had found my body.

I woke up on West 4th Street and had to double back to get home.

Friday, November 19

My dreams are becoming more vivid. Yesterday I had an encounter with Hank. I was returning home from the subway station on Houston Street when he emerged from a doorway on 2nd Avenue and asked me for money. Hank has been a neighborhood staple for some years, a homeless man surviving on the Bowery asking for nickels and dimes and whatnot for his daily sustenance. He always ignored me when I was a kid, but lately has become somewhat aggressive. He asked me for a dollar. When I told him I was broke, he called me a cheap little snot. I laughed it off and kept walking.

Last night I dreamt about him. He is staggering along an alleyway, looking for a place to flop for the night, when he trips over a leg extending from behind a garbage bin. He crawls behind the bin to discover a lifeless body wedged against a brick wall. He peers in at the face and utters, “Cheap little snot”. He then rifles through my pockets looking for a dollar.

Saturday, November 20

Another dream: I pass a schoolyard where children are playing soccer in their school uniforms. One of the boys chases the ball down a dark, basement stairwell. He lets out a horrific scream. Yep, it‘s me.

Friday, November 26

This has been an eventful week. Dream wise I have been found by Dom at the pizzeria (in the oven no less), by a group of strangers waiting for an elevator (the doors part and there I am), by the cleaning lady at the front desk of the Hotel Carl with my journal in hand (“The Story of My Death” in the heading).

Events fared better in the realm of reality. I found a job on Monday with a literary magazine (hello DSL), heard back from Tara, and received an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner from Magda. The invitation included Gus and Winnie and was accepted in the spirit of which it was offered, an effort at conciliation.

We were met at the train station by Revina, who was finished with school and back living with her mother. She proved to be extremely charming and poised and managed to put us completely at our ease. The same must be said for Magda, who embraced me unreservedly upon arrival. We all settled in for a carefree feast that began with a toast to the remembrance of Carl, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, cider, wine, and good spirit. It was reassuring to be in the presence of such loving people.

Revina and I went on about our confusing attempts to find our place in the world and eased into a relaxed, mutual rapport. I felt as if I’d broken out of a discouraging rhythm and could at last breathe freely. We all parted well with Revina promising to visit us in the city. The train ride back was relaxing and blissful. I was actually touched that Gus and Winnie held hands all through the trip.

As I closed my eyes in the rail induced tempo of the ride, I could see my father and mother, holding hands, standing over my tranquil body. My father calls my name and my eyes open.

“I’m still here?” I ask in disbelief. They both smile.

“Did I find the treasure?” I ask again, and then answer my own question.

“I have found another day.”


© 2004 by John Cannatella