Josh Rosen is Still Dead by Philip Sorgen (best ereader under 100 .txt) 📕

Chapter One

It's not too often that you die. Therefore, since it's such a defining moment in your life, you should take the time to reflect and to try to understand how you came be in this hole in the ground, surrounded by all these other holes in the ground.

And how you came to be dressed in a suit you never saw before, a shirt and tie you also don't recognize and shoes a half-size too small. What went through their minds when they picked out this outfit for you?

And where's the belt? You forgot the belt!

Do you think they cared that I wasn't brought a belt? And if they did, who were they going to tell? My wife? My kids? Nah, they buttoned the jacket and it covered the top of my pants. Good enough. And, hey, did you get a good look at my face? Boy, these guys are good. I hardly ever smiled and now I'll never stop smiling. Life sure is funny.

I guess like William Holden, in "Sunset Boulevard," floating face down in Gloria Swanson's pool in that opening scene, I too, feel the compulsion to tell my story. If he could do it, so could I. Is he more important? To whom? You?
You care about William Holden? How about Gloria coming down those steps ready for her close-up? Roll the tears for both of them, but remember one thing--those two existed only on celluloid.

After you hear my story, then maybe when you whiz by me during the rush hour tomorrow morning, you'll turn off the "happy news" and the "traffic and weather together," and you'll open your window, let some cool air into your cocoon, glance my way and think about me for a moment or two.

Honestly, did you ever notice those iron gates alongside the service road of the expressway? You know which ones, but I'll bet you turned away because you saw those stones behind those gates, didn't you? Yeah, those irregular, discolored teeth, protruding from the gums of the earth. They reminded you of something, didn't they?

Come on, get out the Blackberry; look down the "to do" list of yours. See that last entry? Tell me. I'm waiting. What's it say? You know as well as I do what it says but you hope never to get to that little item. One day, like me, you'll check that one off and maybe you'll wish you told your story before your batteries ran out.

Perhaps I’m being to strident, too harsh. After all, you finally had it out with your wife this morning. And with your rotten, no-good kids too. Perhaps it's Klein on your mind. Why won't he sign the damn contract already? Why does he get his jollies from jerking you around? Now you can understand the Brady bill.

Or maybe it's the flight to Tampa clouding your brain. It's not so much the new house, or the transfer, or the larger mortgage or starting the whole thing over again with new people. No, it's not the relocation process if you really think about it. It's the flight. That's right...the flight...the plane. Indeed!

It could be. Why not? Don't you hate to fly? I did, and there are thousands like me. Rational human beings don’t believe or trust the laws of physics.

Also, it's the routine: getting to Kennedy, dropping off the car, checking in the bag, running down endless corridors trying to make the connections, hearing that soft feminine voice over the P.A. system even in the men's room, and then craning your neck and focusing your eyes to see the T.V. monitors ordering you to gate 6 or to gate 8 or worse, flashing "Delayed, Delayed."

Of course, it doesn't help to be packed into an aluminum tube which you know will be hurling down the runway at what, 150, 175? Then you'll leap into the air helped by all your traveling companions who are gripping their armrests and helping the pilot pull that tube up, up, up.

Maybe that's really what's on your mind this morning. Not your wife, not your kids, not the contract or the new house or the new job.

I'm certainly not on your mind. You don't even know me.

But now, from JFK, you're going to bank over Springfield Boulevard, and me, and marvel that you're once again angled skyward, climbing to cruising altitude. What the hell keeps this thing up? You're not dumb. What was it about airflow and lift and the Bernoulli Principle? Who can remember? Bring me my drink already and let me stop thinking that I'm betting my life on some mechanic who had a fight with his wife and his rotten kids.

How about that pretty young thing on the screen who now demands your attention. What the hell does she want? Ah, you know. She wants to assure you that the life preserver you presume is under your seat is really under your seat. And, she wants you to know that it works. In fact, if you pull the little cord, a little bulb will light the way to your body bobbing up and down in the ocean below. So. Do you reach under the seat and check to see if she's telling you the truth? Nah, would TWA or Delta or American lie to you? By the way, did you know that your seat cushion is a flotation device? Of course, most of your flights take you over Nebraska and Iowa so they won’t come in too handy.

Her soothing voice can be heard over the whine of the engines which are now straining to get you in the air and keep you there so you won't have to use your little bulb. She's also telling you about those oxygen masks, which will fall automatically from the overhead compartment when the cabin pressure drops.

Hey, why would the cabin pressure drop?

Something else to consider, right?

Were those people on TWA 800 listening to this same spiel when that tube blew apart? Did their masks fall as advertised? Did they have a chance to don their orange jackets and look for the little cord to light the little bulb? Or did they simply scream at the top of their lungs as they fell 13,000 feet into the ocean below? Just a thought.

But why so morbid? Even in my situation, I can see that you aren't that stressed. In fact, you're a happy person. An optimist, so to speak. It won't fall from the sky. The masks will drop if needed and the jacket will be stowed exactly where she said it would be. Anyway, you'll never need it. And if you did, the batteries to light the little bulbs were definitely checked out during normal, routine maintenance by the conscientious mechanic.

Right?

You will walk away from this. Haven't you always? Even when you hit that clear air turbulence last time, you had faith in the pilot. He didn't sound worried at all. You will fly again. You will land safely. It does happen you know. Every day.

And if you're not a naturally happy person, then it could be that you're a pharmaceutically happy person. That's really none of my business. A few red pills, a few blue pills, and all's right with he world. Same smile, right?

Maybe the sun's out, the traffic's light, the contract's signed, the sex was good, and the kids came home in one piece. To top it all off,
the stock tip panned out, and your brother Ernie and his wife called off their visit. That could also have happened. What could be better?

How about having a wonderful wife, wonderful kids, a rewarding teaching job (with tenure), a new summer condo on the North Fork and enough money in the bank to retire anytime I wanted to?

So, what am I doing here?

I'm 58 and in perfect health...except my heart isn't beating anymore and my brain waves seem to be leveling off.

Awkward, isn't it?

This voice that you hear, this low register, 20 decibel voice, is mine. Sure, it's disembodied but it's still there. Hear it? Please...clear you mind, lean back and read on. However, be forewarned that there are no F-18's in this one. No crazed terrorists hijacking submarines or airplanes. No thermonuclear countdowns to Armegeddon here at all.

Nope, this will be just a little story about nobody in particular.

It's my story but with a little bit of imagination, it could be yours as well. Maybe that's good and you'll laugh with recognition. Then again, maybe it's not and you'll laugh with relief.

We'll see.

By the way, my name’s Josh Rosen.

Pleased to meet you.

Publication Date: 08-06-2010

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