— by Wallace Thatcher Hogg 1842-1929

(as dictated to Harmony Rae, psychic medium, clairaudient)

I wish to state right from the start: I completely and without reservation wish I wasn’t dead. If I had been aware of what death would feel like, I would have fought harder to stay alive. Sure, the last few years of my life, I went around saying things like, “I can die now” or “I’m ready to meet my Maker.” Poppycock! What was I thinking?

First and foremost, there is no “Maker.” I don’t know who conceived the notion of mansions, streets paved with gold, or angels strumming harps on fluffy clouds, but let me assure you, it’s horseshit. Hell, I haven’t seen a cloud since 1929! The reality is, you’re buried in a pine box, and that’s the end of it. No music, no clouds, no angels. Just you and the darkness. And let me emphasize: this darkness is unlike anything you’ve ever encountered. You could light a torch, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Not that I have a torch. Or hands to hold one, for that matter.

I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat, if I still had one. What I wouldn’t give for anything that beats, pounds, or throbs. This place is too quiet, too dark, and the smell… Good God, the smell! I hate to admit it, but I think I’m the source of it. And it was much worse those first few years, especially with the farting. Did you know corpses fart? Oh yes, decomposition gases. It’s absolutely revolting. And don’t let anyone tell you “your own farts don’t stink.” Those people clearly haven’t been dead. Or farted.

Now, you might be thinking, “Well, at least you can catch up on sleep.” But let me stop you right there. Sure, it might feel like a twelve-year nap at first. However, you wake up with an itch on your face, and guess what? You can’t move your hands to scratch it. It’s absolute torture. Although, now that I think of it, eye weevils are even worse. Nobody warns you about those little bastards. In the first 24 hours underground, they move in, suck your eyes dry, and you just have to lie there and let it happen. Like Mrs. Hogg on our honeymoon.

Speaking of Mrs. Hogg, she’s lying a foot and a half to my left. We can’t communicate, hold hands, or even make love. It’s just like the last twenty years of our marriage. Despite this, I miss Schatzi. That’s what I used to call her. She made the best blackberry cobbler. And her ironing? Flawless. I’m actually wearing one of her shirts right now — no wrinkles, even after decades underground. Sometimes, I try to catch a whiff of Schatzi on the fabric. But alas, I haven’t smelled anything since blowfly maggots hollowed out my nose during the Great Depression. A man can dream, though. Even a dead man. I sure do wish I wasn’t dead.

Sometimes, I try to distract myself by reminiscing about my happier days. For instance, there was this time in Budapest when I shared a sarsaparilla with Mari Jászai. An actress with a doll-like face and a laugh that could melt icebergs. She was engaged, but I couldn’t resist kissing her. She grabbed my necktie and pulled me toward her, then dunked it in her drink. It was my only necktie! I was furious! But then, she giggled that irresistible giggle of hers, and suddenly, we were laughing like fools. See? For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot about the family of millipedes living in my skull.

Here’s the kicker of being dead: you can hear everything. It’s as if my hearing has become superhuman. Super dead human. Conversations from miles away, halfway across the globe — I can hear them all. Last week, I had to endure an Alabama farmer whistling “I Get a Kick Out of You” while milking cows for four excruciating hours. I’ve never been so close to clawing my way out of this bone hole. Not that I could, because — you guessed it — I’m dead.

I try not to complain, but honestly, what’s worse than death? I think about all the moments I squandered while alive. Night after night, I passed out in a scotch coma, while Schatzi cried herself to sleep. I wish I could relive those nights. Instead, I spent my life chasing career aspirations. I aspired to be the Shoe Polish King of the Northern Hemisphere. And for what? Even George Vanderbilt is lying nuts-up in a crypt somewhere. Probably listening to a goat herder yodel.

Anyway, I should return to lying still and rotting. I’m not even sure if this whole “communicating with the living” thing is permitted. The rules here are quite straightforward: Be still. Rot. I’m mostly bones at this point, but I must admit, I haven’t looked this good in years. My suit finally fits, and it makes me want to dance. That whole “dancing skeletons” thing? True. We’d cut quite the rug if we could actually move.

But we can’t. Because we’re dead. God, I wish I wasn’t so fucking dead.

[This article first appeared in Okrabiscuit Humor Magazine, July 2, 2015.]