The Death of Lou Grant

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The Death of Lou Grant

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I am a corpse.

In a lounge chair.

On the outskirts of the American Empire.

On the ledge of a small blue planet.

In the suburbs of the Milky Way.

During the first days of the third Millennium.

There is a cat above me, walking along the telephone wire like a trapeze artist. Its tail like a balance bar. I wish I had a camera. Never seen a cat do that. Maybe she thinks she is a squirrel.

There is a lawnmower two houses down. Blasting out music. I swear. It sounds like a new Bob Dylan song. One I’ve never heard. There is no mistaking the great bards vocal tones. Now, that is a sweet treat. I love that boy. Can’t think of him as a grown man. When you think of it, he’s like me. An invention.

Sweat is rolling off my forehead. Into my eyes. I can’t move. It burns.

I shouldn’t have bothered to mow the lawn. Perhaps that brought on my stroke. But the grass was so long. I hope they don’t manicure my face before they place me on public display. I was never a handsome and was proud of it. I don’t want to be painted up. To look like one of Picasso’s blue women.

My fingers tingle. The muscles on my arms and legs are flaccid. I have a craving for bacon. And scrambled eggs and sausage. On toast. The American kitchen invented the stroke.

The machinery of my existence is breaking down. Like the sound of that. Machinery of existence. You think maybe that God was Henry Ford. Weren’t we all born on the assembly line. History.

My bowels are relaxing. A pool is spreading out from my crotch. There is no feeling in my legs. The muscles on my arms are twitching. By themselves. Like something is trying to get out. Throat has dried up. My tongue races around in my mouth like some creature caught in the jaws of a steel trap. My arteries are expanding like inner tubes ready to burst. My veins turning brittle. Popping like lights on a Christmas tree. The panic of stillness.

My Absolute Moment is coming to fruition. Think about that. I’m going to see my maker. A group of writers at Warner Brothers. Most of them are dead. Or the next closest thing. Unknown.

I’m not ready. This is not a good time. I still have payments to make on the house. I was losing weight. I stopped drinking. Not all at once. And I was trying not to think about sex every five minutes. My voting habits were becoming more conservative. I voted for Mayor Anderson and his recent crusade against pornography. I supported the movement to have cats put on leashes and bicycle helmets made mandatory equipment for cyclists. And a women’s rights to choose. I can’t seem to stop talking. Inside my head. Jesus, its like a town counsel meeting.

I’m laying here looking at God straight in the eyes. God has a receding chin. No wonder he’s always wearing a beard. And he has very little personality. God is a chartered accountant. He keeps two sets of books. (He works for the mob as an enforcer. God is the original Murder Incorporated.)

God is a publisher with a musty smelling manuscript getting wet in his lap. Sitting in an Adirondack chair at his cottage. In the rain. The ink is starting to run. And he has to read quickly. I am looking my creator straight in the eyes and I have a story.