Milo

 

 

If you are faint of heart, that is to say; if the gates to your soul are ever so easily flooded endemic of the plight of others (as for me I'm as timid as they come), I suggest you bind these covers as they were and leave them be. Your best bet would be to find the entertainment you so seek (not to say that is indeed your aim) watching daytime television instead, or playing a board game. Or doing whatever else it is you do in your small time. A hint to the wise is quite sufficient, right? And I consider you as such. Because what I have to say here will cut you deep. It’s going to bring you grief. 

 

Well okay, so maybe that was a bit too theatrical, I’ll admit it.  And it's ironic because I'm precisely not the showman type. Due not to my lack of trying of course. As of late, I've simply come to believe that I... might just not be cut out for show business. But that’s a small matter. A minor vignette within the narrative here to be recounted. At any rate.., whether what I have to say is grievous I can’t be sure, and it’s not my aim here. That can’t possibly or entirely be the primary purpose of a narrative for one, and secondly, I loathe all things lachrymose and people who tend to make me especially icky. I’ am only telling because I believe it should be told--that I must recount it because I’m obliged to somehow. Think of it as a cautionary tale of sorts.

 

Evil is in swift advance when things seem to come to a pause, they say. What do I say? Well, I would be more concerned with what I haven't yet said. I am. And I will come to that. They also say, speaking of evil's advance that for some, those in the cross-hairs of approaching doom, that it stalls a bit, falters and linger like a bad odor, lying in wait for the leverage it needs to take a coarse course to destination ghastly. They also say the trick to that game is if you're perceptive enough you'll see the signs coming, sure enough. But if you asked me one doesn't need perception to spot a run-away omnibus, Or a self-defecating, clothe-less scythe-wielding (I say scythe, but it was more like a machete) madman running down a busy avenue screaming; my crotch is on fire! It’s not an apparent imperative I must say. The perception part I mean. In both cases mentioned. It's more of a You must! There’s no way you couldn’t if you don't want s**t on your shoes or to come away from your head with s**t on your shoes and wound up on a trip for a permanent stay to that place where the heads of the residents float, and their epidermis seemingly forms of waft, that is. You know, that place Betty White has managed to avoid going to for almost a hundred years now. I think it's fair to say that she's been, so far, rather adept at avoiding becoming road kill, not having to deal with feces-covered shoes, or losing her head. I get the feeling she's probably not a fan of going bump in the night either. Her life, there’s a good chance, will probably never be labeled a cautionary tale about missing the signs that warned of her premature demise. This is something you’ll probably say about me.

 

I' am not a ghost, or at least I think I'm not. My head does not float, and I don't go bump in the night. A cut to any part of my epidermis, you'll find, produces the same scarlet fluid that I'm sure courses too, through your veins. Well, in a matter of speaking anyways. The sight of blood makes nauseous. I get all rigid, and week at the knees like a...well it is kind of like a heightened case of epilepsy. Things get stiff. Barring that, I’m very much alive. Live and kicking.  I' am a being of fiber and substance with aims and dreams and potential and limitations. The difference between Betty White and me is that I’ve experienced the grand finale. You know.., croaked, kicked the bucket. Bought the big ticket. This is how I know the dead don’t traverse the world in which you and I reside. If you’ve ever gotten a "palm reading" from a Mrs. Cleo--or happen to have an indulgence for televised, tripod-wielding ghost hunters--where she relayed a message from your dearly departed loved one you should probably get a refund--assuming your agreement involved cash for play. And in the case of the guy fumbling around with a camcorder on your television screen, the choice is solely yours.

       

    The living cannot see the dead. And so this is not one of those stories where the phrase I see dead people will be uttered. The dead don’t walk among us, nor are they at any time trying to communicate with us. They pretty much want nothing to do with us as the movies would not have you believe. Not in that direct and tangible way you and I often need to reach out to another. But they do see us. In fact, they are constantly watching. 

    Ours is a theater of wager to them. They’re betting when you get on a flight, strap in your roller-coaster seat, or go snorkeling--every aspect of our lives literally and generally, they're betting on you getting well, let's just say a successful wager as far as they're concerned depends on you coming out seriously scathed. You’d think that after the trauma of death they’d want to be a bit more empathetic. But a distorted sense of humor aside, they’re happy where they are. A lot of them feel relief and have done away with the trappings of disillusion--they just want to drink and gamble and for some strange reason seems to dislike alliteration. I think it has something to do with the repeated performance of habits that eventually lead to their death--missing the signs in a way. Like ignoring the Surgeon General's warning and smoking a pack a day for twenty years and wounding up dead at age fifty from a cancerous lung or something to that effect. I don’t fully get the connection there, but  the dead are a strange bunch which is why I’m glad I don’t see them. Once was quite enough. I'm not so sure if that's necessarily a good thing.

 

Author's Note

Unedited.