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10.3.4

the dead guy

There is a dead guy in my office. The faces upstairs are so drawn and sad. I never met him, but apparently he was diagnosed a year ago, so. They say he was really brave.

When you go upstairs today, it's so quiet. But I work downstairs.

He was 34 years old.

. . .

What did the dead guy's coffee mug look like? Is there a mug missing at all? Maybe a blue one? Did he drink coffee or tea or nothing? Did he take it with sugar?

. . .

Here I am standing in front of the cereal bins. What kind of cereal did the dead guy like?

. . .

He was a kind and loving father.

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Buses are leaving this morning to go to the dead guy's funeral. We keep getting the emails. "Last call to get on the bus." I hope enough people go.

. . .

I think my mug is missing.

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Today I wore black, but just by accident. Every day I walk by a couple people wearing black, probably by accident too.

. . .

Someone from work calls my cell phone one night. It's an emergency, where are you? I say I'm in the Village where we just finished dinner. 15 minutes later I'm at my desk, typing. An hour later the emergency is over and everything is fine and I feel just great, like I've been riding a roller coaster.

. . .

Today they brought in T-shirts with the name of the dead guy on the front, and they are giving them out to the people who ordered them, who were his friends. I am avoiding going upstairs today because I do not want to see the name of the dead guy on the chest of one of his friends.

. . .

I keep on forgetting to finger the dead guy. They must have deleted his account by now.

. . .

Somewhere in Jersey there is a woman with two daughters.

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