mulch pit, chaper 3

It took me a little while to realize just what had happened.

There I was staring at myself. My lifeless self. It didn’t dawn on me that I was dead. Until someone came into the room and placed my body in a bag.

The sound of the zipper whirring its way up startled me. Much like a clap of thunder does when you aren’t expecting it.

It was a bit surreal, of course, seeing this. They started wheeling my corpse away. And as I watched it, the body didn’t get further away. Instead, it stayed right below me. Another thing I had to get used to – my spirit, I guess that’s what you’d call it, traveled with the body.

I looked over my shoulder and saw him. I’d made a very conscious effort over the years to make sure that the person who would escort me into the “afterlife” was one of two people. One was Sir Richard Attenborough. The other was Michael Caine.

Lucky for me, it was the Richard Bartlett version of him, too, which made me happy. I’d worried many times that he may show up as Kris Kringle. I was curious, however, if the devil was actually Michael Caine.

So, I asked Sir Richard : “So, is Michael Caine …”

“The devil?” he laughed. “Of course he his.”

We both continued laughing for quite a bit. I didn’t even notice that we were now in a hearse.

I sat down next to the coffin and wondered where exactly they were taking me.

“To the funeral home,” Sir Richard explained without me having to ask.

“Yes, I know what you are thinking. And, if you play your cards right, you’ll be able to do the same.”

“Play my cards right?”

“Yes, you don’t think God just hands out great abilities and great jobs do you?”

“Well, I kind of thought I’d sit around, drink beer and listen to Lucero records. It is heaven, right?”

“That’s what you did before you got here.”

“Well, damn. I was already in heaven?”

We both laughed again. I liked that there was lots to laugh about in death. If I’d been in my shitty house, I probably would have scribbled that one down.

“Are there…”

“Pencils here? Of course there are.” Sir Richard finishing my thoughts again.

“You know what, Richard?” I said, flinching a bit at not calling him sir.

“What?” he replied.

“You mean you don’t know what I’m going to ask?”

“Of course I do, but I figured you’d rather ask it.”

“Yes. Well. How did I die?”

“You don’t remember it?”

“Does anyone?”

“Why, yes. Most people only talk about how it happened for days. Weeks. And sometimes years. But up here, that seems like a millisecond.”

“So?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you don’t know, you’re not supposed to be dead.”

All of the sudden I felt like I was in that damn Warren Beatty movie “Heaven Can Wait”. However, I didn’t have Charles Grodin fucking my wife. And I certainly didn’t want to be Vince Ferragamo.

“I rather liked that movie,” Sir Richard said, breaking my train of thought.

“So, Richard,” I hesitated to ask. “Does this mean I’m going back.”

“Most likely, yes.”

“But time has moved on. My corpse is on the way to the funeral home.”

“Oh, we can fix that.”

I started to think hard now. About the last thoughts I could remember before I was watching my dead body from above.

I was in a bar, no, I was in the bar. The Mulch Pit. Drinking with Lucy? Listening to Lucero? Yes and yes.

There was that old man who didn’t know how to tip. And the Braves were being beat by my Pirates on the television. I think that A.J. Burnett was even pitching a shutout.

“You really can’t remember. That’s astonishing.”

“Why so astonishing?” I asked, my curiosity seriously piqued now.

“Oh, boy.”

“Oh, boy?”

“Oh my.”

“Oh my?”

I was beginning to think I was being given the runaround. So, I kept trying to remember. I looked down at my hands, they were turning blue.

“Why is this happening?”

“Because you are remembering how you died, but you’re not dead. That’s the complication from that.”

“Turning blue?”

“Yes. We call it Smurfing. It usually only happens to little kids, so they like it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m 44 years old. Not exactly excited by that.”

That’s when it started flooding back.

The redhead. The reason for my depression. My outlook on things. My mania. My inspiration. She was there.

“Did she?”

“What? Try to kill you? Of course not.”

I remember sitting down. Forcing conversation. Then the door opened. And there he was. Gun in hand.

“My old boss?”

“No. No. No. Keep looking.”

I saw McPhillop. He was pushed aside by another man I knew. Someone who knew the red head too.

“Randy, that’s why I’m here,” the redhead spoke just before the shots rang out.

Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam.

Some kind of semi-automatic hand gun it was. All the bullets missed. Except the last one. It hit my chest. I fell to the ground.

“You deserve this,” he said.

“Wha…wha…what? Why?” I sputtered out, along with blood.

“Stop, Randy. Don’t think about him,” the redhead said.

I looked into her eyes. There was that sparkle that was missing the last time I saw her over a decade ago. I hadn’t even thought to look for it before now.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know,” she replied.

And I blacked out right at that moment. Right as she said the exact same words she said to me the very last time we talked. In fact, those were the last two words she had said to me.

Now, sitting with Sir Richard I wonder if dead wouldn’t be better.

“You aren’t ready,” he said to me. “Now go back. Finish what needs to be finished.”