“I only need one,” I said.
He looked at me with a dour face and somber eyes.
His suit was the kind they put dead men in
I don’t know the difference between that
and a corporate CEO.
“Who is it for?” He asked.
“Me,” I said. “It must be comfortable.”
“You’ll be dead.”
“I hope so. May I lie down in one?”
“I’ll be resting for a long time.”
“This coffin isn’t for somebody struggling with sloth.”
“When was the longest you stayed in bed for?”
“One week, when I had scarlet fever,” he said.
“My mother blamed my father for dying—something about, laying down on the job.”
“Protestant work ethic?”
“I’m worried about you. You can say it’s none of my business but are you…”
“Suicidal? No. My friend told me, I need to get out of my comfort zone, but what will that accomplish? I’ll go to a foreign country where they don’t speak my language. I’ll sign like a mime, like an idiot. Then I’ll jump out of an airplane and hit on hot feminists. Do they have women’s lib in Morocco?
“I don’t know.”
“The reason I’m buying a coffin, is that I want to be comfortable in the afterlife. Until then, I have to live every day like I might die.”
My friend told me it’ll keep my writing fresh. He said, it’s becoming like stale word salad.”
“Ugh. What a dis. How long do you think it’ll take for you to die?”
“Not long. This near-death stuff will get old pretty fast, and then I’ll need to have a family. Just think of all the bodies I will make, that will keep you in business.”
“That’s a dark thought.”
“You got that right—now I’m going to write about it.”