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On Monday morning February 13 2012, I heard some curious sounds outside my apartment door. I peeped through the hole in my door made for such a purpose and I saw many La Mesa police officers who were just standing around.
My first thought was, “Who here besides me would need a welfare check. “ Then I clearly heard someone trying not to vomit. Human retching is an unmistakable sound. I opened my door and I smelled it, the powerful and lingering odor of death.
“Who died? “ I spoke before I thought.
There was a young, cute, blonde officer guarding the death scene. Officer Cutie had his thumbs hooked onto his black equipment belt; he nodded his head indicating my neighbor Beach Dude, a man who lived across the hallway from me.
My mind whirled with thoughts-Beach Dude has become a bad smell a fate I often think about, my own death, my own bad smell.
Officer Cutie asked, “When did you last see your neighbor? “ I thought a moment and said, “I have not been out of my apartment since Thursday. I saw him then, on my way out to the store.” I flashed back to Thursday, Beach Dudes skin was as yellow as a banana and I thought then how he was sacrificing his liver to alcohol and pain medication.
The officers were all somber and I could hear the occasional retching sound. Later that same morning I heard someone knocking on my dead neighbor’s door. I poked my head out once again, “There is no one home but the dead guy.” I said. The morgue technician gave me smile that told me to shut up and go back inside.
I knew Beach Dude was a veteran of the Coast Guard. In our conversations, he would often describe what it was like to jump out of a helicopter into the Arctic Ocean. I knew he was struggling with the loss of his mobility. I heard that his Doctor was recommending another foot surgery.
Beach Dude thought that a personal mobility vehicle was not a manly mode of transport. I tried to argue that being manly had nothing to do with providing yourself the opportunity to enjoy life by remaining independent and mobile.
I held my up own mobility scooter as an example of how cool mobility can be. Many people want to be me as I am screaming down the sidewalk at nine miles per hour. That is as fast as the average teen-age boy can run.
Beach Dude was my age, a tall quiet man. We bonded one day while sharing 5150 stories about ourselves. He was impressed with my ability to elude the police while I marveled that he had the audacity to pick a fight with his arresting officers. I laughed at him and I told him how stupid it is to provoke a physical confrontation.
My past relationships with men have often been a do or die proposition for me, so I kept my distance from him. Provoking the police and fighting with them is what I call a red flag.
The sudden death of Beach Dude was a surprise; Old Paul would have been my choice as the man most likely to become a lingering odor. After all, he is the closest to death in age.
I think Beach Dude really did not want to be here any longer. He had to know that alcohol mixed with pain medication was a sure way to permanently interrupt the living process.
He had to know, right?
On Monday morning February 13 2012, I heard some curious sounds outside my apartment door. I peeped through the hole in my door made for such a purpose and I saw many La Mesa police officers who were just standing around.
My first thought was, “Who here besides me would need a welfare check. “ Then I clearly heard someone trying not to vomit. Human retching is an unmistakable sound. I opened my door and I smelled it, the powerful and lingering odor of death.
“Who died? “ I spoke before I thought.
There was a young, cute, blonde officer guarding the death scene. Officer Cutie had his thumbs hooked onto his black equipment belt; he nodded his head indicating my neighbor Beach Dude, a man who lived across the hallway from me.
My mind whirled with thoughts-Beach Dude has become a bad smell a fate I often think about, my own death, my own bad smell.
Officer Cutie asked, “When did you last see your neighbor? “ I thought a moment and said, “I have not been out of my apartment since Thursday. I saw him then, on my way out to the store.” I flashed back to Thursday, Beach Dudes skin was as yellow as a banana and I thought then how he was sacrificing his liver to alcohol and pain medication.
The officers were all somber and I could hear the occasional retching sound. Later that same morning I heard someone knocking on my dead neighbor’s door. I poked my head out once again, “There is no one home but the dead guy.” I said. The morgue technician gave me smile that told me to shut up and go back inside.
I knew Beach Dude was a veteran of the Coast Guard. In our conversations, he would often describe what it was like to jump out of a helicopter into the Arctic Ocean. I knew he was struggling with the loss of his mobility. I heard that his Doctor was recommending another foot surgery.
Beach Dude thought that a personal mobility vehicle was not a manly mode of transport. I tried to argue that being manly had nothing to do with providing yourself the opportunity to enjoy life by remaining independent and mobile.
I held my up own mobility scooter as an example of how cool mobility can be. Many people want to be me as I am screaming down the sidewalk at nine miles per hour. That is as fast as the average teen-age boy can run.
Beach Dude was my age, a tall quiet man. We bonded one day while sharing 5150 stories about ourselves. He was impressed with my ability to elude the police while I marveled that he had the audacity to pick a fight with his arresting officers. I laughed at him and I told him how stupid it is to provoke a physical confrontation.
My past relationships with men have often been a do or die proposition for me, so I kept my distance from him. Provoking the police and fighting with them is what I call a red flag.
The sudden death of Beach Dude was a surprise; Old Paul would have been my choice as the man most likely to become a lingering odor. After all, he is the closest to death in age.
I think Beach Dude really did not want to be here any longer. He had to know that alcohol mixed with pain medication was a sure way to permanently interrupt the living process.
He had to know, right?