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.”

powerball

I came home like every other night. Pulled the car into the driveway, cringed a little bit at the cool breeze coming off the ocean, then checked my mailbox.

It’s not very often that anything interesting is in there. If I got something off the internet, maybe a cool album or a tourist brochure. Other than that, it’s junk mail and bills. I’ve noticed the credit card offers don’t flood it anymore. A product of a tighter economy, I’m sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the companies see me not using the one’s I have anymore, and have figured out that maybe this dumb ass has finally figured out the game is rigged, so why bother.

The mailbox is a black piece of plastic sitting on top of a piece of wood. It gets hit occasionally by the Cougars and MILFs that populate the shag bar across the street from my house. Before you get all wound up, it’s shag as in dance, not as in putting the penis in the va-jay-jay.

Inside, the place smells a bit like burnt sausage. I made some two days ago, guess it’s still lingering in the late winter chicken coop that is my house. The windows don’t get to be opened quite enough to let out the smell of a 40 year old bachelor. Frightening stuff, really.

I plop down on my couch and smile just a little as I look around. My transformation of this house from a crappy, dingy, way-too-rented out place to my own private Scatman Cruthers’ bad-ass bachelor sinkhole is nearly complete.

My green couch is straight out of the 1970s. So is the bar with just enough full bottles of Whiskey and Scotch to be inviting to anyone. All it really needs is a nice framed piece of sexy blaxploitation-era art to go over the couch, and of course, the bed. All in good time, my friend, I think to myself. One day the gods will shine down upon me and allow such silliness. Now? It’s pay the bills. Pay the bills. Dave Mustaine echoes in my brain… “Whaddya mean I don’t pay my bills? Why do ya think I’m broke! Huh!”

The funny thing is I think about those days, when I’ll be debt-free and anchor-free. Shit, I’ve thought about them for almost 14 years now. When the bills got so damn high I felt that I was going to drown under them, and the non-truths you have to tell to keep that kind of a thing a secret.

But was it really ever a secret?

The lottery hit $300 million today. In the office, it was a subject of the same old conversation that everyone has about the lottery when it gets that high. Much like the same conversation you have about the weather with people you don’t really like.

“It sure is sunny out?”

“Yep. Sure is.”

“Hope it stays that way for a while.”

“Probably won’t. It’s March.”

“What would you do with all that money?”

“Pay off my debts.”

“But a house.”

“Quit this place.”

All completely valid answers. All complete clichés.

I pointed this out to everyone with a scowl. I said if you win that much money, of fucking course you’ll pay off your debts and all that. You’ll buy your dream car. You’ll go on your dream vacation.

But fucking then what?

“Well, Mr. Smart Ass. What would you do with that money?” finally one of the uptight, horrible editors we have piped in, looking straight at me with a fucking “Ha-Ha-Ha!” smile on her face.

I pulled up my pants the best way I could without looking like a young Wilfred Brimley and looked her right in the eye. She kind of shriveled up at the sight of me. Kind of like a penis does when it gets cold and the girl your with says she’s a dude.

“I’d pay porn star Smokie Flame to just give me a blow job on film for three days straight,” I said.

“Gross.”

“What a guy thing to say.”

"You'd get bored," a female co-worker who I'd guess has never given a blow job before says.

I'm impressed with her answer and give him the Harvey Keitel coffee mug look to show my appreciation for a well thought out retort.

“Whoah, who is Smokie Flame,” my boss said, clearly impressed with my answer.

“She’s this redhead who makes really strange sounds when she fucks. Almost retarded like. But, I don’t want to be labeled as some guy that wants to fuck retards, cause, I’m not. They most certainly won’t compare me to the beer in hell guy.”

“Yes they will,” the blonde shit stain of an editor said to me. “That is just so rude.”

“Yep, and for the kind of money I’d be offering, she’d do it. You can watch. Just not in the room. I’ll set up Skype for ya.”

She slammed her door closed on that note. Randy 1, Blonde bitch boss 0.

“What would you do, Richard?” I asked my boss, who was now looking at “safe” Google search images of one Smokie Flame.

“I’d buy this place, and fire that bitch.”

“Yeah, but think of the better ways to spend it, and still accomplish the same thing. I mean, take out gay want ads, but make them full-page color double trucks. Turning down that kind of advertising dollar might just get one fired.”

“You’re fucked in the head, dude.”

“Yeah, and it only gets worse every single day.”

I look down at my lottery ticket. Numbers are 11, 19, 27, 9, 23 and a power ball of 7. Or mega ball, whichever damn poor tax I paid.

I look up at the blank space on my wall behind my Scatman couch. I imagine Smokie Flame there instead of a Pam Grier wannabe. Hope I don’t get an ax in my torso before I can make it all come true.