Night of the Living Brain-Dead
Have you ever wondered how dead bodies are transported? By armored car perhaps, or helicopter? My associate, Dale Bandersnatch, and I discovered the nightmarish truth one morning: they are transported by Washington, D.C. subway! That’s right, the bodies are intermingled with those of live commuters, smuggled along right next to you. We have obtained confidential documents detailing the plans for concealment of this atrocity, which state that the underlying reason for using the subway is that you CAN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE between a live D.C. commuter and a dead one.
This disconcerting fact was revealed to my associate and me when, while innocently waiting for our stop in our customary state of wide-eyed vegetative expectation, we were horrified to notice that we were surrounded by dead people! Now we are not easily fooled, let me tell you, but we noticed that all the signs were there: droopy facial expression, closed or semi-closed eyes, slack body posture. We became alarmed and utilized covert maneuvers to wake them up (taking our clothes off, for instance), but to no avail. We thought we saw one of them shift position, but this was only because the train stopped suddenly. There were also several dead people stacked up along the walls and doors; when the doors opened they simply fell out and were presumably picked up and carted off to downtown cemeteries by Metro personnel. We jumped off the train and ran from car to car, and our darkest suspicions were confirmed: they were all dead!
After making numerous contributions to powerful local politicians, we were presented with a package containing data on a new disease: D.C. Greater Metropolitan Area Existential Angst. The common breed of D.C. commuter fits the classic profile. Apparently the disease manifests itself while the victim reads one Washington Post too many on the way to work (the actual quantity required can vary, depending on genetic background and personal habits). The first sign is likely to appear when a self-consciously socially aware yet also upwardly mobile and secretly aspiring to Trumphood individual falls asleep right in the middle of wrestling with complex international problems as they appear in the “World News” section, to wit: “The latest wave of demonstrations zzzzzzzzzzz abiding public skepticism zzzzzzzzz denounced the administration zzzzzzzz called for free elections and the abolition of repressive zzzzzzzzz.” This phenomenon is easily observed on a typical subway commute. Trenchcoats and briefcases also appear to be predisposing factors.
After onset, the next episode is likely to involve lapsing into a past-life regression while reading a perfectly normal article, say, on the “Metro” page. For instance: “Former Mayor-for-Life Marion Barry was accused today of purchasing and possessing a large red plastic nose obtained from Bozo the Clown, whom he was seen meeting with in a luxury hotel in the Virgin Islands. [Bozo is known to be an international large red nose dealer.] When questioned by reporters, Barry denied the charge, stating that the media shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that he had actually purchased a large red nose, and he certainly wasn’t even aware that Bozo was in the large red nose market anyway. ‘This is just another example of the media conspiring to discredit me,’ he said while scratching under his large red nose.”
The victim is likely to wake up in a cold sweat, noticing just then that (bing bong!) the doors are closing on Farragut West and he will have to get off at Foggy Bottom. The next time he rides the subway, he will find himself slipping into a coma almost immediately upon sitting down and not waking up until several stops too late. Unfortunately, the victim is not likely to seek treatment, because peer pressure will convince him that this is simply the normal state of affairs; indeed, all he has to do to confirm this is to look around him, and he will see people who are actually dead. So how bad off can he be? He still lifts an eyelid once every five or six stops. It’s only those other people who have a real problem. During this phase the victim will be able to maintain the characteristic droopy, expressionless gaze all the way to his office building door, only snapping out of it when he gets onto the same elevator as his company president.
The final stage of the disease features escape fantasies of running off to join the Canadian ski patrol or to open a Tahitian branch for one’s firm, involving elaborate communications via fax and modem. If the victim is lucky, he will refrain from actually proposing this at the next planning meeting. The last fellow who tried this ended up on the island of Tonga with nothing but his laptop, and we are told it was not at all what he had expected. Apparently he was approached by natives while operating a graphics program and had a very hard time explaining such “magic.” His head will be on display at the newly opened Smithsonian Exhibition of Post-Employment Artifacts. Next of kin have filed a class-action suit in the D.C. Superior Court, charging the government and numerous corporations with conspiracy and negligent boredom.
When questioned about this case, attorneys for the defendants maintained they had no knowledge of the syndrome or of the disposal operations, declining to provide any details. It has been difficult to obtain witnesses because they are all suffering from the same disease. An inside informer, however, conceded off the record that the day of reckoning was near, and that once the disease reached the train engineers, the entire subway system could be shut down. It remains to be seen whether the government will admit to violating §321.659(a)(2)(G) of the Code of D.C. Mass Transit, which states in relevant part that “no unaccompanied dead people are allowed on the subway during rush hours, except at the front and rear cars of the train.”
It can take years for a D.C. commuter to realize he is actually dead. And a dead person’s problems only increase when he gets off the subway and enters the world of the living. Once word gets around that you are dead, you can’t get adequate housing, no one will hire you, banks revoke your credit. Friends stop coming to visit. Being dead in D.C. can be depressing. Even though the dead people are in the majority, they are still treated like second-class citizens.
But there are some jobs available if you know where to look. You could, for instance, hire yourself out as a third commuter for HOV lanes. You could prop open doors, work for the D.C. government or pose as the latest homicide victim for TV news programs. One man had himself cremated and sold himself as bags of all-purpose spice. If you have an entrepreneurial soul, and I mean that literally, there is no end to the jobs you can find under the table. I even know a bar where you can pretend you’re a customer and actually lie under the table all night. Nobody will bother you there, and some people might even give you spare change.
And don’t overlook the self-help books out there, both for the nouveau-dead and those who have been in that unfortunate state for some time and are just now realizing it. Denial is a hallmark of this disease. But once you admit the problem, there are numerous titles on the bookshelves to help you: 101 Uses for a Dead Commuter, Men Who Are Dead and the Women Who Love Them, How to Kill Friends and Influence Dead People. Or you can just stay home and watch any number of the new shows that have been designed to meet the burgeoning consumer needs of the dead market. Someone said Oprah did a recent show featuring dead people from D.C. discussing the special needs of their unique lifestyles. Or if TV bores you (which is difficult for a dead person), you can always take in a movie. A long while back, The Hunt for Dead October was a big hit. Dead on the Fourth of July appealed to the macho crowd, and if you have a more philosophical bent, try Dances With Corpses.
But unfortunately, all these methods are only stop-gap. Eventually, the typical dead person will grow weary of his lifestyle and may even have fantasies of doing away with himself. Once he realizes that suicide is not a viable option, he is liable to consider doing something even more rash. Running for elected office, for instance, or going to work for the Postal Service's dead-letter division.
Nobody but me seems to be publicly acknowledging this problem. That’s why I thought I had better speak out. Recognition of the problem is crucial if we are to solve it. Why do you think D.C. is in such a mess? It’s not because of poor leadership, a lack of statehood, or economic recession. It’s because the city is populated by so many dead people! This is why, for instance, the lines at the DMV are so long, and the real estate market is beginning to slump after the boom. Who wants to sell their house to a dead person? For one thing, dead people don’t have any money. For another, when a dead person moves in your neighborhood, the property values go down. Who wants to live next to a dead person? They’re ugly, they’re smelly and they have dull parties. And they never mow their lawns.
I would go on, but I don’t want to beat a dead horse.
This disconcerting fact was revealed to my associate and me when, while innocently waiting for our stop in our customary state of wide-eyed vegetative expectation, we were horrified to notice that we were surrounded by dead people! Now we are not easily fooled, let me tell you, but we noticed that all the signs were there: droopy facial expression, closed or semi-closed eyes, slack body posture. We became alarmed and utilized covert maneuvers to wake them up (taking our clothes off, for instance), but to no avail. We thought we saw one of them shift position, but this was only because the train stopped suddenly. There were also several dead people stacked up along the walls and doors; when the doors opened they simply fell out and were presumably picked up and carted off to downtown cemeteries by Metro personnel. We jumped off the train and ran from car to car, and our darkest suspicions were confirmed: they were all dead!
After making numerous contributions to powerful local politicians, we were presented with a package containing data on a new disease: D.C. Greater Metropolitan Area Existential Angst. The common breed of D.C. commuter fits the classic profile. Apparently the disease manifests itself while the victim reads one Washington Post too many on the way to work (the actual quantity required can vary, depending on genetic background and personal habits). The first sign is likely to appear when a self-consciously socially aware yet also upwardly mobile and secretly aspiring to Trumphood individual falls asleep right in the middle of wrestling with complex international problems as they appear in the “World News” section, to wit: “The latest wave of demonstrations zzzzzzzzzzz abiding public skepticism zzzzzzzzz denounced the administration zzzzzzzz called for free elections and the abolition of repressive zzzzzzzzz.” This phenomenon is easily observed on a typical subway commute. Trenchcoats and briefcases also appear to be predisposing factors.
After onset, the next episode is likely to involve lapsing into a past-life regression while reading a perfectly normal article, say, on the “Metro” page. For instance: “Former Mayor-for-Life Marion Barry was accused today of purchasing and possessing a large red plastic nose obtained from Bozo the Clown, whom he was seen meeting with in a luxury hotel in the Virgin Islands. [Bozo is known to be an international large red nose dealer.] When questioned by reporters, Barry denied the charge, stating that the media shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that he had actually purchased a large red nose, and he certainly wasn’t even aware that Bozo was in the large red nose market anyway. ‘This is just another example of the media conspiring to discredit me,’ he said while scratching under his large red nose.”
The victim is likely to wake up in a cold sweat, noticing just then that (bing bong!) the doors are closing on Farragut West and he will have to get off at Foggy Bottom. The next time he rides the subway, he will find himself slipping into a coma almost immediately upon sitting down and not waking up until several stops too late. Unfortunately, the victim is not likely to seek treatment, because peer pressure will convince him that this is simply the normal state of affairs; indeed, all he has to do to confirm this is to look around him, and he will see people who are actually dead. So how bad off can he be? He still lifts an eyelid once every five or six stops. It’s only those other people who have a real problem. During this phase the victim will be able to maintain the characteristic droopy, expressionless gaze all the way to his office building door, only snapping out of it when he gets onto the same elevator as his company president.
The final stage of the disease features escape fantasies of running off to join the Canadian ski patrol or to open a Tahitian branch for one’s firm, involving elaborate communications via fax and modem. If the victim is lucky, he will refrain from actually proposing this at the next planning meeting. The last fellow who tried this ended up on the island of Tonga with nothing but his laptop, and we are told it was not at all what he had expected. Apparently he was approached by natives while operating a graphics program and had a very hard time explaining such “magic.” His head will be on display at the newly opened Smithsonian Exhibition of Post-Employment Artifacts. Next of kin have filed a class-action suit in the D.C. Superior Court, charging the government and numerous corporations with conspiracy and negligent boredom.
When questioned about this case, attorneys for the defendants maintained they had no knowledge of the syndrome or of the disposal operations, declining to provide any details. It has been difficult to obtain witnesses because they are all suffering from the same disease. An inside informer, however, conceded off the record that the day of reckoning was near, and that once the disease reached the train engineers, the entire subway system could be shut down. It remains to be seen whether the government will admit to violating §321.659(a)(2)(G) of the Code of D.C. Mass Transit, which states in relevant part that “no unaccompanied dead people are allowed on the subway during rush hours, except at the front and rear cars of the train.”
It can take years for a D.C. commuter to realize he is actually dead. And a dead person’s problems only increase when he gets off the subway and enters the world of the living. Once word gets around that you are dead, you can’t get adequate housing, no one will hire you, banks revoke your credit. Friends stop coming to visit. Being dead in D.C. can be depressing. Even though the dead people are in the majority, they are still treated like second-class citizens.
But there are some jobs available if you know where to look. You could, for instance, hire yourself out as a third commuter for HOV lanes. You could prop open doors, work for the D.C. government or pose as the latest homicide victim for TV news programs. One man had himself cremated and sold himself as bags of all-purpose spice. If you have an entrepreneurial soul, and I mean that literally, there is no end to the jobs you can find under the table. I even know a bar where you can pretend you’re a customer and actually lie under the table all night. Nobody will bother you there, and some people might even give you spare change.
And don’t overlook the self-help books out there, both for the nouveau-dead and those who have been in that unfortunate state for some time and are just now realizing it. Denial is a hallmark of this disease. But once you admit the problem, there are numerous titles on the bookshelves to help you: 101 Uses for a Dead Commuter, Men Who Are Dead and the Women Who Love Them, How to Kill Friends and Influence Dead People. Or you can just stay home and watch any number of the new shows that have been designed to meet the burgeoning consumer needs of the dead market. Someone said Oprah did a recent show featuring dead people from D.C. discussing the special needs of their unique lifestyles. Or if TV bores you (which is difficult for a dead person), you can always take in a movie. A long while back, The Hunt for Dead October was a big hit. Dead on the Fourth of July appealed to the macho crowd, and if you have a more philosophical bent, try Dances With Corpses.
But unfortunately, all these methods are only stop-gap. Eventually, the typical dead person will grow weary of his lifestyle and may even have fantasies of doing away with himself. Once he realizes that suicide is not a viable option, he is liable to consider doing something even more rash. Running for elected office, for instance, or going to work for the Postal Service's dead-letter division.
Nobody but me seems to be publicly acknowledging this problem. That’s why I thought I had better speak out. Recognition of the problem is crucial if we are to solve it. Why do you think D.C. is in such a mess? It’s not because of poor leadership, a lack of statehood, or economic recession. It’s because the city is populated by so many dead people! This is why, for instance, the lines at the DMV are so long, and the real estate market is beginning to slump after the boom. Who wants to sell their house to a dead person? For one thing, dead people don’t have any money. For another, when a dead person moves in your neighborhood, the property values go down. Who wants to live next to a dead person? They’re ugly, they’re smelly and they have dull parties. And they never mow their lawns.
I would go on, but I don’t want to beat a dead horse.
posted by Christine M. Hanson | 1:29 PM
1 Comments:
Quite amusing. Well done.
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