On a Google search, my obituary pops up. I must be dead. So here, grief-stricken readers, is my report from the Other Side. What's it like? Well, it's rather pleasant where I am—no baton wielders, cranky musicians, or Madoff-like philanthropists, and the food is to die for, yet calorie free. Curiosity gets the best of me though. Every now and then I feel the need to check in on the earthly realm, my former dwelling place. Let's eavesdrop, shall we?
Violinist colleagues: "What? She's dead? You don't say! All the more opportunities for us to take over her gigs and students. How many students do you suppose she had, anyway—"
Sir Metro Gnome, Esq: "Bah! Good riddance. Marjorie rarely followed my exquisite interpretations and infallible beat, and her rendition of 'Swan Lake' was clumsy. I'm glad I got her to quit—"
Dearly Departing One: "One less potential witness to worry about for that potential trial to worry about, but that still leaves her husband to worry about, and everyone knows how cagey he is—"
Little does Stickman know. The Real Trial is on the Other Side.
Husband (looking longingly into the empty crockpot): "I haven't eaten in days—"
Banana peels are strewn around the house.
Eldest Daughter: "No matter what—we're still having our Seder during Pesakh. We'll set a special plate for Elijah and Ma together. By the way, has anyone seen Ma's diamond necklace—?"
Youngest Daughter: "What about the homework assignment Mom didn't finish? She was supposed to be my topic for the frontal lobe study in Science. My whole grade depends on this—"
Book Club: "All she wanted was to discuss 'Steppenwolf'. She seemed so fascinated by the section about the magic theater for madmen only, and the disintegration of a personality—"
Critic: "I thought I killed her long ago." He looks pale. "The tables seem to have turned."
Uh, oh. The magic pill I took is really taking effect. To spite everyone, I'll be returning to life in the morning from this Ambien-induced state.