I stepped off the plane last night, and the cold crept through the zipper of my jacket that I spent a whole paycheck on, and that does little to keep out the death jumping off the Hudson. I tucked my chin into my chest and whispered, “Ffffffffuck,” into my collar.
Despite the harshness of the cold, I was thankful for its honesty. I had arrived from a colder place, where frigidity results from stagnancy and cynicism more so than any weather pattern, and which is perhaps exacerbated by the guilt I carry for not wishing to indulge it. I do not feel warm where I once did.
When I returned to my apartment, I left my bag at the door and kicked off my boots. My sweaty, travel feet steamed on the floor, and I tiptoed to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the Coors Banquet tallboy hidden behind the expired milk jug. The fridge was warmer than the apartment. I turned on the heat and then took the beer to the corner of the apartment, where Arty and I stuck our desks and piled our books.
I sat down, and the beer can went glug-glug and then clank on the desk. I dug my fingers into my temples and tried to wring Virginia from my brain. I needed a hug, but Arty was still down South somewhere warm. I reached over to her desk and grabbed this one picture she keeps there.
In the picture, Arty must be two or three years old. She is towheaded, with a navy blue bow in her hair, stomping through some yard in Georgia or South Carolina. She’s wearing a diaper and pink sandals, and her little baby belly is pulling her towards the camera. The look on her face suggests she still remembers the galaxy she arrived from but does not long for it, for she is fascinated by what is in front of her. A pine tree is behind her, and prickly brown grass is beneath her feet. She’s holding her right hand out towards the camera and has her left thumb tucked in the band of her diaper. She is warm. She is going somewhere.
I can’t help but think about dying when I look at the picture—a warm death, but death nonetheless. Arty says I think about death too much. She is correct, but I am unsure how else I am supposed to maintain such a cheery disposition. I think about warm things too, like rainbows and pancakes.
In fact, on the last warm day in October, Arty and I discussed what we want to happen to our bodies when we die. Arty said she really didn’t want to be burned. I said I didn’t want to be burned either unless it was something dramatic or terribly inconvenient, like one of those Viking funeral pyres.
After our conversation, I walked around the Lower East Side and stared at all the rat pancakes on the asphalt. That’s what happens when critters die here. They get run over by cars, stepped on, rained on, pecked at, and so forth. Then, eventually, they turn into gunky pancakes in the street.
While I walked around the city and looked at all those rat pancakes, pigeon pancakes, and squirrel pancakes, my stomach sank. I thought, shit, I hadn’t considered becoming a pancake! I should tell Arty I want to be a pancake. God, please don’t let me die before I tell Arty that I want to be a pancake.
I pulled my phone out to text Arty to get my wishes in writing. I walked with my head down and typed with panic. Hey, I know I said I wanted to go in a pine box, but ...
I bumped into the back of this old guy, staring at the sky. He was so still, so close to becoming a pancake. I walked around him and started typing again ... I think I want ...
A young girl in front of me stopped walking. I saw her before I ran into her, thanks to her sparkly, pink pony backpack. She held her sister’s hand, and they looked at the sky.
To be...
Two guys on a moped hopped up onto the sidewalk. The one driving cut off the engine and said to the guy on the back, “Holy shit! Do you see that?”
The guy on the back said, “Yeah, that shit is beautiful, bro.”
Then the guy in front said, “Goddamn. I’ve never seen something like that.”
The guy on the back got excited and proud and asked, “Is this your first rainbow, bro?”
Then the guy in front nodded, and they just sat there and looked at the rainbow together.
I stopped walking and looked around me. Everyone was looking up, staring at the rainbow. No one was thinking about what to do with their dead bodies. We were not pancakes yet.
Anyhow, it is cold now, but it won’t be forever. The apartment is empty, but it won’t be soon. Virginia is where I’m from, but it is not my job to heat. I am going places, and I have my own bones to warm.
Hello, world.
This is some great writing, Daisy. And I think IHOP should pivot to a mortuary.
I just reread this. I look forward to your posts and even reread them. You are such a good writer.