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INK


He could never remember the Seven Stages of Grief. He would hear them in his head, Lenny Bruce counting them off: “ANGER, DENIAL, BARGAINING.” Then the voice would gargle as if coming from underwater. The Stages were like the Seven Dwarves, names quickly sliding into “anything ending in “y”. Dopey, Angry, Nasty, Edgy, all of them grabbing their pickaxes to descend into his mind.

On the Internet he found a list saying the Third Stage of grief was Second Grief. Another Grief whose Third Stage would lead to the next, over and over, Griefs shooting like screaming children down a spiral slide.

Because of his surroundings, he tried remembering them as street names, each one remotely connected. He would drive along Wilshire, the shiny buildings and slender palms swaying overhead, past Loss Street, past Anger Street. Each neighborhood contained a place he would have stopped if he’d had more time.

He tried determining his current Stage, hoping to have a better idea of what was yet to come. He wanted to map his grief, unfold it on the floor and trace with his finger where he’d been. Here is where I cried. Here is where I walked away from my memories.

If things seemed good he would convince himself to stay in a Stage, basking in his achievement. Some nice apartments around here, eh? Denial Street might not be so bad. Apple Store. Beaming People walking along the sidewalks. His image posted on Light Posts to remind him of who he was supposed to be.

But the rents must be sky-high! Are you kidding? I know people!

He’d drive along the Boulevard clasping the steering wheel and count the Stages out loud, fingers standing when he named one. At Five, one hand flared out while the other remained tightly fisted, like magician’s hands pulling scarves from nowhere. He was stumped by the Good Stages, assuming there were some. Were they all angst? Would he just drop at the end from Pain to Normalcy like a War Veteran? Where was Inertia Street? Silence Street?

He passed Moving On Street. Snazzy girls with Flapper Hats would be bouncing along, music making their shoulders twitch. Heads would happily pop out of windows to see Who’s Back. Doors would open to a Tattoo Parlor where his Trip Through Grief would be etched on his chest. He’d admire the veiny forearms of the tattooist and the Maps lined over the artist’s heart as well.

He’d lean back when he drove, one hand draped over the wheel and the other thrust into the road ahead.

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