Naked and Stiff
About twenty five years ago I had lunch with a man who, earlier in the day, shot himself in the head. The small caliber bullet entered at his temple and rattled around inside his skull and turned his brain into scrambled eggs.
I opened my paper lunch sack. He layed there, naked and stiff, on a metal table.
“Do you feel any better?” I asked.
No answer.
I took a bite of my sandwich. He layed there, naked and stiff, on a metal table.
“Are you in any pain?” I asked.
No answer.
I sipped my soda. He layed there, naked and stiff, on a metal table.
“Do you miss your family and friends?” I asked.
No answer.
I ate a potato chip. He layed there, naked and stiff, on a metal table.
“While it’s just you and me, is there anything you want to say?” I asked.
No answer.
I put the remains of my lunch neatly in my brown bag. He layed there, naked and stiff, on a metal table.
“So,” I asked. “Did it help?”
No answer.
I threw out my trash and left. He layed there, naked and stiff, on a metal table.
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