Maurice
It's Monday. I guess I've been gone for a few months now. This was supposed to start in a different way, I dreamt the opening passage up before falling asleep. I promised myself I wouldn't forget it, it was so good.
I just remembered, just now, that I forgot.
Hold on:
I own a luxury bed and breakfast. My name is Maurice. An ugly name. I know I sound immature, but in reality, I am, or was, 76 years of age. I died in quite an interesting way. I poured frigid water into an over heated coffee pot. The pot exploded. This wouldn't have been too harsh of a nuisance, save for the fact that one bitter shard decided to slice into my arm. A vital artery, in fact. I died shortly thereafter.
If not then, I would have died a week later from an untimely fishing incident.
If not then, months later, liver or kidney failure would have prevailed.
And if not then, I would have been put rather off my guard a few years coming, by a toddler jumping off a swing into the sand.
My balance isn't what it used to be, and the same goes for my hips.
Older people generally have hips rigid as tissue paper.
When it breaks, it's all over for us.
Seriously, any one of these calamities could have taken me. I know, because I asked.
I always knew my time would come in a way as unsurprising as yellow mustard, or Al Gore. Possibly deep down, I would have better enjoyed a death likened to the color of fire engine red, but I received taupe instead. I never experimented with drugs, so an overdose was implausible. I'm a quiet and reserved man, so an unnatural freak accident would be hard to come by; nope, I always knew it would be a blip in life that took me down.
I was never afraid of coffee pots, or glass, or hot or cold water. So if you have an unnatural and inconsolable fear of something, don't go thinking it's because that object is supposed to be the death of you. By high coincidence, maybe, a large and bulky painting will fall off the wall of a museum you're visiting, and it may hit you squarely on the head, giving you a contusion and a handshake with the reaper. Your family will comment about how you always hated paintings, since you were a tiny child, you were afraid of the way they looked at you. Odds are, you're going to fly through the windshield of your Sedan. Probably.
Wait, wait wait. I had people in my life. A wife, a son, a niece. One peculiar little boy who visited me often, he liked to squirt ketchup all over my counters. I think of the four, I consider him the most important to me, regardless of the grimy fingers and incapability to understand my grown up talk.
Does it make you anxious, when I tell you to wait, or hold on? If it does, I'm sorry. I'll try to do it less but I can make no promises. I'm an antsy man, and I've got something to say. It won't be too important, and you'll remain unchanged once I've sent my message. But still, wouldn't it be nice to spend some time together?
Understand this first:
I'm still living on Earth. In my bed and breakfast actually. It's funny, if I wave my arms and yell gibberish, everyone goes about their business. I thought at first, maybe the little boy would be able to speak with me, like in the movies. I quickly realized this wasn't going to work, and oddly enough, felt embarrassed. No one saw me go red. I still talk to them anyways.
"Morning Clara. Don't let those lines bother you. You look as beautiful as you did on the day we married. Stop picking at yourself! Get a move on! You're wasting the day!"
"I'm so, so old."
"Don't whine dear,"
"Harvey, I wish I named you something different. By the way, you're cell phone is ringing."
"Hey man, I need a gram."
"That's the spirit son."
"Laura, you're such a beautiful girl."
Silence.
Laura doesn't like to speak very much. I'm sure it's just a phase.
"Mickey, that's quite the sweet tooth you've got there. Start eating meat champ, that's the way to go! Protein is good for the soul boy."
I just remembered, just now, that I forgot.
Hold on:
I own a luxury bed and breakfast. My name is Maurice. An ugly name. I know I sound immature, but in reality, I am, or was, 76 years of age. I died in quite an interesting way. I poured frigid water into an over heated coffee pot. The pot exploded. This wouldn't have been too harsh of a nuisance, save for the fact that one bitter shard decided to slice into my arm. A vital artery, in fact. I died shortly thereafter.
If not then, I would have died a week later from an untimely fishing incident.
If not then, months later, liver or kidney failure would have prevailed.
And if not then, I would have been put rather off my guard a few years coming, by a toddler jumping off a swing into the sand.
My balance isn't what it used to be, and the same goes for my hips.
Older people generally have hips rigid as tissue paper.
When it breaks, it's all over for us.
Seriously, any one of these calamities could have taken me. I know, because I asked.
I always knew my time would come in a way as unsurprising as yellow mustard, or Al Gore. Possibly deep down, I would have better enjoyed a death likened to the color of fire engine red, but I received taupe instead. I never experimented with drugs, so an overdose was implausible. I'm a quiet and reserved man, so an unnatural freak accident would be hard to come by; nope, I always knew it would be a blip in life that took me down.
I was never afraid of coffee pots, or glass, or hot or cold water. So if you have an unnatural and inconsolable fear of something, don't go thinking it's because that object is supposed to be the death of you. By high coincidence, maybe, a large and bulky painting will fall off the wall of a museum you're visiting, and it may hit you squarely on the head, giving you a contusion and a handshake with the reaper. Your family will comment about how you always hated paintings, since you were a tiny child, you were afraid of the way they looked at you. Odds are, you're going to fly through the windshield of your Sedan. Probably.
Wait, wait wait. I had people in my life. A wife, a son, a niece. One peculiar little boy who visited me often, he liked to squirt ketchup all over my counters. I think of the four, I consider him the most important to me, regardless of the grimy fingers and incapability to understand my grown up talk.
Does it make you anxious, when I tell you to wait, or hold on? If it does, I'm sorry. I'll try to do it less but I can make no promises. I'm an antsy man, and I've got something to say. It won't be too important, and you'll remain unchanged once I've sent my message. But still, wouldn't it be nice to spend some time together?
Understand this first:
I'm still living on Earth. In my bed and breakfast actually. It's funny, if I wave my arms and yell gibberish, everyone goes about their business. I thought at first, maybe the little boy would be able to speak with me, like in the movies. I quickly realized this wasn't going to work, and oddly enough, felt embarrassed. No one saw me go red. I still talk to them anyways.
"Morning Clara. Don't let those lines bother you. You look as beautiful as you did on the day we married. Stop picking at yourself! Get a move on! You're wasting the day!"
"I'm so, so old."
"Don't whine dear,"
"Harvey, I wish I named you something different. By the way, you're cell phone is ringing."
"Hey man, I need a gram."
"That's the spirit son."
"Laura, you're such a beautiful girl."
Silence.
Laura doesn't like to speak very much. I'm sure it's just a phase.
"Mickey, that's quite the sweet tooth you've got there. Start eating meat champ, that's the way to go! Protein is good for the soul boy."