I nominate me for free drinks all night, every night, this weekend. I nominate me for a nuru massage too. I know I know, Lent. No soda, no first-thing-in -the-morning donuts, no other such ascetic sundries, and and and. . . .no nuru massages. But, God, this last week or so that I’ve had, geezus; forgive me, please, any my future trespasses.
Because I had to finally sit my ass down and just do it. Been scrawking and scrawking about it for years now, chanting above the scrawking, “Over my dead body do you (Uncle Sam and/or Governor What’s His Face) get your grimy paws on my dead money!”
While that doesn’t exactly come out the right way, since technically I actually have to be dead for even young blood to get what’s his, you get the idea.
And what’s his is what I began working on this week. In other words, I basically thought about dying all week, and furthermore what that looks like from a nuts and bolts standpoint to whomever gets to deal with it. Young blood of course, to whom I’ve given specific permission to be an utter and total mess after my passing, so much of a mess that I’ve selected an alternate to handle the business of selling the house and cashing out this account and closing out that one to fall squarely on someone else who, say, is not a wreck. That person’s in my dead folder. And no, not a will executor. Fuck all that. Too much money. Same homie who I made specific arrangements with, also this last week, to put a round in the back of my head should all I become late in life is a financial pain in the ass. He gets to deal with my limp, bloody ass afterwards, and hold young blood by the hand. If you don’t have at least one of those homies in your corner, you’ve done something wrong in life.
“But seriously, you better be some kind of wreck after Dad moves on, else I’ll pull one of those ghost moves from that movie Ghost. Scare your ass in the middle of the night somehow, flick your phone off the charger or something. Snot, puffy eyes slurry speech are all authorized. Besides, you’re the only one who I can count on. I feel like it’s the song I’m gonna bring to pitch the gate keeper with.
And of course I’m kidding. But let’s just say you commit to being a wreck, involuntarily, I’ve taken the weight of even an obituary off your shoulders, too. It’s included here, where to post it, all that jazz. I mean, feel free to add to it.
Basically, just allow this folder to guide you through the steps, and take the thinking out of it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned putting all of this together–dying’s a lot of work.
Okay, I’m trying to be cute and funny and tough-like, but to be honest if you’re reading this right now I’m gone and that blows. What am I gonna miss not being there anymore? Now I’m getting puffy.
Enough of that, let’s get to the good stuff. What’s my dad leaving me?
It’s all right here, in dad’s dead folder. House stuff and retirement stuff and accounts and whatever you do, I mean whatever you do, make sure you’re upwind when you scatter my dusty butt across the water.”
Oh, and make sure to throw Uncle S. a few for helping you.
Ah, shit, Mom too I guess.
It’s all in the folder.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 