How They Died

Mary died of natural causes.

Gary died of scurvy.

Vondi died on a Fung-Wah bus that somehow ended up in Jersey.

Sammy died of a broken heart

Tammy died of the flu

Henri died when a lime-carrying tick found its way into his roux

Matty died of sun stroke.

Patty died from an odor.
Carlton died when his belt was caught in a runaway tractor's motor.

Lanny died a drawn-out death.

Manny’s was considerably shorter.

Martin died when his business collapsed—crushed under brick and mortar.

Betty died of a sweet tooth.

Eddie died of fright.

Goran died when he swallowed a scorpion in the middle of the night.

Jenny died of athlete’s foot.

Penny died of laughter.

Lauren died hanging a picture when her arm got stuck in the rafters.

Harry died of an itch.

Larry died opening his mail.

Bill died after losing a bet that he could jump the third rail.

Sandy died of mono.

Mandy died of boredom.

Jill died of rejection when she didn’t get into Fordham.

Rex died of caution.

Lex died in the ocean.

Leena died when her sister put acid in her hand lotion.

Phil died on New Year’s.

Bill died on Earth Day.

Geena died from a can of Tab that’d celebrated its 28^th birthday.

Willis died of ennui.

Phyllis died of shock.

Paulie died when a cobra made its home in his sock.

Kylie died by accident.

Riley died on purpose.

Molly died upon learning her only sports channel was Versus.

Andy died of anger.

Mandy died of the cold.

Ty died when he was found least likeable according to those polled.

Alan died in his sleep.

Fallon died in his car.

I died when I took a stupid idea and took it way too far.

The Listener

Marvin was a good listener. And he knew it. People told him all the time. His female coworkers would say, “Marvin? You’re a really good listener.” His male colleagues probably thought he was a good listener, too, but men don’t verbalize that kind of thing. Whenever he received this particular compliment, Marvin would smile, because he knew listening was easy. All you had to do was be quiet for a few moments and let every sound fill your head. At this, Marvin was a natural.

If you’ve asked yourself why Marvin is referred to in the past tense, here’s the answer. Marvin is dead. And this is the story of how he died.

---------------------------------------------

When Marvin awoke on the day of his death, he did what he always did. He listened. He listened to the alarm and wondered just how reliable roosters really were. He listened to birds squawking, chirping, singing and fighting outside his window and wondered why these particular ones hadn’t headed south for the winter. He listened to the static-y snap-pop of his sheets against his skin as he shifted positions in bed and wondered how much electricity he could create just by rolling around with bare, dry skin.

Marvin shuffled to the bathroom with eyes half open and listened to his bare feet groggily sliding through the dust on his hardwood floor and wondered where he could get a good mop. He listened to the reverberant echo of his piss streaming into the toilet and wondered if he could possibly ever have to pee so badly that he could fill the entire porcelain bowl. Marvin turned on the shower and listened to water spurt intermittently for a moment and then steadily pitter-patter against the tub and wondered if this is what it sounded like when Paul Bunyan urinated. He listened to the deep flickering sound of water on plastic as the water splashed the shower curtain lining.

Fully clean, dressed and standing at the counter, Marvin poured himself a bowl of cereal and listened to whoosh as the crispy flakes filled the cheap ceramic. He listened to the milk flood the bowl, drowning the flakes with a slight crackle and wondered if he could achieve the same effect in his stomach simply by eating dry cereal and then drinking a glass. If rice crispies encounter milk but there’s no one to hear it, do they make a snap, crackle and pop?

Marvin stood at the underground platform waiting for the train and listened to a guitar-strumming man play a song of indecipherable melody and incomprehensible lyrics. He listened as the train arrived and buried the man’s tune under a heap of motorized motion and thought that the words made more sense now that he couldn’t hear them.

He entered the train and found a seat across from an excitable woman and disinterested man and listened to their conversation. The man didn’t look like a very good listener but the woman was either oblivious to his lack of attention or was too accustomed to it to care.

Marvin listened as the pre-recorded voice announced the train’s arrival at his stop and wondered how much money the owner of that voice was paid for his recording session. He listened as the car screeched to a halt and the doors rattled open.

On his way up to street level, Marvin listened to the hum of the escalator and wondered why most people treated it as a ride, and not an expeditor. At the top, he listened to the rush of air that swept into train station’s entrance like an invisible typhoon. As he made his way to up the sidewalk, he listened to the struggled grunts of pedestrians as they strained against the icy wind and he wondered why the entire world didn’t just live in San Diego instead.

Marvin approached the crosswalk, stood and listened as a cop blew his whistle signaling traffic to resume and he wondered why there was an officer directing traffic in an intersection with perfectly functioning lights. The walk signal appeared, Marvin took a few steps into the road and listened as the left side of his body cracked and crumpled against the force of a large white catering truck traveling 40 MPH. As his brain began to shut down, he listened to the oddly irrelevant sound of tires squealing on pavement, and the cop’s feet slapping that same concrete, quickly increasing in volume. He lay there, listening as the cop yelled, “I whistled him to stop!” and an onlooker above consoled the officer, “It’s not your fault, some people just don’t listen.

The Oven’s Commentary on His Coworkers

The Dishwasher is a moron. I don’t mean that in a mean way, I think he seriously has mental problems. He whines, shakes and drools constantly. I mean, he’s like a scared dog. There is a puddle in front of him at all times. It’s just gross. He does work hard and is damn good at his job, though, I gotta give him that. And it’s even more impressive considering he’s always getting loaded. He’s like an idiot savant. He’s like Mozart to The Sink’s Salieri.

Speaking of The Sink, I feel bad for the guy, losing all his business to The Dishwasher, but it’s kinda his own fault. He’s inefficient, slow, constantly complaining of being drained and yet somehow is completely full of himself. However, I’d wager his personality defect is due more to insecurity than conceit. But he should be thankful. He doesn’t face near the pressure of The Dishwasher.

For such a big guy, The Fridge is a little bitch. Any time I’m pissed at anyone and let them know how I feel, he tries to step in as the “cooler head.” That’s his expression, not mine. I’m not that blatant with my metaphors. Anyway, half the time he doesn’t even have a handle on the situation, but he butts his big stainless steel head in like he’s some sort of natural mediator. OK, so you wanna play the good guy, I get it, but here’s some advice, The Fridge, BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH. Worst breath ever.

That reminds me, have you met The Coffeemaker? Oh man, that guy STINKS. I don’t know what the hell he does while he’s sleeping but every morning he smells like he rolled all over the dirty ground outside. That actually wouldn’t surprise me since he sleeps all day. 10 minutes of work when he gets up, then he gets the rest of the day off. Must be nice.

But I don’t hate everyone. The Toaster Oven just started here and she is unbelievably hot. She’s compact, she has an amazing rack (two of them actually), and she gets turned on so easily. It’s like flipping a switch with her. It’s cool because she’s sorta my assistant. She can’t handle much, but I give her the smaller jobs I don’t have time for.

As for me? Contrary to what my name might suggest, I like to think of myself as unconventional. The others cry about my temper, but that’s just because they can’t take the heat. In which case, they should just get out of here.

Under My Skin

The last thing I remember was her crying.

I had shown her parts of myself no one had ever seen, both literally and figuratively. But man, I went too damn far. I offered her a piece of gum, but she dismissed it as an empty gesture. Of course she did. I make her cry and my only condolence is a piece of Double Bubble. I am an idiot. Well, I WAS an idiot. I don’t know if you can still be characterized as an idiot when you’re dead. I may have been an idiot when I was alive, but you get to start fresh when you die, right?

So here’s how it happened.

I met this girl in the grocery store. In the grocery store! I mean, how often does that shit happen? It’s the kind of scenario that goes down so infrequently that desperate, aging women use it as an excuse for online dating: “I have no choice. Where am I going to meet someone, the grocery store?” Well I did just that. I was standing there, she walked up to me, checked out a couple of my friends and before I knew it she swept me off my feet and we were on our way back to her place.

Now, before I continue, let me just explain something. I am NOT nuts. I’m not impulsive. I’ve always considered myself very grounded, with an attitude firmly rooted in common sense. But there was just something about this girl. I’d seen hundreds of them come and go, but no one looked at me quite like her. And I knew—I just KNEW—I was part of her plan. Whatever that plan was.

So anyway, we got home and I sat playfully on the counter while she went about her business. I waited anxiously in the kitchen as she ran back outside to grab something from her car. I remember my mind racing through attractive thoughts. Maybe she bought some kind of sexy outfit that day and she was getting it from the car to model it for me.

I heard the car door slam and my heart leapt. Maybe even skipped a beat. Whatever it was, my heart did something it didn’t normally do. I felt like I needed a drink of water or a deep breath. I took the latter.

But what I should have taken was the 326 back to the grocery store. When she re-entered the kitchen, she looked no longer like the curious girl I met just minutes ago. She looked more like a woman on a mission. From the purposeful ponytail on her head to the shimmering blade in her right hand.

I didn’t fight the thoughts. This was the end. And it’s a good thing I didn’t fight those thoughts. Because before I could think one more, she plunged her newly purchased knife inside, nearly bisecting me. With a ruthlessly quick movement, she brought the knife up and let it fall with her weight behind it, finishing the job.

Looking up as the last drops of life left me, I noticed her eyes. Tears filled him, making her look, well, not vulnerable, but human again. Maybe that movement wasn’t as cold and heartless as I thought.

And that’s the last thing I saw before dying.

I remember hearing a lot of my friends talk about what happens when you die. One of my friends used to say that you never really die, you just come back as the thing you most wanted to be in your previous life. I think he was full of shit. But if he was right, I’m definitely coming back as a hawk or a coyote, or something that runs around free of any concern other than the location of its next meal. I don’t know for sure, but whatever I choose, I’m sure as hell not going to be an onion again.

It's Over

From up here, Tim could see everything.

He could see the statue in the square. The one with the 19th century-clad gentleman holding a none-to-pleased baby and a countenance that made you question the man's intentions. He could see the stop light on the bridge over the highway that bisected the town into North and South. He could see the surprisingly well-maintained gazebo and the patch of green grass it sat upon, freckled with dandelions. Those dandelions always reminded him of Lisa. It wasn't that they were reminiscent of the small splash of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Or that she used to beg him to save some of the pesky dandelions in his own yard any time he mowed. Actually, Tim didn't know what it was about those things that reminded him of Lisa, but it wasn't either of those two thoughts.

Besides, it didn't matter anymore.

As Tim looked down and watched the people crossing the street, walking up the sidewalk head down or just sitting on a park bench, he laughed. He actually laughed! Here he was, about to commit to the final act of quitting, "The Big Quit" as he had affectionately dubbed it weeks ago, and he was snickering. The one reason - the ONLY reason - he wished he was going to be around to witness his own death was to take in the startled reactions of whoever happened to be in the vicinity when his body lay awkwardly twisted on the cement. But that was pretty much the definition of a catch-22, wasn't it?

As he gazed down onto the street, Tim felt a twinge of disappointment at how few people were actually out and about. He was hoping for a bigger crowd. Oh well. Here goes.

With that final thought, Tim leapt off the 15-story tower. Never afraid of heights, he enjoyed the fall. Even spread his arms like a glider, embracing the acceleration of gravity and cold air rushing against his face, whipping through his clothing.

As his descent quickened, his excitement spiked. This was it. This was really it!

And then in the moment before his carefree body hit the pavement, in the very last instant before his head assumed all the form and function of a Gallaghered watermelon, one thought popped into is head, filling his doomed body with regret for the very first time.

"Shit," he thought. "I forgot to turn off the oven."

Pour Baby

Martina was frantic. Where was Ella? Her precious baby girl? The love of her life? One minute the two are enjoying a bath, the next she’s gone.

Ella had just begun crawling, so she can’t have just taken off. Besides, their studio apartment didn’t exactly afford a 6-month-old girl much opportunity to hide. All the closet doors were closed. The oven secure. The fridge door handle impossible to reach.

Martina tore open the cabinets, feeling more and more desperate as each second ticked by. Nothing. She struggled to move the futon away from the wall, one side at a time. Nothing but dust and a few ancient popcorn kernels. She stooped to peer under her computer desk. Empty CD cases, a fuzzy Cheez-It but no Ella. Where the fuck is she!?

Martina began to wonder if she was losing her mind. “Is this how it happens?” she thought. “Do you misplace something here or there and suddenly you’re insane?” Martina even briefly let herself entertain the thought that Ella never existed. That she was a product of Martina’s increasingly diseased consciousness.

Martina looked around the room. Ella’s toys were scattered about. A few brightly colored pieces of plastic designed by “doctors” to stimulate Ella’s intellectual development. The toys surely proved Ella’s existence. Right? Martina looked down at her midsection, pulled out her waistband and saw the C-section scar. “OK, so I’m not crazy,” Martina concluded.

But where was Ella? Where was she?

With a start, Martina made for the apartment’s lone window. En route, her foot caught under the lamp’s cord, causing her to pitch forward and take the lamp with her. Martina quickly recovered, leapt to her feet and bolted toward the open window, a light breeze ruffling the old beige curtains that had been hanging there the day she moved in and likely for decades before that.

Martina thrust her head through the window and looked down to realize what she dread. There, two stories below, was Ella, naked on the soaked pavement, a rubber duck in the grass five feet away and a tangled washcloth draped across the child’s legs.

Martina had thrown the baby out with the bathwater.

A Proposal

I know this is sudden. I know we haven’t been together a long time. But I know, I just KNOW, this is right. When I hold you, I feel like I can see deep inside you. Read your thoughts. And you know what? They’re just like mine. We think so much alike, it’s scary sometimes. But it’s just further proof that this was meant to be.

You know, the first time I saw you, you were with another guy. Telling him everything he wanted to hear but still maintaining the air of mystery that ultimately drew me to you. In the end, I know I stole you from him. You can blame yourself all you want, but I know in my heart that I am the reason he left you. And if he wanted you that badly, he wouldn’t have left you alone at the bar for me to pick you up. Do you remember what I asked you that first time?

“Is he coming back?”

“Don’t count on it,” you answered.

Something about your confident tone and blunt manner almost knocked me off my feet. From that moment you had me in your pocket. And somehow, despite the din of the bar, every word you said came through with a clarity and foresight that was refreshing. Not at all like the others. And there have definitely been others. Certainly one for every day of the week. But I shouldn’t go on about that because none of them matter.

Back at the bar, my voice straining over the music, “Do you want to get out of here?” I looked at you expectantly. My mind sliding across your potential responses, clinging to the one I so desperately wanted.

“Yes – definitely.”

True to form, you didn’t mince words, and your answer gave my heart a jolt.

And that was the moment I knew you were the one. You shook me from the very beginning, changing my perception of what true love was all about. So that’s why I brought you here, to where it all began. You sitting at the bar, me standing, gazing down at you. Magic 8 Ball, will you marry me?