Dead is Better (3 page)

I suppose we should go in, but I fucking hate this place. How many times have I pulled into this lot and just sat inside my car, eating Randy’s doughnuts and drinking Randy’s Donuts coffee, trying to talk myself into going in? I remember feeling that I’d rather die than walk through the door. Now that I’m dead you’d think I wouldn’t find myself outside again. There’s an unsatisfying symmetry to my situation.

Then I notice the Leaf’s license plate.

“Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”

—J.R.R. Tolkien

***

“MuCorp213.”

Why am I surprised that this would happen so soon after my tragic and shocking exit—if I’m reading time correctly?

When was I, excuse the expression, “laid to rest”? Yesterday?

That means Mark’s taking a meeting with that woman from MultiCorp on the Saturday after my funeral. And no one else from the office or the family is here.

MultiCorp, in case you’ve been living in a cave somewhere, is a kraken that eats little companies like AndyCo. like krill. MultiCorp. is a monster—producing drugs, cosmetics, vaccines, petroleum, and hotel, hospital, and stadium “hospitality products and foods.” MC has wanted the Happy Andy Brand and AndyCo. for at least two years, but I, to the frustration of my brother, told MultiCorp. to fuck off, and refused to sell the business that brought me so much misery. Why? Because I could. Because stopping this deal gave me, for the first time in my life, some power.

And there were other reasons, too.

“I mean, they say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.”

—Banksy

***

The dog follows the woman to the building entrance. I follow the dog. The woman goes in through the unlocked front door. The dog passes right through the large plate glass window to its left, then, after a moment’s hesitation, I do, too.

The sensation of the window passing through me—or is it I who is moving through the glass?—is something like—but not quite, since I can’t feel anything here—passing through a freezer—the ghost of a shiver of sharp cold on my face, my hands, and especially, my feet.

I’m glad Mark and the woman can’t see me. I look literally like death. Like crap. My shirt is bloodstained and torn, and below the bottom of my khakis, my feet are bare. I’m still balding and fat. And, I see it now—there’s a hospital bracelet on my left wrist. At least I don’t look like that schmuck in the casket yesterday in his navy blue suit, a tallis, and vintage Happy Andy tie.

I stop to look at the huge sepia-framed photograph of a grinning Happy Andy riding a spotted pony, and above it a large red neon sign that says AndyCo. The other walls contain displays of original Happy Andy memorabilia—lunch boxes, plastic guns, salt and pepper shakers, dolls—in all their iterations. The couch, like everything except the espresso machine, is, according to the interior decorator (Mark’s wife) “pristine mid-century modern—an homage to the era in which Happy Andy flourished.”

Then the espresso machine growls and sings, mixing with the voices coming from Mark’s office.

My shit brother Mark, or I should say, AndyCo. via my shit brother’s wife, spent $679.00 plus tax and shipping on this Krupps machine with a Burr Grinder. Only the top of the fucking line for the President and CEO of AndyCo. I won’t even talk about the coffee beans Mark has delivered. Since when is Intelligensia Coffee not good enough? No, he gets the beans flown in from the Dominican Republic. And the special soy milk from San Francisco. And the green tea from Burma. And the organic, sustainable vegan lunches from a chef in Santa Monica. The wheatgrass and juices from Malibu. Mark wants to be the sweating and “healthy” Yoga King of all he surveys.

The dog walks towards the voice on the thick fifties shag carpet but leaves no paw prints. I walk–but feel as if I’m on an invisible Segue—effortless, weightless. This is nothing like flying, or what I imagine flight would be.

This world is frictionless.

“MultiCorp is absolutely committed to honoring your father’s legacy,” the woman is saying. I can hear it in her voice that she is smiling, before I can see her doing it.

I stand right behind her, so close I wonder if the tiny hairs on her neck are on end. The dog lies down behind Mark, who sits in a vintage Plexiglas chair behind his Eames teak desk upon which rest two Bauer pottery espresso cups—one turquoise, one egg yolk yellow. Mark is leaning forward now, resting his elbows on the desk, his head on his clasped hands, rapt and nodding eagerly.

“MultiCorp will assure your father’s immortality. And, Mr. Stone, your ongoing creativity and vision will ensure that the Happy Andy brand not only lives forever, but that it thrives.”

She emphasizes “thrives.” She smiles some more.

You’d think Mark been told that he’d live for fucking ever, he looks so thrilled and happy. “I’m just sorry we had to wait so long to complete this.”

The woman parts her lips more widely revealing pink gums above Lumineered teeth, and pushes a sheaf of papers, out of which little Post It flags in red, green and blue emerge at various locations, across the desk to Mark.

“MultiCorp appreciates your follow-through during such a painful time, Mr. Stone.”

Mark pulls the papers close to his chest, as if to embrace them, then attempts a wistful smile.

“Yes. We are all in total shock at the loss of my brother. Especially because of the—unfortunate circumstances.”

What circumstances? Tell me, I command them both silently. But Mark trails off. The woman nods sympathetically. The hairs on her neck are just fine, thank you.

“I’m sure you all are struggling to deal with this tragedy,” the woman says, fiddling with her rolling briefcase. “Please know that you and yours are now part of the MultiCorp Family. MultiCorp mourns with you.”

So much for my will, my psychic mojo, my ability to haunt. These two live bodies completely ignore my willed commands.

She stands, and holds a business card toward Mark, “If there is anything we can do, just let me know. My personal line is right here on the card. Don’t hesitate to call me.”

Mark stands too and accepts the business card gratefully.

The dog stretches lazily, glances back at me, then leaps right through the large glass window behind Mark’s chair, as calmly as a bird alighting from a tree. I float, as quickly as I can—I’m still not used to being dead—through the woman, her chair, the Eames desk, the espresso cups, and my brother.

As I pass through them, I hope they feel a momentary sense of dread, and some really hardcore intimations of mortality.

“Death doesn’t exist. It never did, it never will. But we’ve drawn so many pictures of it, so many years, trying to pin it down, comprehend it, we’ve got to thinking of it as an entity, strangely alive and greedy. All it is, however, is a stopped watch, a loss, an end, a darkness. Nothing.”

—Ray Bradbury,
Something Wicked This Way Comes

***

Why wouldn’t I sell? I hated the business and my family, so you’re thinking, why obstruct the deal with MultiCorp?

To spite my brother and the rest, yes. But it’s not that simple.

I had to stand up for something. Once in my life.

I know. I sound like a fucking Boy Scout, which by the way I never was. I was an Indian Guide until the day my father came to entertain our tribe. Another story, but you can guess how it went. Jewish cowboy clowns and Indians don’t mix.

The dog rolls over for a stomach rub and as I oblige her, I get the urge to take a last look at my apartment.

“The meaning of life is that it stops.”

—Franz Kafka

***

Welcome to Hollywood, home of the desperate, the deluded, the strung out, the runaway and, despite the new high rises—like Shearer always says about Santa Monica on his radio show—the homeless. Right now the dog and I drift a few inches above the north side of Hollywood Boulevard between Cahuenga and Vine. It’s late afternoon. My apartment is a few blocks away.

Then I see that that the dog is floating above Lassie’s star on the “Walk of Fame.” Jesus. This dead dog has quite the sense of humor. I wish I had a camera, though I suspect all it would capture would be a ripple in the empty air above the dirty sidewalk.

The dog drifts again, and we float around the corner of Las Palmas until we reach my first-floor apartment in an old orange brick three-story building with prominent fire escapes, a.k.a. the “shithole” to my family. I moved in after college at UCSB and never let it go, even through the four marriages.

#103 in stained brass numbers.

No police tape. But there is what L.A. television reporters like to call a “makeshift shrine” by the “Go Away” doormat under the scuffed door—three burned-out Jesus candles and a couple bunches of wilted supermarket flowers. Must be from the neighbors—I’m touched.

This time I pass through the door first. The dog follows. There is no chill as we move through the cheap wooden door, just a momentary intensifying of its darkness. Inside the studio apartment, things appear as they did when I occupied it—brick and board bookcases floor to ceiling stuffed with books—I hate to admit it but I was an English major at UCSB—record albums (folk and jazz) and Happy Andy souvenirs. The dog stretches above the cracked brown leather couch and follows my gaze as I survey what used to be my world: the scuffed wooden floor is covered with books, record albums, boxes, piles of
LA Weeklies, LA Times
, yellowed, disintegrating copies of the
LA Free Press
for which, briefly, I reviewed music.

I see that mail has been pushed through the front door slot: A Daedalus Books catalogue. A
New Yorker.
A
Rolling Stone
. A letter with a Mexico City postmark from Josue Delores addressed to Señor C. Stone from Solar Textil, Mexico City.

How I wish I had the living sinews that would allow me to reach down and open that letter, but death is real, not some fucking “Topper” movie—the power of telekinesis does not exist in life or in what follows after—at least so far, death is look but can’t touch.

Solar Textil is a factory in Mexico City that manufactures and processes textiles for Happy Andy t-shirts, sweatshirts, tennis shoes and zippered tote bags. Solar Textil is the plant where three months ago an eighteen-year-old sewing machine operator named Luz Rodriguez suffered an “unfortunate underbench shafting accident” as she bent down to retrieve some fabric from the floor.

Unfortunately, Luz’s hair became entangled in the moving shaft.

Unfortunately, the force of the shaft pulled Luz off her seat and down on the floor, dragging her head into the shaft and ripping her scalp from her skull. There was no dead man’s switch so the machine kept running, her hair still caught until someone turned off the machine and cut her blood-soaked hair.

Josue Delores, plant supervisor, informed me and my shit brother of the accident and also that Luz was brain-damaged and in the care of her mother. I told my shit brother and the others that I was visiting a fat farm, then flew to Mexico City and met with Josue, toured the dismal factory and visited Luz and her mother. I learned that Luz had worked there for $3.50 an hour six days a week. That neither she nor her mother had health insurance. That Luz is the mother of an eighteen-month old son. And that her father is blind.

Back in L.A., I met with my shit brother and told him about the unfortunate accident that had befallen Luz. Mark had AndyCo.’s lawyer draft a letter that wished Luz a speedy recovery and enclosed a check for $5,000—which her mother could cash only if she signed the attached agreement specifying that AndyCo was in no way responsible for her daughter’s injury.

I called Alan, my lawyer, and had him draft my own letter informing Luz’s mother that they were now the recipients of a monthly stipend from a fund I created by selling some Apple stock. The only catch was that they were not to discuss this money with anyone.

I also did a little poking around: Solar Textil is a subsidiary of Syncro, which is part of Free Textile, which is owned by Clothing International—which is owned by MultiCorp.

“Thank Heaven! The crisis—the danger, is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last—, and the fever called Living is conquered at last.”

—Edgar Allan Poe

***

The dog floats at attention above the couch now. I notice her long, delicate eyelashes in the slices of light passing through dusty old wooden blinds. It drove my mother and Margarita crazy that I wouldn’t let anyone come in and clean the place. Looking back, I see now that I was terribly passive aggressive, and what were they? Aggressive aggressive?

We only had Siamese cats with cowboy names growing up because Mark is allergic to dogs. I never realized until now how beautiful dogs are, how patient and how graceful.

I look at the letter from Mexico City on the floor, the record albums and books and wish I’d written a will leaving the albums to KPFK radio, the books, including my Anglo-Saxon dictionary, to the West Hollywood library. I’d like to burn the Happy Andy stuff but of course I am unable to light even one small candle to take away this darkness. I look wistfully at my stereo and long to hear a little Fred Neil. It’s too quiet, even here, in the world of the living, as if our presence muted sounds. It seems that the dog and I bring our own cool, weightless bubble of quietness with us wherever we go.

I’ll be lucky if my shit brother’s wife dumps my record collection at the Goodwill. More likely my stuff is destined for the Dumpster out back.

But I’m beyond luck now, good or bad, don’t you think?

And unless there are concerts in hell or wherever I am or am destined to go, Goodbye Teddy Wilson. Faretheewell, Fred Neil.