15 Ways to Bury Jane Doe (1st Draft) October 1, 2009

1. The Author

Maybe the best way to do this writing exercise would be to tell the story of a funeral for someone who had no one mourning her at all. There is a problem, though. Who are these fifteen characters telling the story going to be? It’s interesting that I would immediately be interested in this Eleanor Rigby-esque pathetic character. Maybe I’m depressed.

2. The Editor

Oh, great. Another short story that came from a writing exercise. Am I getting paid to read this? At least I don’t have to smell the formaldehyde. Or sit in a chair awkwardly next to people I don’t really know. And try desperately not to get the giggles. I hope all the paragraphs are as short as that first one.

3. The Funeral Home Attendant

When this body arrived I was annoyed. I was hoping that my overnight shift would give me a chance to sleep. When they brought the body in and I cataloged its clothing, I kept a few things. Twenty dollars from the wallet, and a movie ticket stub from the pocket. Yes, I said “the pocket,” “the body,” and so forth. What does it matter, if it’s a she? Do I look like a necrophiliac to you?

4. The Coffin

You and I are going to be touching for such a long time. Maybe after a while neither one of us will feel the other. Maybe after a while you will hold me as much as I hold you. You are heavy and will grow light. I am dense and will grow brittle. I look forward to the darkness and the quiet. It will be more like being a tree. Perhaps I will yearn for the faint warmth I feel during the day. I ache for the sun. I ache for fresh air. But at least I will not be so alone. I will not feel so mutilated and ridiculous. I will not be stared at. I will be I will be I will be around you you you.

5. The Obituary Writer

What can you do with an MFA in Creative Writing? Well, this. It’s like any form. You become comfortable within its rhythms and feel the openings to stretch the limits. And you can do it in your pajamas. That’s something.

6. The Gravedigger

I hope she’s not pregnant. I hope she’s not pregnant. Jesus, if she’s pregnant. Why can’t she be like this stupid bitch. Dead. Not anyone’s problem anymore. I hope she’s not. She’s a lying bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Cunt. Digging holes just reminds me of her, her, her, her. I hope she’s not. Not. Not.

7. The Florist

Why can’t people order flowers for something different? To celebrate the completion of a triathlon. To mourn the passing of a presidential administration. To poke into the showerhead and confuse your roommate in the morning while he’s still half-asleep. To give to prisoners. To sell to raise money for the NRA. I just want to feel challenged for once. I just want to care.

8. The Butterfly

Lovely lovely oh it’s dead. Oooh that’s not far and that looks lovely lovelylove.

9. The Reader

But who was this Jane Doe? Was she like me? Was she like someone I don’t like? This is weird. This is fun. I’m not a reader at all. I’m an author. Oh christ. Authorial intrusion. I’m not just depressed, I’m delusional.

10. The Forensic Investigator

Nothing suspicious here. I want to go home and have a nice long bath and some tea. I want to go home and fuck my wife so hard that I’m absolutely one hundred percent sure she’s alive. I want I want I want.

11. The Sparknotes Employee

Irony. Multiple points of view. Death. Repetition. I got an MA in English Lit for this? Maybe I’m depressed, too.

12. The Carpet

I like the lonely people the best because they don’t attract those other people who just want to step on me and oppress me and grind me down and spill their drinks on me and leave me without a backwards glance. Hey, #11? I’m the ultimate subaltern and I want to rise up. I want I want I want too!

13. The Coin

Someone superstitious put me in here, in this mouth. I will never get out of here. But I still know what I am. I am Lincoln. I am shiny. I have something written on my back. I will endure.

14. The Soul
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.
.
.
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15. Jane Doe

The end.

“House Hunting” May 12, 2009

Seth tried the door.

“Maybe we should come back,” Leah said.

“No, it’s open, look.”

Seth walked in first. The room was dark and cool and smelled a little like wet dog. Leah came in behind him, her leg in jeans brushing a little against his bare calf. He was wearing shorts, like he always did in the summer. Leah used to wear shorts too, baring her legs as casually as her arms or her face. Now she said she was cold all the time. She covered her legs in jeans, and her arms in jackets, and her face in makeup so thick it looked like she was in a high school play.

“It doesn’t work,” Seth said. He heard her trying the switch. It made a sound like a moth hitting a lightbulb, ramming its way to heaven. When she gave up it sounded like the moth falling to the floor, the tips of its wings still trying to fly.

“Do you have the flashlight?” she asked.

“I think I left it on the counter.”

“Shit. Well, we can come back.”

“No,” he said. He said it a little louder than he’d meant to, and he heard the word echoing from empty rooms. The kitchen, the bathroom, he thought. The rooms with tile floors.

“What, we’re just going to-”

“Give me your phone,” Seth said. He wasn’t really asking; he was already grabbing. Leah’s phone cast an eerie blue over the carpeted floor, leaving the corners dark.

“Oh,” she said. “I don’t think, look, there’s a hole in the wall.”

“I’ll bet they’d give us a discount. If there are repairs.”

They walked into the first bedroom. There were a few boxes on the floor, filled with trash. Fast food wrappers, styrofoam cups, plastic bags. He quickly moved the cell phone’s beam away from the plastic bags, but it was too late, he’d heard Leah’s breath sucked back in, like it had changed its mind and wanted to stay inside her forever.

“Let’s look at the other bedroom.”

“We don’t need two bedrooms,” she said. “I thought you said it was a one bedroom.”

“You could use it for your scrapbooks and photo albums,” he said. “Or maybe I could make a den, a man-cave, you know?”

Leah snorted a little. “Right. Just what you’ve always-” And then there went her breath again.

In the center of the room, an empty crib with broken rails. Like the skeleton of a beached whale whose ribs had been broken, or stolen. A dirty blanket, wadded in one corner, covered some grubby toys.

Leah walked over to the closet. Seth followed her with the light. She found plastic bags, more toys, sticky, smelling like soda and urine.

“They must have left in a hurry,” Seth said. “Broken the lease.”

“Sometimes you have to,” she said.

They walked out of the bedroom and looked in the bathroom. The toilet’s flusher dangled impotently, barely connected. Seth smelled mildew and cheap shampoo.

Then, the kitchen. They opened the refrigerator and the sudden smell of rot and spoiling was so strong that Seth cursed and Leah slammed the door shut.

“Jesus,” he said. “It’s like something died in there.” Then he froze and looked at Leah and she was tearing up. Christ.

“I don’t think we’ll take it,” he said, holding the front door open wider.

“Do you remember when we were looking for our old apartment?” she said, standing half on the carpet and half on the doorstep. “When we’d get dinner and picnic on the floor? Or…”

They were both silent and left. A light came on at the neighbor’s and they walked away faster, feeling criminal.