The other day I was walking home from a bar a good pace away from our apartment in Brooklyn when I looked up and saw two girls dancing at the foot of full sized open window, five stores above the streets of Williamsburg. One clutching a bottle, the other spinning, their laughter and pop music floated down to us.
'Dude, look,' I jerked my chin in their general direction.
He raised his head and contemplated the scenario, 'Ya think one of them could fall?'
'I've never seen a dead body before...'
I paused after the words had left my mouth, pondering my response. No plea to their welfare, no humanitarian selfless hope that they would be fine, enjoy their evening and wake up tomorrow to continue whatever bright lives lay in store for them.
I imagined one of them plummeting, preferably the one with the body. She'd misstep, she reach out pleadingly for her spinning friend, releasing her grasp on the bottle that would spin end over end, foreshadowing her quickly approaching fate. Her arms would windmill furiously as she fought against the inevitability of gravity, and her friend would stop spinning, clutch her hands to her mouth and scream through thin, interlocked fingers that would somewhat muffle the exclamation. Mouth open, eye's wide, the former bottle holding girl would feel her bare feet leave the edge of the window and she'd plummet silently, her last moments a silent film set to Brittany Spears', 'I'm a Slave For You.' Six eyes would watch her descent, her rapid decent. Then with a bone-jarring crunch, she'd fall heavily upon the street, twinkling with shards of glass.
What would I do? I'd run over. I know I'd run over. Would I call 911? Would I expect the friend to? Would I try and administer First Aid? I was trained in that and CPR, but I'm expecting there is some difference, or free pass when the victim is lying like a crooked centipede, blood leaking out of their mouth.
I'd poke it.
Not with a stick, or with my shoe. But kicking glass out of my way, I'd kneel on the dirty street, my jeans soaking in wine and blood and with a trembling finger, looking over my shoulder, I'd lay the tip of my pointer against her cheek.
I'd press gently at first, testing the skin's elasticity. Then, should it manage the light nudge... I'd press harder, pushing her check into her mouth, creating a dimple, the hint of a smile.
What if I shouldered the body and took off, the corpse in a fireman's carry, through the streets of Brooklyn. Each heavy step bouncing her lifeless head up and down, her long brown hair matted with blood from a fractured skull waving like a solid object, slapping against my side.
It's only five blocks to my apartment, I could make it.
Then what to do? What can you do with a corpse? The possibilities bounced around my head.
We could prop her on the couch while we are at work, a watchdog, her glazed eyes staring at the TV, or to save electricity, her cold hands wrapped around a book. Preferably something light and funny, no need to make her seem stuffy to any casual observer that happens to wander by. Would we get to name her? Assuming she was without her license, as she wasn't expecting to take such a short trip. Would we go with something demure? Something playful? It's a bit more intense that just arbitrarily assigning a name to a kitten or frog. It's not like she would be just another pet. It's a lifetime deal. You could pass her onto your grandchildren. They'd grow up crawling on her, or napping, their little heads on her mushy lap.
I'd go with Susan.
I'd never name my kids Susan, and I don't know anyone named Susan, so there would be no drama involved, as in, 'You named your CORPSE after me?!' None of that, definitely not a pleasant conversation.
We could use Susan to explore the new digital world of the Internet. Webcams? www.watchAcorpse.com. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Although, presumably, while it would draw interest, not nearly enough... I assume you could only watch a corpse for so long.
What if we did it like the dancing chicken website? You could tell the corpse what to do? From your personal computer you could dictate a command, and with a necromantic giggle you'd watch the dead body move to your bidding. Spin in a circle. Jump on the couch. Hump the television. Of course you couldn't get too explicate. No undressing, or masturbating. It might be a corpse standing on one foot while trying to spin in a circle... but let's not get lewd here folks.
We could rent her out. Need to convince your parents you have a girlfriend? Gay guys need to stay in the closet at work? For a simple onetime fee you could pose somewhere exotic with Susan. Bring her to the beach and have yourself photographed applying generous amounts of sunscreen to her pale back. You could laugh with fellow corporate monkeys at the water cooler recalling how pale she is, and how all she did was lie there.
Boys, need a prom date? You'll never find one less discriminating. She won't mention your acne, glasses, or that funning smell coming form your shoes. Give her a couple twirls on the dance floor and you will be amazed at how supple she is, her body bending in extraordinary ways. Unfortunately, after the 'date' you are on your own with your five friends... this is a legitimate escort service.
Or how about for the lonely drunks in the world? How much to you hate the sad stares you get at the bar? Your arm pumping back and forth as you throw back each shot of bourbon, your eyes scanning the young nubile bodies fading in and out of the corners of your vision. With Susan by your side you can take comfort in the fact you aren't coming off as the creepy old man in the overalls, flannel and trucker hat at the end o the bar. You're a somebody. You have a date. A cheap date. Place a watered down beer in front of her and you are set for the evening. As a added perk she doubles as confidant. Need to get off your chest the time Uncle Peter fondled you through your bathing suit? How you cheat on your wife with dime store hookers? Susan won't judge. Her comfortable silence will let you work out your own problems. **NOTE** Susan is not a credited psychologist.
'I've never seen a dead body before...'
The words hung heavy in the air... and as the turmoil in my mind stared to fade away, hesitantly I poached the question to my roommate, 'what would you do if she fell?'
He cocked his head and squinted towards the window, smiling at the girls figure, 'Probably teabag her.'
'Dude, look,' I jerked my chin in their general direction.
He raised his head and contemplated the scenario, 'Ya think one of them could fall?'
'I've never seen a dead body before...'
I paused after the words had left my mouth, pondering my response. No plea to their welfare, no humanitarian selfless hope that they would be fine, enjoy their evening and wake up tomorrow to continue whatever bright lives lay in store for them.
I imagined one of them plummeting, preferably the one with the body. She'd misstep, she reach out pleadingly for her spinning friend, releasing her grasp on the bottle that would spin end over end, foreshadowing her quickly approaching fate. Her arms would windmill furiously as she fought against the inevitability of gravity, and her friend would stop spinning, clutch her hands to her mouth and scream through thin, interlocked fingers that would somewhat muffle the exclamation. Mouth open, eye's wide, the former bottle holding girl would feel her bare feet leave the edge of the window and she'd plummet silently, her last moments a silent film set to Brittany Spears', 'I'm a Slave For You.' Six eyes would watch her descent, her rapid decent. Then with a bone-jarring crunch, she'd fall heavily upon the street, twinkling with shards of glass.
What would I do? I'd run over. I know I'd run over. Would I call 911? Would I expect the friend to? Would I try and administer First Aid? I was trained in that and CPR, but I'm expecting there is some difference, or free pass when the victim is lying like a crooked centipede, blood leaking out of their mouth.
I'd poke it.
Not with a stick, or with my shoe. But kicking glass out of my way, I'd kneel on the dirty street, my jeans soaking in wine and blood and with a trembling finger, looking over my shoulder, I'd lay the tip of my pointer against her cheek.
I'd press gently at first, testing the skin's elasticity. Then, should it manage the light nudge... I'd press harder, pushing her check into her mouth, creating a dimple, the hint of a smile.
What if I shouldered the body and took off, the corpse in a fireman's carry, through the streets of Brooklyn. Each heavy step bouncing her lifeless head up and down, her long brown hair matted with blood from a fractured skull waving like a solid object, slapping against my side.
It's only five blocks to my apartment, I could make it.
Then what to do? What can you do with a corpse? The possibilities bounced around my head.
We could prop her on the couch while we are at work, a watchdog, her glazed eyes staring at the TV, or to save electricity, her cold hands wrapped around a book. Preferably something light and funny, no need to make her seem stuffy to any casual observer that happens to wander by. Would we get to name her? Assuming she was without her license, as she wasn't expecting to take such a short trip. Would we go with something demure? Something playful? It's a bit more intense that just arbitrarily assigning a name to a kitten or frog. It's not like she would be just another pet. It's a lifetime deal. You could pass her onto your grandchildren. They'd grow up crawling on her, or napping, their little heads on her mushy lap.
I'd go with Susan.
I'd never name my kids Susan, and I don't know anyone named Susan, so there would be no drama involved, as in, 'You named your CORPSE after me?!' None of that, definitely not a pleasant conversation.
We could use Susan to explore the new digital world of the Internet. Webcams? www.watchAcorpse.com. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Although, presumably, while it would draw interest, not nearly enough... I assume you could only watch a corpse for so long.
What if we did it like the dancing chicken website? You could tell the corpse what to do? From your personal computer you could dictate a command, and with a necromantic giggle you'd watch the dead body move to your bidding. Spin in a circle. Jump on the couch. Hump the television. Of course you couldn't get too explicate. No undressing, or masturbating. It might be a corpse standing on one foot while trying to spin in a circle... but let's not get lewd here folks.
We could rent her out. Need to convince your parents you have a girlfriend? Gay guys need to stay in the closet at work? For a simple onetime fee you could pose somewhere exotic with Susan. Bring her to the beach and have yourself photographed applying generous amounts of sunscreen to her pale back. You could laugh with fellow corporate monkeys at the water cooler recalling how pale she is, and how all she did was lie there.
Boys, need a prom date? You'll never find one less discriminating. She won't mention your acne, glasses, or that funning smell coming form your shoes. Give her a couple twirls on the dance floor and you will be amazed at how supple she is, her body bending in extraordinary ways. Unfortunately, after the 'date' you are on your own with your five friends... this is a legitimate escort service.
Or how about for the lonely drunks in the world? How much to you hate the sad stares you get at the bar? Your arm pumping back and forth as you throw back each shot of bourbon, your eyes scanning the young nubile bodies fading in and out of the corners of your vision. With Susan by your side you can take comfort in the fact you aren't coming off as the creepy old man in the overalls, flannel and trucker hat at the end o the bar. You're a somebody. You have a date. A cheap date. Place a watered down beer in front of her and you are set for the evening. As a added perk she doubles as confidant. Need to get off your chest the time Uncle Peter fondled you through your bathing suit? How you cheat on your wife with dime store hookers? Susan won't judge. Her comfortable silence will let you work out your own problems. **NOTE** Susan is not a credited psychologist.
'I've never seen a dead body before...'
The words hung heavy in the air... and as the turmoil in my mind stared to fade away, hesitantly I poached the question to my roommate, 'what would you do if she fell?'
He cocked his head and squinted towards the window, smiling at the girls figure, 'Probably teabag her.'