"Man Teabagged in Kitchen"

      "Walter needs a change," he thinks tiredly to himself in the third-person one bitterly cold mid-February afternoon. Languishing through another obligatory three-hour break between shifts, the sort that wide-stance a workday to improbable lengths. The drive home had been nondescript, slow-going and mindful of ice. Lunch is likewise nondescript, a can of microwaved SpaghettiOs® and a pressed-ham-product sandwich over tea. Between the bland mouthfuls and bleak view of his snowbound backyard Walter begins to feel a bit compressed, spiritually.

      That is to say, having been dancing about the edge of depression for such a long stretch of time today Walter becomes acutely aware his feelings have clutch-and-shifted gear into a newer, much more thorough stage. Between bland mouthfuls of ham and tomato stuff he wonders what day it is, either a Tuesday or a Friday. That he cannot for the life of himself remember - and that even if he could it wouldn't have mattered - Walter realizes that his life had become an empty one, an interminable march toward old age and unbending routine.

      This clutch-shift feels like an icy cavity in Walter's chest, combined with what might have been the beginning of a cough tightening. For all intents and purposes he might well have died inside for the feel of it, and all the hot tea in the world couldn't revitalize him. There seemed no way out; his salary was enough to pay the bills, but so far as savings went they hardly came enough to go again. No, short of finding a miracle job online there was no discernible way up from the rut.

      And it was a thought, the job search. A few clicks and clacks here, a point of the mouse there, upload, send and wait. If it were but that simple. Daunting, even in the best of moods. And as things are, Walter can scarcely find the energy to rinse his bowl and rack it. So he shoots back the mug, getting at the last bit of tea and - fwooph! - the soggy bag comes with it and nestles itself into the back of Walter's throat, catching his gag reflex in addition to cutting off his air supply.

Shocking! - Man Teabagged In Kitchen

      He tries retching it up, mind in a state of shock and panic. "My god, I'm going to die from a teabag," he thinks to himself frantically. He could visualize the scurrilous headlines, Man Teabagged In Kitchen, drawing in readers for a bit of a laugh at his expense. Unable to work the bag out with his neck muscles, he attempts to reach in with his fingers to try and wrest it out. Desperate probing gropings about the inside of his lukewarm mouth as his digits stretch themselves to their fullest, scarcely able to touch the filter material. Then suddenly he remembers the string! The string and tag are still hanging out of his face.

      Walter gives it an enthusiastic tug. Damnation if the string doesn't tear free of its bag! He looks at it swinging limply with disbelief as his free hand tugs absently at his collar. Dying, running out of air. Drowning dry. Already the pressure on his head is beginning to tighten. Pulsating in and out, losing clarity. He leans over against the fridge, fingers resuming their last ditch search for the bag.

      For naught.  Air. Needing air as the blackness envelops him. Fading, going, dropping to the floor and at last retching dying gone.

"The Throes"

Marianne sits weeping to herself in the corner.  Poor Marianne.  The kids (but they aren’t kids anymore, are they?) are on their way, and Walter struggles against what may well be the last sleep.  The immobile frailty of his limbs, the tinny taste in his mouth, the drug-dimmed bowel pain turned to terrible numbness; unpleasant omens all, in his opinion.

This is it, Walter thinks to himself.  I’m dying, the jig is up, the farm has been cashed, bucket kicked.  He lies helplessly in his uncomfortable hospice cot in the hellishly sanitary mint green room.  An assortment of important looking machines blip softly, rhythmically.  Rubber lifelines and plastic tubes and electric cables connect Walter variously to medications and oxygen, to plasma; to the wall socket like some sort of appliance.

How best to sum up a life? he wonders.  Knowing the time is at hand, what can one really say before stepping off life’s magnificent stage?  How much his wife and kids and friends all meant?  How a lifetime of useless work has been tragically cut short before reaching retirement?  How his only vice ended up being the instrument of his demise?  How is Walter to be remembered at his deathbed?

Therein lies the rub.  Having been a fairly well-read person in his youth, Walter can think back to the wonderful deathbed expressions that make for such fine retelling.  Either these curtains go or I do.  Show my head to the people, it is worth seeing.  Jefferson still survives.  Drink to me.  It’s my turn to take a leap into the darkness.  That sort of thing.

The kids arrive.  Thomas and Bobby and Carol and their wives and husband Walter never particularly cared for.  Carol and Bobby are crying and Thomas might be too were it possible.  Marianne leaves quietly, having been sitting there in her corner most of the morning.  The kids are all talking, at him or to him, it doesn’t make much sense.  Walter’s eyesight is starting to loop in and out and in, and their words are all sounding foreign to his ears.  The tinny taste is terrible but fast fading, and Walter feels as though he is getting immeasurably lighter. 

“Is this death, then?” he thinks he says as he fades out for the last-

           He hopes that those aren’t his final words to his children.  But brightness soon follows, as the room returns.  The kids are all looking at Walter nervously, Bobby with a hand on his shoulder.  He must only have faded out for a moment, and the tinny taste returns with his loathing of the room he lies in. 

“Thought my number was up,” he chuckles weakly, buying for time. 

Sum up a life, package it all up… should he say something political, something soppy, something endearing?  A piece of advice or timeless wisdom?  Should he make something up, a fantastic treasure or the like?  Should he express any regrets?  Walter doesn’t feel any, but perhaps it’s the medication making him all euphoric and indifferent.  Nurse?  Nurse?  Carol is asking if she should fetch a nurse?

“I think I’ll be resplundage,” Walter slurs, thoughts muddling.

And everything again fades out rather suddenly, and a fear grips at his chest.  Ye gods, this is it, sure as a day, ended on a daft note.  And as he tumbles into the dismal blackness he is brought just as quickly back with a jolt; a literal, painful jolt as a mint green clad doctor takes the defibu-whatsits from off Walter’s wheezing, panicked chest.

They’ve got an oxygen mask over his mouth and he knows this is it, third time going down fire for the count and all.  Walter would wrest it off and away if he could but lift his arms, tell them he loves them without being able to remember who they are particularly.  Something, anything.  His lips are moving, he attempts to speak something, anything.  It is Thomas who comes forward and pulls back the death mask from his face.  Sum up a life, a happy life with time running short-

“I’ve eaten a lot of good food,” Walter says feebly, and dies promptly thereafter.