We were all in his basement. It was quarter to five and me and Jerry and Jack were ready to head home. The previous weekend had been a bust, but Saturday night we planned to camp out in David's basement bedroom.Jack asked doubtfully: "Are you planning on coming?"David shook his head, repositioned his leg, which he said still hurt like a bitch if he didn't get it just right. I'd broken my arm once, had it in a cast for six weeks, but, other than itch, it hadn't bothered me after the first day. I guess it's a lot different when you have to walk on the break, or in David's case, hobble around on crutches. He couldn't go anyway, except in a car or with two of us helping him up and down steps. I was surprised, then, that he wanted to do the sleepover anyway."No reason you guys can't have fun," he muttered. I could see he was in pain, wanted to do something to make it better for him, but also didn't want to because that would look queer. Not looking queer is more important to a guy than. .For a long time I knew I was dead, and then I realized that this thing that I was - wasn't death!I knew I wasn't alive, but I also knew I wasn't dead...All this dying was killing me!How can one be dead, but not dead? That was a tough question to work through, especially in my dead state, which seemed quite dead, even though I was not quite totally dead. The conundrum returned. Each time I died, I wasn't dead. My deadness was quite live, but my alive-ness wasn't all that alive.So there I was, with all this dead-i-tivity, surrounded by a lot of nothing, in nowhere, contemplating all the dead people I went through in my lives. Just cataloging how dead I used to be was exhausting. If I had a head it would have hurt from the strain of all the deadness I'd experienced.Of course, I would have welcomed the headache, because it would have given me something to touch, to feel, and to prove I existed. When you're dead, there's nothing to grab to prove you exist. You just have to believe that.
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