On some days, I actually feel like typing, rather than jabbing at my phone like some executive orangutan. Of course, that entails a lot of work. I have to boot up that cumbersome relic of cyber-yesteryear: The laptop.
After the silly old box gets done with its beeping and whirring routine, icons start popping up on the screen. I notice one that I don't recognize. A little blue camera. I click on that, using an actual mouse, one so old that it squeaks.
The screen opens up, and I see before my foggy eyes the face of an old friend, Mick the Mechanic. He's also a long-gone friend, having died of an overdose in '16.
Sometimes he comes back.
What's up, Heller? I'm not wearing any pants!
"I see that," I retort, which makes him laugh. It is a welcome sound to my ears. Mick didn't laugh at much, but he always found time to laugh at me. "How's my Mom doing?"
Great, same as mine. They're quilting.
"Sweet."
You know, you have more people up here than you do down there.
(I convey to him, through the miracle of digitized body language, that I'm aware of it.)
And I hear that you wrote a State Supreme Court brief. Is that true?
"All part of the legend, kin."
But you lost.
"Nah, it wasn't any scene like that, brother. The Michigan Supreme Court simply didn't take up our appeal, which isn't the same as losing."
I see.
"Oh, yeah? Can you also see that I'm not wearing any pants, either?" Mick laughs again, but not as jovially. His face stays serious while he does it.
When's it gonna end, man?
"Never, I reckon. The only satisfaction we'll get against the crooked Medical Examiner will be to wait her out. Her appointment goes for two more years; she's no spring chicken, and there's already a young hotshot pathologist being groomed to take her place. Same goes for the judge in our cases. He can't run again after his term expires in '22. Too old."
You're going to call that a victory, Last Man Standing?
"I'm not sure if that's what I'd call it, but I'm picking up on what you're putting down."
If you can't win, what's the point?
"Is something on your mind? Shouldn't you be taking it easy and enjoying the afterlife? The Green Meadows and all that?"
Mick chuckles - not a full laugh this time. I like hearing it less. It makes me a little sad to wonder if he likes Heaven or not.
Monetize it, Heller. Your blog. Open the spigot and get your just desserts.
I shrug. "Are you talking about AdSense? I guess I could... They only pay once a month, but I'm just the kind of thing they like. Lots of pages, lots of page views, lots of content on every page. Monetization doesn't work for everybody, but it would probably work for me."
If you aren't going to get any satisfaction in the matter, you might as well get paid for your trouble.
"It's no trouble. I'll think about it."
For a few seconds we say nothing. We just look at each other's faces, a million miles away, and at the same time, right here in the picture frame. Mick breaks tbe brief silence.
Hey, do you still have those Craftsman wrenches I gave you for Christmas in '90?
"Sure do," I say. "They're great."
Cool. I told you'd they'd last forev--
The screen freezes.
"Mike," I say. Nothing changes. "Mike."
His pixelated features, caught in the midst of a soft consonant, remain as still as a cross in a cemetery. I wait for a few moments...
And cut the power.
pH 9.11.2o
***
