I don’t want to talk about the final moments of my life. They aren’t
important. I have always felt that way; not about myself, of course, but
others. Death is a scary topic that I don’t like to think about. My best
friend growing up was fascinated with it. He liked to read about real serial
killers, and fiction that was specifically about murder and mayhem. He owned
one book about crazy freak accidents, and another that listed famous
people’s famous last words. He started to write a book of his own once,
combining these two concepts. It was all made up, and it wasn’t very good,
but he was a child, so that’s not surprising. It’s what drove us apart. I
didn’t like thinking about all that violence and sadness. I didn’t hate him
for it, but the older you get, the more important it is to find people you
have things in common with. We were just too different. Years later, I found
out that he had rewritten that book as an adult; transformed it into
something decent and marketable. I didn’t read the signed copy he sent me.
It wasn’t just signed, he also wrote a personalized note, saying how much he
treasured those few years we spent as friends. He hoped to reconnect at some
point, but I never reached out. Again, I didn’t dislike him, but you know
how it is. We both had our own lives. Now he’s the only one with a life, and
mine’s ending. Man, it’s hard not to think about it when you’re dying, isn’t
it? No. Life. What about my life? Well, after we drifted apart, I started
getting more interested in music. I didn’t create it myself, though. I
couldn’t play worth a darn, and I could clear the room in ten seconds flat
if I tried to sing. I just loved the culture. I liked to get backstage
passes, and I wanted to learn how the lighting system worked. I liked to see
the performers when they weren’t performing yet. I didn’t care for the
drugs, though, so I knew that I could never be a roadie.
I ended up getting a job as a conversion crew member at a large performance
and event venue. Different bands and events needed the layout to be
particular to them. I moved chairs, and stages, and booths, and everything
you can think of, to make a unique experience for each of our clients. It
was hard work, but I got a great workout everyday, and I enjoyed it a lot
more than some of my co-workers did. The pay wasn’t the best, but it was
above minimum wage, and my wife made more than enough to support the family.
She was the best pediatrician in the state, and she never made me feel bad
about having no ambition. I would occasionally get free tickets too, so that
was a perk she would never be able to compete with. We had two daughters.
One moved up to become the editor of a well-respected magazine, and the
other is a foreman for a construction crew. I couldn’t be prouder of both of
them. We all took it hard when their mother died. I could barely take myself
to work in the morning. What was I going to do without her? Suddenly, as if
sensing my pain, my old friend called, and told me he was looking into doing
a major presentation for his new book in the area, and he remembered what I
did for a living. I helped set up the deal, and he obviously gave us free
tickets. We watched him talk to the audience from backstage, and I felt
something change in me. I started to see where he was coming from, and why
he was so intrigued by the idea of death. He was so good at explaining how
crucial accepting death is to helping us lead full and healthy lives. I
read his books in one week, and became a convert. Now, as I lie here on the
pavement, blood oozing from my head, I’m comforted by the fact that I was
happy.
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