An assignment...

Here's something pretty dumb I wrote for class at the University of Iowa. We were supposed to write the first two pages of what would be a 600-page autobiography. Considering I have no idea why I would write one or what stage of my life I'd be compelled to write one, this is what I came up with. It was fun to write and it got a few good reactions from the class, so I thought I'd share.

A JACKASS IN THE WRY

One thing I’ve been known to say is, “You know what I’ll never say on my deathbed? ‘I wish I kept a cleaner apartment.’” It was a statement that reflected my ignorance toward the unimportant things in life. It’s not like I was a total slob or anything, but keeping a tidy house was never a priority. Neither was making sure my hair was kempt or if I was wearing the latest clothes. All trivial shit to impress people I didn’t know and might not have liked, as far as I’m concerned.

Did I know what was important? I like to think so otherwise telling my story would be a waste, just as much as you reading it. Then again, I could be wrong. For as much as I’m aware, I could be the biggest anarchistic asshole who’s ever had a go at writing.

So the question is: did I say that as I choked away at my last breaths? I don’t know. I’m not dead yet. Sorry about that. (If you read this during my post-mortem years, add ten points because someone is always keeping score.)

So, yes, as you start reading this, I’m sorry to say it doesn’t have the ending you’ll expect. In fact, I don’t know the ending yet. I hope its something pleasurable, like dying peacefully in my sleep. Never mind what I just wrote. Another thing I’ve been known to say, depending on my mood, was, “I want to die in a headline.” Since I began writing the stories — not the headlines, mind you — I’ve seen the spectacular ways people have come to their demise. Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Acute toxicity due to barbiturates. Blood-alcohol concentration of 0.58. You know, like The Joker used to say, “If you have to go, go with a smile.” Well, we all have to go. Me, this ship hasn’t sank yet, so we’ll leave this ending open for now.

I’m not sure if my life reads as a cautionary tale or as an epic. I’d like it to be both, but more of the latter. Right now, I’ve got a Marlboro burning in the ashtray and an open Corona between it and the MacBook I’m writing on while most of my body is covered in an orange, blue and white plaid bathrobe I bought in college at a thrift store for twenty-five cents. To some, this sounds disgusting. To others — writers, most likely — this sounds like an all-too-familiar comfort they wish they could retreat to while waiting for some flight in some airport or some turd in some bathroom while reading this rubbish.

Then again, with this lifestyle, the headline will most likely read, “Homeless man found dead on Turnpike, body run over repeatedly.” Either the cancer or the craziness got to me first. Whoever came in second was the real winner. There was much less work to do afterwards.

But I really can’t even mention homelessness without interjecting with Dude. He was a 44-year old homeless man I met in 2004 while still a young pup of a newspaper reporter. Actually, I’d been one for about two weeks when I found him. Not really found, because that makes it sound like an accident. I went looking for him. When you’re trying to make a name for yourself in the news game and a homeless man whose legal first name is Dude who makes about $52,000 a year panhandling gets arrested for taking a piss on the local movie theater, you better move your ass to track him down and interview him. I did that.

Well, Dude’s philosophy and outlook on life probably shaped my deathbed apartment statement. Dude — not too clean and apartment-less — was talkative the whole six hours I spent with him drinking behind a gas station in Davenport, Iowa. Then again, my death headline could have read, “Local reporter stabbed to death behind gas station, homeless man charged.” Whatever. It was a hell of a good time and it ran on the front page.