were fiercely glamorous to me . I would trundle Aurora to school, then take the Metrolink train downtown. See, we do have transport in L.A., as long as you’re going at least eighty miles .
During these halcyon days, one morning I got a call. It was Tanya, who had had the temerity , years ago, to move to Northern Cal . For this, she is unforgiven. She told me something distressing : her childhood friend Greg, whom I’d known for thirty years, was ill with pancreatic cancer. He didn’t have much longer.
I visited Greg that weekend, meeting Tanya at his immaculate Silver Lake condo . He had had his share of tragedy: a massive heart attack in his forties brought on by a lawsuit from America’s Favorite Mouse . Greg had been in the right, but Brazil -like hordes of lawyers had run him down . He’d felt the magic all right – right in the . . .
“Greg.” I sat in a chair by his bedside, trying not to look shocked at his gauntness. His head seemed twice its size on a shrunken, pajama-draped body. Tanya brought in McDonalds, since that’s what he was craving. He took a few small bites. “Do you believe in an afterlife?”
“Not really. I think it’s a construct to keep the masses from desperation.” Greg was really smart.
“I do. I’m like a Medieval peasant, hoping for a better world in the next.”
He smiled, putting his Big Mac down.
“Listen, I want to ask you a favor. If you can, from the other side, could you please show me a sign? Anything. I just want to know there’s something beyond this misery.”
“ Sure, if I can .” Greg was a nice guy.
I was shocked two weeks later when I heard again from Tanya . Greg didn’t have much longer.
“Jesus, we were just eating fries together!” I re-directed my car, not using GPS for some reason. I was so flustered I went the wrong way on the 5, heading toward the wilderness of Santa Clarita.
“Hey, it’s me.” Tanya’s voice on the phone. “You don’t have to come. He’s passed.”
“I still want to.” I righted my course, walking from the condo parking lot to Greg’s nicely carved white door. Tanya was there with her sister Mara. Twenty years ago, I’d seen her baby being born.
“Birth and death,” I told her .
I went softly into Greg’s bedroom. He was still there, in the bed. Have you ever seen a corpse outside a funeral home ? This was my first time. His eyes were still open, and he clutched the blankets with both bony hands. His jaw hung slackly and unnaturally open. This was the true face of death: not the Hollywood version.
“Greg, my old friend,” I whispered. “You’re in a better place, trust me. One without any lawyers .” I walked out, into the foyer, between Greg’ s room and another where Tanya and her family grieved . I stood there like The Fisher King, suspended between life and death . Instinctively, I looked up to the eaves of the condo. I’d read that this is where the soul, newly freed from heavy flesh, floats to meet its fellows, staring down at its cast-off shell in wonder .
The mortuary came for the body. Two guys expertly shrouded it in winding cloth. I gave the stretcher an escort to the door in silent tribute to my friend. He was my age and he was gone. Smart, creative Greg was gone, but roug es and villains abounded . This was God’s judgment that passeth all understanding. At least to those of us on this stultified plane.
###
Three months later, I was driving the truck at night, Aurora and David in the back. We were on the Ventura West, heading home to Canoga Park. Suddenly, David yelled .
“Whoa! What’s that on your face?”
“What?”
“Aurora! There are words across your face! I think that one of them says ‘sorry.’”
I glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was nothing on the freeway that could have reflected light; no electronic device switched on in the truck.
“What was it?”
“I know.” My voice was quiet and low.
“Greg?” Aurora piped up. She knew about our last
During these halcyon days, one morning I got a call. It was Tanya, who had had the temerity , years ago, to move to Northern Cal . For this, she is unforgiven. She told me something distressing : her childhood friend Greg, whom I’d known for thirty years, was ill with pancreatic cancer. He didn’t have much longer.
I visited Greg that weekend, meeting Tanya at his immaculate Silver Lake condo . He had had his share of tragedy: a massive heart attack in his forties brought on by a lawsuit from America’s Favorite Mouse . Greg had been in the right, but Brazil -like hordes of lawyers had run him down . He’d felt the magic all right – right in the . . .
“Greg.” I sat in a chair by his bedside, trying not to look shocked at his gauntness. His head seemed twice its size on a shrunken, pajama-draped body. Tanya brought in McDonalds, since that’s what he was craving. He took a few small bites. “Do you believe in an afterlife?”
“Not really. I think it’s a construct to keep the masses from desperation.” Greg was really smart.
“I do. I’m like a Medieval peasant, hoping for a better world in the next.”
He smiled, putting his Big Mac down.
“Listen, I want to ask you a favor. If you can, from the other side, could you please show me a sign? Anything. I just want to know there’s something beyond this misery.”
“ Sure, if I can .” Greg was a nice guy.
I was shocked two weeks later when I heard again from Tanya . Greg didn’t have much longer.
“Jesus, we were just eating fries together!” I re-directed my car, not using GPS for some reason. I was so flustered I went the wrong way on the 5, heading toward the wilderness of Santa Clarita.
“Hey, it’s me.” Tanya’s voice on the phone. “You don’t have to come. He’s passed.”
“I still want to.” I righted my course, walking from the condo parking lot to Greg’s nicely carved white door. Tanya was there with her sister Mara. Twenty years ago, I’d seen her baby being born.
“Birth and death,” I told her .
I went softly into Greg’s bedroom. He was still there, in the bed. Have you ever seen a corpse outside a funeral home ? This was my first time. His eyes were still open, and he clutched the blankets with both bony hands. His jaw hung slackly and unnaturally open. This was the true face of death: not the Hollywood version.
“Greg, my old friend,” I whispered. “You’re in a better place, trust me. One without any lawyers .” I walked out, into the foyer, between Greg’ s room and another where Tanya and her family grieved . I stood there like The Fisher King, suspended between life and death . Instinctively, I looked up to the eaves of the condo. I’d read that this is where the soul, newly freed from heavy flesh, floats to meet its fellows, staring down at its cast-off shell in wonder .
The mortuary came for the body. Two guys expertly shrouded it in winding cloth. I gave the stretcher an escort to the door in silent tribute to my friend. He was my age and he was gone. Smart, creative Greg was gone, but roug es and villains abounded . This was God’s judgment that passeth all understanding. At least to those of us on this stultified plane.
###
Three months later, I was driving the truck at night, Aurora and David in the back. We were on the Ventura West, heading home to Canoga Park. Suddenly, David yelled .
“Whoa! What’s that on your face?”
“What?”
“Aurora! There are words across your face! I think that one of them says ‘sorry.’”
I glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was nothing on the freeway that could have reflected light; no electronic device switched on in the truck.
“What was it?”
“I know.” My voice was quiet and low.
“Greg?” Aurora piped up. She knew about our last
Similar Books
