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They called his death a passive suicide, which I guess just meant he regularly shot enough heroin to kill him or whatever.
“There are rumors that I have a kid from when I was eighteen, but I doubt it.”
“Know anything of the kid? He’d be an adult by now.”
“No. Never seen ’em. Other possible dad is Samoan.”
“Seems simple, then. The kid looks Samoan or it doesn’t.”
“Never met the kid.”
“You mean you never met that half Samoan bastard.”
“Exactly.”
He was in an accident when he was young. The car totaled, T boned on his side when his mom ran a red light. Bones shattered, a nerve somewhere in him severed, and he’d walked through life with an awkward stride and the strange inability to sweat from one side of his body.
“The Navy told me I was immune to most VDs because I never got the herb from my wife.”
“That sounds like something I might believe until I thought about it.”
“She told me she had the herb the day before we got married. Whilst in her.”
“Never much liked her.”
“You aren’t the only one. Last I heard she has half a dozen kids, not one with the same father.”
“What the fuck’s the herb?”
His job in the Navy was to predict accidents before they happened, which led to the cosmic nihilistic belief that in a long enough timeline all things will go wrong, that chaos is order and order is chaos.
“My stomach is bad, I’ve been puking a lot of brown slug lately. I have no feeling in two fingers.”
“What’d the doctor say?”
“I haven’t trusted VA doctors since they left me bleeding out in pain for four months after my vasectomy.”
“Where was the blood coming from? The incision? Like, you had to dab the area a little bit?”
“Like swollen but having to push blood out of two holes in my sack to reduce the pressure. I got fucking mangled. Funny thing is, it’s only been butt stuff since.”
“If nothing else gets you, the irony will.”
He sold the antique swiss army knife his grandfather carried through WWII to buy the heroin that killed him.
“The way I see it, you will always survive just to experience torment. All I want is to work and live.”
“Cest la vie.”
He had a unique odor because the side of his body that was able to sweat overcompensated for the side that wasn’t, and if I could go back in time I wouldn’t save him, just steal back his grandfather’s swiss army knife and scrape his skin of oils and process them into a perfume I could spritze onto my clothes every morning as a reminder of all the important questions I have of absolutely no merit.
“When I die, put my body in a dumpster, light it on fire and push it down a steep hill into heavy traffic.”
“We’ll call it a Pennsylvania viking funeral.”
“I figure it’s the only funeral where everyone gets to wear ski masks.”
“We’ll run, if we have to.”
But all he got was a boring ass military funeral, buried under a flat headstone that I have never seen.
