…is to manage the crime scene.
Which is pretty frickin’ weird, right? I mean, sure, make sure the boys are all right. I can do that by opening the door so they have access to water, and spilling their big bag of food with my dying spasm. No big deal. But what do I have around here that’s incriminating and/or embarrassing?
You wonder why I care about incrimination? I’ll be dead, right? The most overreaching government in the world can’t punish me after I’m dead. No, but that’s not the way it works. I remember five years ago when T died. Cops were all over the place. Warrants meant nothing. As far as they were concerned they had a free pass, because that dead body over there needed to be explained. And the Secret Lair isn’t on my property, it’s on property that belongs to somebody I care about, somebody I don’t want to bring trouble. If I croaked and the cops found a meth lab in the kitchen, there’d still be somebody around to bust.
As it happens I’m aware of that, and “don’t do indictable things on a friend’s property” is just one of my little rules. So incrimination wasn’t an issue, as the pain mounted and the breath left my body. But what about embarrassment? Do I want my friends to find my rotting corpse surrounded by my collection of My Little Pony figurines? Or Objectivist porn? Or just a big squalid mess?
I was in no condition to give the Lair a good cleaning, so it’s fortunate I’d just scrubbed the toilet on Saturday. And my friends know I’m not Mr. Clean anyway. But still: It’s the sort of existential issue you don’t want to have to deal with when all your attention is already taken up by writhing on the floor. Somebody said, “Live every minute as if it’s your last.” I consider those words to live by, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t what the guy who said it had in mind. If I die in the next few moments, what sort of impression will I leave in the minds of the people whose opinion means something to me? How much of the impression I hope they already have of me, is false?
It’s a very interesting gut check, being helpless, thinking you might be dying. I lay there mentally inventorying the Lair, and I found to my mild satisfaction that the person I want them to think I am is pretty much the person I actually am. If I fell over dead that minute, sorting through my possessions and documents would bring no unpleasant revelations.
Except that I’m a little more into Enya than might seem quite right.
A friend died recently. We found things out about him we really didn’t want to. Not horrible things, just… well….not how you wanna see your bros. So yeah, valid thinking to wanna keep your image even unto death, I say. That and I like Enya a background noise, too.
In one of his novels Chuck Palahniuk brings up the idea of a “porn buddy”. Someone with a key to your house and a detailed description of just where exactly those Enya CDs are hidden in case you happen to die suddenly. Sounds like you don’t need one but I always thought it was an interesting concept.
In addition… thinking about this might be good incentive to get up and go drink another glass of water… 🙂 Motivation comes in strange ways sometimes.
Say, do you have one of those “camelback” pack things to carry water when you are working outside? I’ll bet you don’t. Maybe we need to get you one, pronto.
I’ve been there a couple of times (really thinking it might be Check-Out Time–with good reason, not hypochondriacal bullshit). I don’t know if it’s comforting or worrying that I feel the same way. Maybe I ought to get rid of that Bangles CD: as for the Al Stewart, scroom, that’s how I roll. The Big Joe Turner I’ll be proud to leave; it might be educational (not to mention my VHS of Caligula). Not to mention WIzards…
Not that I wish to further encourage plans for dying – but the flip side of that is what you DIDN’T leave that you should have. I often think I should write down some kind of thank you and I appreciate whatever note to leave behind for whomever to find.
Never have gotten around to doing it, either.