Final States
“Sure, go ahead and toss me into the drink, I don’t care.”
That was Guy talking. Guy is a middle-aged Jewish guy spared from baldness only by a tenacious scalp of wispy black peach fuzz. And with his slight but noticeable paunch, round nose, spectacles and biker boots, he rather resembles the fastest oversized elf on two wheels.
Guy lived much of his earlier life in South Africa, after which he relocated to Israel for a number of years and then to the States. He’s someone you can’t help but tease, but who seems to thrive on the attention and often dishes it out before anyone else does – like painting a target on your back and shouting “Bring it on!”
Luckily for him, besides being articulate and witty, Guy’s immensely likeable. And his laugh is, unfortunately, infectious.
“Feeding me to the sharks is fine” he continued. “I wouldn’t know the difference.”
In Israel, according to Guy, they don’t use coffins. They just roll you up in a sheet, and then they dump you in the ground. The lucky ones get an undershirt and a pair of shorts.
It was about time I showed I was still paying attention. “I suppose that beats shelling out three grand for the Regency copper deluxe, with the quilted double lining for that extra layer of comfort.” Ergonomic coffins weren’t in vogue yet, but considering the American marketing mentality lately, it was only a matter of time.
“Actually, I’m going to fry,” Guy responded, triggering disturbing memories from a scene in The Green Mile and making me cringe. Guy’s humor was atrocious, true, but no one deserved that sort of punishment.
“You mean they’re going to bring you home in an urn and put you on the mantel,” I clarified after a moment.
“Actually, they’re going to take me out and scatter me in the water.” When I asked him if he had a place in mind, he shrugged. “The Gulf Stream, probably.”
Did I forget to mention that Guy loves to travel?
“It just wouldn’t be fair to the kids,” he continued. “What if I’m buried in Oshkosh and they want to move to Shangri-la? Every twenty years they’ll be doing a world pilgrimage simply out of guilt, to dump a few flowers on my grave, and then go home.
“But it’s more than that,” he finished, suddenly serious. “I don’t want to be tied down to one spot. I want them to be able to walk down the street, and maybe see a father with his kid, and think to themselves, ‘Hey, I remember my dad doing that with me.’ I want to be a part of them. I want them to know I’m always with them.”
Silence. After all, this isn’t exactly your typical cubicle conversation during a programming break.
“Have you ever considered freeze-drying?” I said eventually. “They’ve had wonderful successes with pets. Maybe your kids could have you put in a nice pose in the corner of the living room, and when their friends come over and jump right out of their skin, they’ll say, ‘Oh, that’s just Dad.’ You’ll never be alone, I’m sure they’ll hang lots of coats on you.”
Guy didn’t bite on the freeze-dry idea, nor was he keen on having his ashes mixed with ink and used to print a complete issue run of a Marvel comic book (something which, I’m amazed to say, has already happened once).
But you see, Guy’s really not much for hard copy. He’s too much of a talker. He’s always been an audio book guy.
That was Guy talking. Guy is a middle-aged Jewish guy spared from baldness only by a tenacious scalp of wispy black peach fuzz. And with his slight but noticeable paunch, round nose, spectacles and biker boots, he rather resembles the fastest oversized elf on two wheels.
Guy lived much of his earlier life in South Africa, after which he relocated to Israel for a number of years and then to the States. He’s someone you can’t help but tease, but who seems to thrive on the attention and often dishes it out before anyone else does – like painting a target on your back and shouting “Bring it on!”
Luckily for him, besides being articulate and witty, Guy’s immensely likeable. And his laugh is, unfortunately, infectious.
“Feeding me to the sharks is fine” he continued. “I wouldn’t know the difference.”
In Israel, according to Guy, they don’t use coffins. They just roll you up in a sheet, and then they dump you in the ground. The lucky ones get an undershirt and a pair of shorts.
It was about time I showed I was still paying attention. “I suppose that beats shelling out three grand for the Regency copper deluxe, with the quilted double lining for that extra layer of comfort.” Ergonomic coffins weren’t in vogue yet, but considering the American marketing mentality lately, it was only a matter of time.
“Actually, I’m going to fry,” Guy responded, triggering disturbing memories from a scene in The Green Mile and making me cringe. Guy’s humor was atrocious, true, but no one deserved that sort of punishment.
“You mean they’re going to bring you home in an urn and put you on the mantel,” I clarified after a moment.
“Actually, they’re going to take me out and scatter me in the water.” When I asked him if he had a place in mind, he shrugged. “The Gulf Stream, probably.”
Did I forget to mention that Guy loves to travel?
“It just wouldn’t be fair to the kids,” he continued. “What if I’m buried in Oshkosh and they want to move to Shangri-la? Every twenty years they’ll be doing a world pilgrimage simply out of guilt, to dump a few flowers on my grave, and then go home.
“But it’s more than that,” he finished, suddenly serious. “I don’t want to be tied down to one spot. I want them to be able to walk down the street, and maybe see a father with his kid, and think to themselves, ‘Hey, I remember my dad doing that with me.’ I want to be a part of them. I want them to know I’m always with them.”
Silence. After all, this isn’t exactly your typical cubicle conversation during a programming break.
“Have you ever considered freeze-drying?” I said eventually. “They’ve had wonderful successes with pets. Maybe your kids could have you put in a nice pose in the corner of the living room, and when their friends come over and jump right out of their skin, they’ll say, ‘Oh, that’s just Dad.’ You’ll never be alone, I’m sure they’ll hang lots of coats on you.”
Guy didn’t bite on the freeze-dry idea, nor was he keen on having his ashes mixed with ink and used to print a complete issue run of a Marvel comic book (something which, I’m amazed to say, has already happened once).
But you see, Guy’s really not much for hard copy. He’s too much of a talker. He’s always been an audio book guy.
posted by Fortunato at 12:51 PM
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