— by Wallace Thatcher Hogg 1842-1929
(as dictated to Harmony Rae, psychic medium, clairaudient)
I want to state right from the start: I completely and without reservation wish I wasn’t dead. I mean it. If I had known what being dead would actually feel like, I would have fought harder to stay alive. Sure, in the last few years of my life, I went around saying things like, “I can die now” or “I’m ready to meet my Maker.” Poppycock! What was I thinking?
First off, there is no “Maker.” I don’t know who came up with the idea of mansions, streets paved with gold, or angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, but let me tell you—it’s horseshit. Hell, I haven’t seen a cloud since ’29! The reality? You get buried in a pine box, and that’s that. No music. No clouds. No angels. Just you and the dark. And let me emphasize: this is dark like you’ve never seen before. You could light a torch, and it wouldn’t make a dent—not that I have a torch. Or hands to hold one, for that matter.
I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, if I still had one. What I wouldn’t give for anything that beats, pounds, or throbs. It’s too quiet down here. Too dark. And the smell? Good God, the smell. I hate to admit it, but I think I’m the source of it. And it was so much worse those first few years—what with the farting. Did you know corpses fart? Oh yes, decomposition gases. It’s absolutely revolting. And don’t let anyone tell you “your own farts don’t stink.” Those people clearly haven’t been dead. Or farted.
Now, you might be thinking, “Well, at least you can catch up on sleep.” Let me stop you right there. Sure, at first, it’s like a twelve-year nap. But then you wake up with an itch on your face, and guess what? You can’t move your hands to scratch it. Absolute torture. Although, now that I think of it, eye weevils are worse. Nobody warns you about those little bastards. First 24 hours underground, they move in, suck your eyes dry, and you just have to lie there and let it happen. Like Mrs. Hogg on our honeymoon.
Speaking of Mrs. Hogg, she’s lying a foot and a half to my left. We can’t talk. We can’t hold hands. We can’t even make love. It’s just like the last twenty years of our marriage. Still, I miss Schatzi. That’s what I used to call her. She made the best blackberry cobbler. And her ironing? Flawless. I’m actually wearing one of her shirts right now—no wrinkles on it, even after decades underground. Sometimes, I try to catch a whiff of Schatzi on the fabric. But alas, I haven’t smelled anything since blowfly maggots hollowed out my nose during the Great Depression. A man can dream, though. Even a dead man. I sure do wish I wasn’t dead.
Sometimes, I try to distract myself by reminiscing about my better days. Like that time in Budapest, sharing a sarsaparilla with Mari Jászai. She was an actress. A real doll-face, with a laugh that could melt icebergs. She was engaged, but I tried to kiss her anyway. She grabbed my necktie and pulled me toward her. Then dunked it in her drink. It was my only necktie! I was furious—until she giggled that irresistible giggle of hers, and suddenly, we were laughing like fools. See, for a fleeting moment, I almost forgot right now there’s a family of millipedes living in my skull.
Here’s the kicker about being dead: you can hear everything. It’s like my hearing got superhuman. Super dead human. Conversations from miles away, halfway across the globe—I get it all. Last week, I had to endure a Wisconsin farmer whistling “I Get a Kick Out of You” while milking cows for four annoying hours. I’ve never been closer to clawing my way out of this bone hole. Not that I could, because—you guessed it—I’m dead.
I try not to complain, but really, what’s worse than being dead? I think of all the moments I wasted while I was alive. Night after night, passed out in a scotch coma while Schatzi cried herself to sleep. What I wouldn’t give for one more of those nights. Instead, I spent my life chasing career dreams. I wanted to be the Shoe Polish King of the Northern Hemisphere. And for what? Even George Vanderbilt is lying nuts-up in a crypt somewhere. Probably listening to a goat herder yodel.
Anyway, I should get back to lying still and rotting. I don’t even know if this whole “communicating with the living” thing is allowed. Rules down here are pretty simple: Be still. Rot. I’m mostly bones at this point, but I’ll admit—I haven’t looked this good in years. My suit finally fits. Makes me want to dance. That whole “dancing skeletons” thing? True. We’d cut quite the rug if we could actually move.
But we can’t. Because we’re dead. God, I wish I wasn’t so fucking dead.
[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 2, 2015.]