John Finley Walk
I was in a taxi cab on my way - I don't even remember
where - when a hearse passed by. The cab driver caught my eye in the mirror: "Well, he's got it easy now, I guess."
"What do you mean", I asked?
"Him, the guy who's dead. Nothing more for him to worry
about. No bills to pay. No mouths to feed. He's got it made", he said.
"Do you really think so," I asked.
"Yeah, I do.
He was only about thirty years old. I looked at his name and figured him for Russian.
"After all," he continued, this - this is hell, right
here. This is where we were put to suffer. What could be worse?"
I didn't think he was going to get large tips with this line of banter, but we went on with the hearse in front of us now.
"Well, you believe in heaven and hell, I can see
that. But don't you think that hell might be worse? You
don't know anything about him. Maybe he was happy while he was
The cab driver looked, this time, turning his head, "I doubt it. And nothin' can be worse than this. Nothin'"
I thought of how lucky I was - sitting in that cab going around doing what I wanted most of the time.
THE GLADLY DEAD
"In a soil thick with snails and rich as grease
I've longed to dig myself a good deep grave,
There to stretch my old bones at ease
And sleep in oblivion, like a shark in a wave." - Flowers of Evil, Baudelaire