A Heart in Question

DAVID HART died today, March 30th, of a massive coronary. He was 51. A banker. A rich banker. But it’s just as well. He was a horrible bastard. The world is a better place because of his absence. This is not just my opinion, but the opinion of those he left in his wake of bitterness and unconcern. On the oft chance that there are those who do care, the funeral will be held Friday afternoon at the Holloman Groutman Funeral Home in Manchester, Connecticut. Condolences should be sent to the family, where they will be properly burned.

He is survived by his wife Michelle, 48, and his two children: Mena, 26, and David Jr., 23. While the family was unwilling to make any official comment on David’s passing, a spokesperson for the funeral home said, “It is very clear to everyone in this community just what a prick David was. I’m sure Michelle wouldn’t mind me saying so. I mean, the only reason they even came to us with the body is that there are laws that must be upheld. Otherwise, I don’t even think they would bother. Let him rot.”

David was very active in the community, and a loyal member of the Havenwood Episcopal Church, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He said he wanted to show his children the love of God and people, but they lived in a constant state of fear. Before he escaped from home, David Jr. was taken to the hospital many times to be treated for skateboarding “accidents”. Mena has yet to escape. Her mother suffers from Bi-Polar Disorder and has needed aid that she never would have received otherwise. David’s absence in death, it seems, is eclipsed only by his absence in life.

Mr. Hart had no prior medical conditions and was in peak physical health when he died. He was found in the bed of a whore, Rachel Mare. Evidently, he had been seeing her for quite a while. Her and several of her friends. After a night of, what Rachel said, was pretty routine sex, David just…stopped living. Rachel was kind enough to go on the record and say, “It was almost like God finally realized what a shit he was and just struck him down. I know this will seriously cut into my budget, but you know what…good riddance. He was a real jerk.”

While the Hart family is not willing to speak publicly, they do want people to know that they are planning to go on with their lives. They have decided not to decry David in his death, feeling like everyone else will demonize him on their own. He lived a life worthy of that, at least.

In closing, I want to be careful not to judge David any further. His accountability in death is to a higher presence. God have mercy on his soul. I would like to point out, however, the irony of his family name. For though he seemed to live his life without a heart, it is that same heart that took his life away

Good Friday

JOSE VANCE died today, March 25th, at 4:05 p.m., the exact time that historians attribute to the death of Christ. He was 62 years old and full of life before the accident drained it all away; his passing the result of massive hemorrhaging, both internal and external. He is survived by his wife, Fawn. His daughter, Nelly. And his granddaughter, Cordelia.

The irony in Mr. Vance’s death, however, has less to do with the timing in correlation to the age of Jesus, and more to do with the here and now. Having suffered for years with kidney failure, Jose had recently been the recipient of a brand new organ, compliments of his only daughter, Nelly Kingston, 36. After working with the St Lyons Research Hospital in Austin, Texas, for months, to secure a safe, effective transplant, the operation was performed one week ago today, March 18th. Nelly had always been willing. It was just a matter of following the proper procedures to ensure success. Both Nelly and Jose had recovered with no complications and the transplanted kidney was working effectively in the body of it’s new owner. Until this afternoon around 3:45.

His trio of women were all at the hospital to champion Jose and cheer his release back into population. A new man. Rested and revitalized and ready to take on the world with new vigor stemming from a perfectly healthy liver. Nelly commented that he seemed to feel better than she did, as he performed a little jig in the concrete intersection of State and Main, in front of the hospital. He hummed “Get Jiggy Wit It” as he moved his 62 year old legs like Michael Flately, Lord of the Dance. It was his last dance. The life left him almost immediately, as a late model Honda careened out of nowhere, ignoring the no-turn-on-red sign and striking him down.

The close proximity of the hospital would do him no good. As the three, who loved him most in the world, carried his now limp body back into the ER, they encouraged him, with hope, to hold on. However, at 4:05, as the doctors scampered to put together the broken pieces, the soul of Jose Vance left his body. The holy trinity sighed as he let a whisper escape - “It is finished”.

Social Sciences

MARGARET MENSA died today, March 22nd , of starvation and dehydration. She was 42 years old. Actually, we are not completely sure when she died, but she was found today. Preliminary estimates suggest that she could have died as far back as two weeks ago, but until the autopsy comes back, it’s anybody’s guess. It’s amazing what recycled air does for the preservation of the human body. Especially those addled with the pain of everyday existence.
The single life that Margaret bore allowed her to work long hours at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. Hours that turned into weeks that turned into months. You get the picture. The 8th Social Sciences floor of building 3 - special collections - microfiche - section B. That’s where she could be found for going on 18 years now. And that’s where she was found on this morning by the cleaning lady. If Milagros Melendez had not been making her routine 2-week visit, who knows how long it would have been before Margaret was found. In fact, district management for the library were quick to inform us that they were not even aware of Margaret’s division. (Which consisted of a desk in the corner and a mountain of filing cabinets, shrouded in muslin.) It seems that the bureaucracy of this cavernous monster of research really leaves a void all around. But there were a few sad facts we were able to derive for ourselves, with no help from the U.S. government.

One - Margaret held no degree in library sciences. She barely finished high school.
Two - Margaret had worked off the payroll since 1990. After being terminated.
Three - Margaret had pristine personal hygiene. Great fingernails.
Four - The 8th Social Sciences floor of building 3 - special collections - microfiche - section B was Margaret’s home. No, really. We can’t find an address for her.
Five - Dewey Decimal had nothing on Margaret. We got a brief peek at her fiche files…scary.
Six - Margaret apparently dabbled in poetry…scary.
Seven - All she wanted out of life was to be a librarian. (From one of her journals - dated 2/14/2005)

All in all, despite the results of the coming autopsy, Margaret’s life seems cloaked in mystery and loneliness. Even though she died bone skinny and twisted with a book in her hand and a fiche between her teeth, there was a smile on her face. Maybe there’s something she’s not telling us. I’m kind of sad she’s gone.

Mockingbird

HARPER FINCH died today, March 19th, at 8:45 A.M., of a brain aneurysm. She was 36 years old. She is survived by her mother and father, David and Donna Finch. Both live in the Raleigh Durham area of North Carolina. Both are retired. And both have expressed regrets concerning their lack of support for their daughter’s short life. But I don’t know if I believe them or not.
Wild fans of the classic novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, the Finchs have, for years, expressed their great disappointment in having a girl instead of a boy.
“Graced with such a name as ours, we had every intention to name our child Atticus, but it just wasn’t in the cards,” Donna has lamented for years. “As a consolation, being of the fairer sex, we thought it only right to defer to Harper, after Ms Lee.”
In fact, Harper’s full name was Harper Lee Finch.
Her parent’s obsession with the novel was, well, obsessive. They truly believed, until today, that Harper would stop “messing around” and “grow up” to be a great lawyer. That she could make a difference in this awful world. Maybe this is what kept them from being at her side today, at Mt Sinai General in NY, as she slipped into relative obscurity.
When she passed, Harper, a former art student at NYU, was preparing for a peace vigil this coming weekend in the East Village. As part of Nation Now, one of the largest non-profits in the U.S., she had been a big proponent for finding alternative solutions to our country’s political and social dilemmas. A spokesperson for NN was quoted as saying that, “Harper’s devoted life was an encouragement to all of us who feel like it’s so futile most of the time. It’s only fitting that she died on the day that marks the 2 year anniversary of the United State’s pre-emptive strike in the Middle East. I’m sure she laughs at the irony. She was a true martyr for her cause.”
The vigil will go on as planned this weekend in the East Village. Her parents have set up a memorial fund in her name in the hopes that they can support some young man (or woman) in their pursuit of law school and the American justice system. But, if you have any money you’d like to donate in Harper’s name, don’t send it to them. Send it to Nation Now. Harper’s parents never even knew her.

Coleman Tent

BERTRAND COLEMAN parted this world on March 17, 2005. Father of Billy Savin, Husband of Margaret Eislin and Son of Renaldo and Maria Coleman. Graduate of Ilsa Pines High in 1952, Graduate of Meisner Roca College of InterGeographic Thermology 1958 and employed with SubDynamic, Inc. from 1960 until his death. Loved by all who knew him and loved all he knew. Bertrand was obsessed with creating geothermal portable heaters to be used on extreme hiking and mountaineering adventures. His obsession ended when drilling in his tent on top of Exogenic Mountain and breaking the magma cap on the 300 hundred year old dormant volcano. Due to the seemingly proper burial already performed by nature, the family asks that donations be made to a Meisner Roca College Trust or Exogenic Mountain Federal Emergency Volcanic Fund made in his name.

The Bird Man of Ravenswood

ROMAN ANASTOPOULUS died today, March 17, at 2:30 P.M, of a broken heart. He was 54 years old. A former postal worker for the City of Chicago, Roman had spent the better part of the last years of his life mourning the loss of his wife, Vicki, and his only daughter, Patricia. Both victims of tragic ends.

Sources close to the deceased, (which were very hard to come by, considering Roman had nobody in his life), said that Vicki had divorced Roman in 1989, after an extended affair with her boss. A year later, she died in a tragic boating accident on Lake Michigan, while attending the floating wedding of a co-worker. Their only child, Patricia, who Roman raised on his own, died just 6 months ago. She was 25. Prone to depression, the life Patricia had carved out for herself was just not meeting her expectations, and this often left her without hope. She took her own life when she stepped in front of the Irving Park bus during rush hour last September. She had just finished an 18 month contract working for the phone company, SBC.

Marked by a life of tragedy and overwhelming grief, Roman’s only joy in life was for the birds. In fact, his relationship with the fowl of Chicago’s North side earned him the moniker of the Bird Man of Ravenswood. If you ever drove down the lonely stretch of Western Avenue, between Wilson and Lawrence, you saw him. Sitting on a lone fire hydrant. Covered in shit. And pigeons. But that was Roman’s only consolation in life.

There were frequently complaints about the sidewalk where Roman sat. Sanitary issues caused the city to put up signs warning against the feeding of the birds, but they never enforced it. How could they? So Roman sat. His pockets full of bread crumbs. Taking care of the only family he had. Until today, the celebration of an Irish saint, when a lonely, maligned Greek man died peacefully on the streets of Chicago. Not even a holiday to call his own as his feathered friends carried away his soul to heaven.