NOVEMBER 26, 1934
I WENT TO THE DOCKS. There was a garbage barge taking off that I managed to jump on. As it weighed anchor, I spotted a familiar all-black figure standing by the water’s edge watching me. The Grim Reaper raised his hand to his cap and walked off wordlessly. I suppose matters were settled between us.
As I lay amongst the piled eggshells and banana peels, I remembered thinking that I wouldn’t have been able to stand the smell if I was still alive. I could still smell it—after a fashion—but it didn’t bother me.
I had one last Lucky Strike. Not sure quite what I had been holding onto it for, but I pulled it out. I also pulled out the head and held it aloft. “Alas, poor Yorick.” I grinned as I set the head down in a little pile of garbage, on top of a plush red pillow I thin
