Crockett Doob

Death Logistics

            In bed, reading a Japanese suicide-comedy book, a book Agatha’s suicidal friend recommended a month ago--but Agatha dumped me, so why read her friend’s book rec? And I’m such a slow reader, and an even slower mover-onner, and now my slow-moving brain is doing something strange--or the veins around it are: They’re dancing like tree branches in the wind, tickling my skull.

            I’m going to die, I think. A brain aneurysm.

            Not good to think that, nor to want that. Especially since my friend, Cora, almost died from a brain aneurysm.

            But it’s too late, I think. Then, who’ll find my body?

            Dave? Yes, Dave lives closest, but he’s so depressed he has hair on his floor--hair he rips out--slippers coming out of his silverware drawer, and an eviction notice on his door. Besides, Dave doesn’t call--unless he’s suicidal--I call him.

            My closest friends are not close in proximity: Ricki (Bed-Stuy), Victoria (Sunnyside), and Carrie (NJ). Plus, they’re busy. Carrie with her documentary and her happily-ever-after life despite her husband’s sleep apnea. Victoria with her yoga empire and yoga crushes. And Ricki with her screenplay and polyamory.

            Ray, one of Ricki’s boyfriends, sometimes texts, “How is your brain?” An ongoing joke because of how bad my thoughts were as soon as I started dating Agatha. When detectives unlock my phone and find Ray’s text, he’ll be the prime suspect! Won’t that be funny! Eventually. Sad at first. Well, stressful then sad.

            But who else texts, “How are you?” Agatha did. But she’s gone. Well, Alex does. Alex is a good friend. But he’s been laid off due to A.I. and he must be sick of listening to me talk about this breakup. I’ve really depleted my friendships.

            How funny that breakups are so tiresome to hear about, except in songs. Like at work, all the kids want is pop music--all about breakups. Well, and sex. But they don’t know that. “All songs are about that,” my boss will whisper.

            I adore my boss. The kids, too, obviously. But will she be surprised or angry on Monday when I’m a no-show? “This isn’t like him,” she’ll say. She’ll be pissed by Tuesday and maybe concerned by Thursday? Then she’ll contact our hot H.R. person.

            Who’s my emergency contact?

            Malcolm? Man, is that... perfunctory. First of all, Malcolm lives in New Orleans. And yes, he’s my best friend, but death logistics? He’s a total space cadet! And Malcolm’s mourning his husband and pre-mourning their very old dogs. It would be completely retraumatizing for him to get a call from our hot H.R. woman.

            And whose number does he have anyway? My friends aren’t even friends with each other.

            Does anyone have my parents’ numbers? But I wouldn’t want them driving down here. My mom falls asleep behind the wheel and my dad, who’s off chemo but still has cancer, needs so much sleep, too. The last thing I need is for them to die on the way to find me dead.

            Besides, they don’t have keys. The only person (besides Agatha, and she never once used hers) is my landlord. Which means it would have to be the smell. Classic. I mean thank God for climate change--just kidding--that the windows are open in this autumnal heat so my neighbors will smell my decomposing corpse. We schmooze; Frank, battling Parkinson’s, responds, “Hanging in there, all you can do,” and his wife, Bette, waves at me like, shoo fly. Maybe they’ll notice my absence? Or maybe I’ll attract flies.

            And what then?

            An obituary? Where? My parents’ town’s newspaper? Or this beach town’s? The internet? This is where never being on social media will come back to haunt me.

            Because in my mind--which is about to expire--I want my funeral to be huge. All the kids I’ve worked with--though that might not be good for them; okay, scratch that. But all my exes. Or at least some; husbands admissible.

            No, probably my funeral would be more like my fortieth birthday. A humbling amount of people. No dopamine-releasers, just steady, every-other-month friends whom I’m always happy to hear from. My depressed banker friend, my tall-drink-of-water friend from Minnesota--I never know if he likes me; he’s so nice!--and my singer-turned-therapist friend who’s always pining for the artist’s life.

            And Ricki coordinated with Gibby and his wife to fly in and surprise me. Gibby, my oldest friend, whose love language is setting me up with his friends--or now his wife’s friends. The last being Agatha. I texted Gibby, “Please stop! It’s too [heartbreak emoji]”

            “Better to have loved and lost than...” my cousin said at my uncle’s 80th birthday BBQ. God, I was such a sadsack at that thing. Sitting on the swings, away from the adults, hanging out with my cousin’s 10 year old daughter, June, listening to Olivia Rodrigo--case in point about my pop song theory.

            When June left, her father took her place on the swings. After we discussed his prostate cancer recovery, his erections, and his sex life with my cousin, I told him about Agatha. He said, “Man... you fall in love too easily.”

            Yeah, no shit.

            I’ve always been like that. Like about Cora, Gibby’s sister, who is semi the love of my life--not really, just we grew up together and had sex twenty years ago. But ten years ago, when she had the aneurysm, I made sure to call, take her to movies, go on drives, show her that I cared, that I was there, that she wasn’t alone.

            And you know, not once during that time did Cora ever describe the feeling of the aneurysm as veins around her skull twinkling like a Christmas tree.

            So this is probably all bullshit. Probably I won’t die tonight. But either way, I’ll close this book, drift off, and dream of all the people I love.