An Amateur’s Guide to Death
As I sat alone in the Brass Rail Pub, Ralph Stanley’s eerie death anthem taunted me from barroom speakers:
Well what is this, that I can’t see? With ice-cold hands taking hold of me
And they call this happy hour?
I’ll fix your feet ’til you can’t walk, I’ll lock your jaw ’til you can’t talk
These lyrics are chilling enough, but even more so the day a fellow human being nearly plugged a hole in my skull with a .45 caliber pistol.
While working for a rather seedy property management outfit, I’d had the unenviable task of evicting a drug addicted renter from his apartment. Not too thrilled with the news, he introduced me to his pistol and waved it in the general vicinity of my face. Did I sneer back with a defiant Clint Eastwood scowl? Nope. Did I attempt a John Wayne-like grab to wrestle his gun from him? Hardly. This wasn’t the movies, so, although I consider myself a rather brave individual, I fled like a chased rabbit, nearly pissing my proverbial pants as I zigzagged away to dodge the bullet that, thank God, never came.
And now Ralph Stanley was rubbing it in with his infamous death lyrics.
I’m Death, I come to take the soul, leave the body and leave it cold
My life-threatening encounter naturally triggered some thoughts of death’s consequences—thoughts ordinarily bottled up in the darkest recesses of my brain.
Had that loser actually plugged me, no doubt my loved ones would pour forth the usual consolations to justify my departure. Euphemisms ranging from the sacred,: “Erik is with the angels now,” to the rustic,: “He’s riding off into the sunset,” to the downright irreverent,: “Erik’s pushing up the daisies.” And they’d say things they never dreamt of saying while I was alive: “We’re lucky he was a part of our lives,” “He was a good example for others,” and the inevitable “Erik was loved by all.” Loved by all? I’ve scarcely been loved by half a dozen. Despite the delicate ways we try to wrap the package, death is still pretty much dead.
My head is warm, my feet are cold. Death is a’ movin’ upon my soul.
And see there? Nothing is more romanticized than death. Even as a child, I saw it less as a tragedy than a noble adventure. Indeed, in our games of cops and robbers, I became famous for my theatrical death performances. I’d clutch my chest, gaze at the heavens, and stagger for a full minute before collapsing to the dirt. After writhing with a woeful moan, I’d gasp my dramatic last words. “Get those dirty rats who shot me in the back.” Yes, death was a lot more fun back when it was a game.
For its part, Hollywood has done more than their fair share to camouflage death’s impact. A quick Google indicates they bombard us with 20,000 deaths (most of them murders) before we’re even through puberty. Daily scenes of people plunging from buildings and getting stabbed and shot can eventually lull thoughts of death into a rather ho-hum occurrence. And I’ve noticed movie deaths are never arbitrary. Good guys invariably die as a result of heroic gestures, and bad guys die at the hands of justice. Nobody spoils the plot by getting knocked off for $350 worth of back rent like I almost had.
To drop the flesh off of the frame. The Earth and worms both have a claim
Geezus, Ralph, spare us the graphic details. But that does beg the question of what will become of my mortal remains when I go. I’ve already signed on to that organ donor registry. Although I’m far from the sentimental type, I like to think my whiskey-soaked organs could provide a little boost for one of my fellow humans. Of course, if I had a say in who gets my spare parts, I’d bequeath them to world-renowned artists and scientists. I’d hate to see my liver draining the bile of a two-bit criminal, my pancreas secreting fluids through an evil dictator’s lymphatic system, or, God forbid, my heart pumping blood through the snooty veins of a Yankees fan. Nevertheless, regardless of the recipient, I guess a little of me living on is a consoling thought.
But while my spare parts are winning Nobel Prizes, the less useful bits need to be dealt with. I pondered getting a unique final send-off. The writer Hunter S. Thompson had his remains shot from a cannon. Philosopher Jeremy Bentham’s mummified head is displayed in University College London. And baseball great Ted Williams presently hangs upside down as a human popsicle in a cryogenic lab. Never the flamboyant type, however, I think I’ll choose a less exotic route in my voyage toward physical absorption: char-broiled into a tidy pile of carbon residue.
Indeed, nothing against your song Ralph, but because I’ve decided to bypass that messy, rotting away stage, worms won’t be crawling anywhere near my flesh. True, fresh corpses in funeral chambers can look downright attractive—I’ve even seen people kiss them—and after a couple of centuries, dust merging with the earth has a noble sense of eternity. It’s that unsavory, decomposing phase in between I find rather unappealing. Therefore, I’ll be taking my journey to infinity via the incinerator, going from kissable to urn-able in one fell swoop.
Well I am Death, none can excel. I’ll open the door to Heaven or Hell
You’re right, Ralph. No discussion of death could be complete without contemplating the afterlife. Like most people, I have envisioned myself someday sitting on a cloud playing the harp with Elvis. Conversely, after uttering an inadvertent “goddamn” or deducting my cat Fluffy off my taxes as a pest-control device, I find it hard not to envision that toasty alternative. And there’s that third possibility of reincarnation, transforming into anything from the King of Arabia to a Gila monster. But rather than agonizing over any of these post-mortem enigmas, I’ve decided to go along with the old folk song and ‘let the mystery be.’
Facing death also prompts a guy to contemplate his legacy—or lack thereof. No doubt my image will never grace a statue in the town square, and you won’t be reading about my dubious life in any history books. I think the long-suffering Russians got it right. They say, “Unless you’re the Czar, you’ll be forgotten after three generations.” For anyone not believing the truth in that, I kindly ask them to tell me all about their great-great-great grandparents.
I can envision one of my own descendants in the year 2200 cleaning out their attic. After dusting off my ancient portrait, they’ll glance at my forgotten image, shrug, and toss me into a box with the other unwanted knick-knacks.
My mother came to my bed. Placed a cold towel upon my head
Such depressing thoughts notwithstanding, that day’s encounter with that gun-wielding miscreant did spark some useful philosophical reflections. For billions of years, we didn’t exist, and for billions more, we won’t either. This micro-speck in between is all we got, and it ain’t a whole lot. You can spend your allotted time moping about life’s injustices, groveling before masters, and sitting on your arse watching reality TV. Or you can stare down the bullies, tackle the world’s injustices head-on, and claw through life with every last ounce of grit in your guts. Don’t be the world’s bitch. Make it yours.
Won’t you spare me over ’til another year?
Yes, Ralph, that day death indeed spared me over ’til another year.
As the singer’s chilling requiem wanes, I reviewed the flood of deliberations kindled by my near-demise: my survivors will turn my death into a cheesy social event; before long the world will forget I ever existed; chances are instead of a noble and meaningful death, I’ll wither away like a shriveled up tomato plugged into a blip-blip machine; and my ultimate fate will be as a handful of dust particles.
By the song’s end, I was weary of dwelling on this grim subject, so I threw back a shot of Wild Turkey and shook my head. If you really want to live life, there’s only one way to think about death: Don’t.
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