Exit Interview

“I want to die in a movie theater.  You know?  Just crawl in there, buy my ticket, and die between the second and third acts of some flickering dream.  The cleanup man will find me and wonder for a moment who to call first.  And even though I’ll die in the dark like a human being is supposed to, I’ll make the newspaper.”

“And how do you plan on doing this?  Targeting your death to a point somewhere in a two hour span?”

“I’m not saying I’m going to kill myself.  It’s like saying you want to die while you’re sleeping or die making love or die in a worthwhile battle.  Of course I can’t just do it.  But that’s how I would like to go.”

“It’s funny that we say go when really it’s stop.  That’s how you would like to stop.”

“We say go in the sense of leaving.”

“Implying that we’re heading somewhere else.”

“Exactly.”

“So life is a journey, but death is a destination.”

“Well, I would say it’s a different leg of the same journey.  But to take your cue, that word, destination—there’s the opportunity for more wordplay.”

“How so?”

“Well, now, in our permanently marketed world, we’ve made the idea of destination optimistic.  There are thousands of locales, targets, drop-off points readily accessible by air and sea.  The idea that a place that has existed long before you got there and will go on so long after you leave is a bordered, confined spot designed for your observation and enjoyment, ready to be digested by your memory.  But, really, within destination is contained the idea of destiny.  You’re meant to be there.  Rubber-stamped and approved by the fates.”

“Even if your destination is Destin, Florida?”

“Even if your destination is a movie theater on a Friday afternoon ten years from now.”

“Hopefully more than that.”

“Hopefully not watching Final Destination IX.”

“Har, har.”

“Anyway, why did you say ‘in the dark, like a human is supposed to’?  What’s that belief?”

“Nothing.  I guess thought it would sound dramatic.”

“We do all secretly hope for dramatic deaths.”

“I’m not sure I totally know what I meant.  I guess I thought of dogs climbing under houses and cats refusing to come out from behind the dryer.”

“Cats hide when they’re going to give birth.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Well, I guess it’s another long-held belief obliterated by contemporary optimism.  Animals know death is darkness.  We know it, too.  Waking up every day, it’s like being reborn.  It’s like a constant reminder of how you could’ve just as easily stayed that way, still and unconscious, and never have known.  I’m scared when I wake up in the morning.  I think, god, that could’ve been it.  And I would’ve been completely unaware.  Death is darkness.  But we’ve been told for years that the onset of death is accompanied by a bright, white light or the fiercest replay of your life’s memories.  We’ve tried to eradicate the need to climb out of reach into a dark corner and wait for the death we feel in our bones.”

“What we’re really scared of is change, maybe.  We’re so conditioned to expect things to go on and on, endlessly complicating our lives with accumulating memories, inexhaustible assaults of information, and bewildered cell structures straying into uselessness.  We get used to that.  We assimilate the fearsome might of Time into mundane expectation.  But to have that rug pulled out from under us, to be shot in the chest or to be diagnosed with stage three cancer, or to realize the parachute is not going to open…that’s undeniable change.  Maybe, like you said, it’s destination, but we’ve never been good at accepting destiny with pleasant manners.  So that’s why people say, ‘What a way to go!’ when someone dies doing something they love, like fucking or eating bacon or playing baseball: something within their normal realm of activity.  They’re jealous.  That bastard went out without even a hint of anxiety.”

“No, I think you’re wrong.  At least about us fearing change.  Routines aren’t pleasant to us, they just eliminate friction.  Social friction.  Spiritual friction.  Sexual friction.  Friction that saps our energy, takes it for other uses.  What we are really about is conserving energy, hanging on as long as possible.  Existing at a state of rest, holding on to our potential.  As long as we have our potential energy, the future is open, unrestricted, a line of gunpowder waiting for a spark of decision.  That’s what people really fear: the elimination of choice.  And that’s what these terminal illnesses and sudden fatal impositions do: corral the entirety of your personal lifeline into a tiny struggle for survival.  That’s the joy that others see in the man whose heart bursts making love to a woman or in a firefight with the Hun: they envy the force behind his choice.”

“Hm.”

“So your fantasy about the movie theater.  It’s not about dying dramatically or with dignity, it’s not about living on as an anomaly in print or even about the post-mortem imposition you would place on the usher.  It’s just another way to define your personality.  You would love to choose to walk into a room and know you’re not going to walk out of it.  You would love to slip away while people around you are focused on something more engaging.  You would love the anonymity.  Maybe you find the smell of popcorn comforting.  I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.  It was just a response to a question on the card you read.”

“Hm.”

“Hmmmm.”

“There’s people who define death simply as the cessation of biological function.  And there’s those who think the cessation of biological function is accompanied by a ghostly or spiritual evacuation from the body.  That our consciousness continues.  And there’s a provocative few that would argue that the soul can die even before the body, a victim of the complex world we have forced upon this planet.”

“Are we almost done here?”

“Almost.  So is there a general definition for death?  Something that contains it all without footnotes, analogies, or sub-headings?  A group of words that escapes philosophy, religion, and mathematical proofs?”

“I would say…Death is the state of being wherein a person no longer has the capacity to wonder what death means.”

“Amen.”

“Okay then.”

“One more question.”

“Shoot.”

“Would you describe your time here as excellent, very good, satisfactory, fair, or poor?”

“You mean my time here on earth?”

“Jesus, no.  At this company.”

“Oh.  Well, if I’m being honest, I’d say fair.  But I’m afraid you’re going to try and convince me fair has some overtones of judgment day or the classical Greek idea of doom being weight of measurement and balance.”

“Nope, I’m hungry and there’s a lot of paperwork to get done.  Let’s just shake hands and get on with our lives.”