And don’t even ask about the Black Truffle Risotto and Veal Sweetbreads.
Yeah, you name it, I got it. Butt-Meat Brioche with Saffron. Tagliarini Ravioli Stuffed with Chopped Bowel and Roasted Pearl Onions. Sliced Tongue in Bell Pepper Curry Saute. Eggplant and Testicle Puree, Bacon-Sprinkled Poached Brain Pudding, and Crispy Dick Skin Cordon Bleu.
The fuckers can’t get enough.
Oh, yeah. I never did tell you exactly where I work, did I? That’s the best part about my little revolution.
I filled out one of those Anti-Discrimination Protection Act forms, and applied with the same bunch of two-faced, phony cocksuckers who started all this shit.
Yeah, that’s right, partner. I’m the head chef at the United States Senate Dining Room.
And—how do you like that!
Some poor fucker just ordered my first-class Chimol Tossed Headcheese Salad.
Matt Johnson
HIS HAPPENED IN the fall, nine-odd months after Dick passed.
I was getting some pretty good sleep for once, and he just up and called me in the middle of the night. Don’t get all goopy and trippy about it. It wasn’t “ghostly” or all that “inspirational,” and there wasn’t any Touched by an Angel garbage. Not that I ever watch that show, you understand, but you get my meaning.
I’m also not sitting around fretting and knitting my brow about whether Dick is in heaven or what. I figure mostly it’s a mystery, except that he exists and is able to kick back and tell a joke or two now and again, and there are other folks there who appreciate him. Good enough for you?
Anyway, I wasn’t drunk and I remembered it surprisingly well. Plus, I transcribed it as soon as I woke up. You know how dreams are, though. You can never get the whole thing right if you try to get it down on paper. Or maybe you don’t know. Whatever. This is how I remembered it then, and how I like to remember it now. It makes me smile.
Me, picking up the ringing phone at 3:00 in the goddamn morning: ’Lo?
Dick: Matt?
Me: Yeah. Who’s this?
Dick: Dick.
Me: Oh. Um, okay.
D: Hey, don’t forget to do that thing for Kelly. I’ve been sending low-level guilt rays at you and, listen, no offense, but you seem to have a lot of things going through your mind, most of which is not terribly meaningful. Lots of recipes that, frankly, sound pretty gross, some guaranteed-unsuccessful training methods to get your dog to stop peeing like a girl, wondering why your apartment’s so fucking cold all the time, that kind of thing. Pretty cluttered. So I called instead.
M: Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow.*
D: What’s wrong? You’re not offended are you?
M: Nope. You’ve, uh, been gone though.
D: Oh, I’m still gone.
M: Kinda weird to be talking to you then, I gotta say.
D: Oh, right!
M: Anyhoo, no matter. How are you, you know, doing?
D: Real good. I miss them.
M: Ann and Kelly?
D: That goes without saying. I miss everyone else too.
M: They miss you too.
D: Just Ann and Kelly or everyone?
M: Everyone. Duh.
D: Watch it, dingus, I can smite you from here.
M: Really? That’d be pretty cool. Make a good story.
D: Me smiting you for being a smartass? Shit yes. That’d make a lot of people smile.
M: Um, do you mean the story, or the actual hurting part?
D: Both, I figure.
M: Yeah, I guess that’s true enough. Remember when you tried to kill me? Jesus, we had fun that night. I know I said I’d “sue that shit-gobblin’ grin right off your face” if I had actually fallen off the balcony, but you knew I was kidding right?
D: Yeah. And you know, there’s nothing better than turning a joke of a party into an actual joke. That spilling-the-ashtray trick made my night. I took comfort in that after A Writer’s Tale didn’t win the Stoker.**
M: Hey, if my own pinheadedness can provide any bit of happiness, I’ll continue down that road. Not that I’ve got a choice.
D: So is South Park still on these days?
M: Yep, but it’s gone downhill. I guess its moment has passed. But people can always look back at what once was and enjoy the memory.
D: That was pretty thinly veiled, kid. You getting heavy on me? Doesn’t really suit you.
M: Yeah, I know. But smartasses aren’t always smartasses.
D: That’s right. Sometimes they’re dumbasses.
M: Spot on, my friend. Spot on.
D: You have to wake up now, otherwise your dog is gonna pee on the rug. I know how much that worries you.
M: At the moment, it’s not all that much. So I guess I’ll see ya?
D: Yep, I’ll see ya.
And that was it. Just a nice way for my own subconscious to tell me that everything’s okay with my friend, and giving me a chance to talk to him again. If you knew him, I hope you’ve had similar dreams. If you didn’t, I hope you can at least picture him sitting at his desk, looking like a jolly accountant, grinning like the very devil, grinding out his unmistakable literary nastiness. If that image doesn’t make the body of work he left us with that much more precious, then it damn well should.
So I guess I’ll see ya.
*This lie was not intentional. I promise. But I did do it.
** I could explain this further, but I’m not going to.
