The Fate of Things

I’m not dying, at least of anything I am aware of. But, if you think about it, aren’t we all on the journey towards death the moment we are born? Never mind, I’m not here to be a smart ass. I just recently read an article in the New York Times called The Lonely Death of George Bell. It’s about what happens to someone when they die who have no dependents or next of kin. George Bell died alone in his apartment and wasn’t found for at least a week when a neighbour noticed the smell.

The article was right up my alley because dying alone is something I think about pretty much every day. You could even call it a hobby. Haven’t you ever played the game of — How am I going to die? I do it all the time. You know, for fun.

The way I might die that I think of the most is similar to George Bell. My condo is a two-storey loft with a pretty steep staircase. During one especially serious day of cleaning, I used Pledge on the wooden stairs, which made them really shiny, but also, very slippery. I figured this was it. This was how I was going to die. Maybe I’d wake up early one morning still half asleep and forget about the Pledge. The steps go straight down and weave around to the first floor. I’d probably break my neck as I rolled down, changing direction to slam on to the cement floor. Or, fall with such force that I’d smash right through the window where the stairs curve and bounce off the balcony.

My point is not to be morbid. We are just so scared of talking about death, which to me is the morbid part. I’ve experienced death in my lifetime, and it was sad and traumatic and it sucked. It may seem that I am making light of it, and maybe I am, but what else should we do with it? Death is something that all of us will experience, either through our friends, family, and loved ones and of course, eventually, sooner or later, ourselves. You could say it levels the playing field.

My latest favourite way of dying is by stepping out of a streetcar and getting hit by a car. If you live in Toronto, you can skip to the next paragraph. That’s where I live, in Toronto, and we still have streetcars. Most streets are two lanes, so when a streetcar stops, there is still a lane between it and the sidewalk. Cars are supposed to stop to allow the streetcar passengers a safe crossing on to the sidewalk.

Strictly, in my opinion, 87% of all drivers are pretty dumb. Even though the streetcar doors open with stop signs on them and there are flashing lights, drivers speed past the open doors all the time. And more often than not, when the streetcar driver lays on the horn to let the car know they are being dumb, they usually look confused and oblivious to the fact that they could have almost killed about ten people. Whenever I exit a streetcar, I let the doors open, and I stick my head out to check and ensure that the cars have stopped. And there still has been one or two close calls.

Another game I like to play, say on a rainy Sunday when you don’t feel like going anywhere is — If I died right now, and there was an investigation into my death, what kind of profile would they come up with by going through my things? They would definitely determine, pretty much right away, that I had been single, and for a long time. I mean, they might’ve already gleaned that since most likely I died by falling down the stairs. They’d think that I was pretty clean, or at least I’d hope they thought I was pretty clean. That everything had a place, and not only a place but The Right Place.

I don’t really have many possessions or items that hold that much significance to me. I don’t really believe in things representing people or memories or experiences. Those people or memories or experiences are a part of me, whether I have a trinket that reminds me of it or not. In fact, I recently got rid of at least half of my possessions. I live in a small condo, and one of the things I enjoy most about it is the lack of storage space. It means I can’t really keep things. I spent a weekend a few weeks ago gleefully bringing box after box to the garbage bin area of the building. And to this day, I sometimes walk around my apartment, stop with my hands on hips at the well-organized closet or open the near-empty kitchen cabinets, and marvel at all the space.

One of the only things that concerned me about throwing out was my old notebooks. Two boxes of old notebooks going back twenty years. I’ve just automatically kept them, thinking they held something important between their covers. That they might revel something when I’m old and (maybe, but unlikely) dying of old age. Something meaningful. Or, my kids or nephews might be interested in who I was after the streetcar accident. But really, I’m 91% sure that I’m not going to have any kids, and the family members that were dead and gone long before I got here were probably much more interesting to me because of the mystery. Besides, I’d be lying if I said there is anything profound in my notebooks. Sure, I carry one around with me everywhere, but they’re mostly full of lists of things to do, or the scribbles of what probably looks like a madman to anyone else except me. There was a little tinge of regret right after I dumped the notebooks, but that has since gone away.

George Bell was a hoarder. What’s the opposite of a hoarder? I actually looked it up, and don’t worry, I’m not at all surprised to see that it is a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. According to The Atlantic: “Compulsive decluttering is a pattern of behaviour that is characterized by an excessive desire to discard objects in one’s home. It is sometimes called obsessive-compulsive spartanism. It is the act of throwing items, or clutter, away, or getting rid of them in an attempt to clean up what one may think is cluttered.” I wrote the paragraphs about throwing stuff away and thought I should look up if there is something official that is the opposite of hoarding. This is one of the fun things about writing — when you reveal something about yourself and end up getting diagnosed with a new mental health disorder.

It fits though because for me it’s all about control. Even if I’m throwing things away, I like the control of knowing where they’re going. That if I died today, right now, I’d know the fate of things.

Giving or throwing away these things created complicated feelings. There was an immediate relief, a liberation from these things that are only meaningful because I give them meaning. Right after the liberating feelings, there was an immediate pang of regret as though I was doing something wrong or irresponsible. Shouldn’t I value these things more? Feel the privilege of being able to own things? But, that’s all they are: things. They are not another person smiling at me, or a tight embrace from a friend. They are not a piece of theatre unfolding in front of me. And they do nothing but remind me of all the tiny shards that have made me, instead of the person that sits here right now.

So, I’ve gotten rid of most of the evidence. I don’t think the investigators would really gather that much information from my place. I don’t leave many clues behind. I actually like to operate in the world as though I was never there. I don’t really know why. For example, if I stay at a friend’s house or even my mom’s house, when I leave, I clean up the room in an attempt to put it back to the exact way it was before my arrival. Sure, this is a polite thing to do. What about a hotel room? I don’t like cleaning staff coming into my room while I’m staying there, so I usually have the Do Not Disturb sign out front. I can handle it, thank you very much. And when I leave, I make the bed and put everything back exactly how I found it. Is that weird? Probably.

A part of me believes this is sad, as though I am trying to erase my footprints behind me as I walk forward. Like a ghost. Like I was never there. In the movie Heat, Robert DeNiro’s bank-robbing character said: “Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.” DeNiro’s apartment in this movie has no furniture, so he’s definitely a compulsive declutterer. But also, he might have to go on the run because he’s a bank robber and murderer. I’ve not robbed any banks or killed anyone. I don’t know what my version would be of the heat around the corner. Sometimes I just feel like I don’t deserve to be in certain spaces, I don’t want to take up people’s time.

In addition to the game of how am I going to die, it sometimes takes me over in an even more immediate way. Another thing that I gave away was my car. It was mostly sitting unused in the parking garage of my condo building. After moving back downtown a few years ago, I just didn’t need it anymore. Sometimes when I’d be driving, I’d see stupid things people do, risks they took while driving (remember 87% of all drivers are dumb), and I’d see the alternative results of their stupidity stretch out in my imagination. A driver waiting to make a left turn thinks he can make it before I get to the intersection, but of course, he cannot. Bang, five-car pile-up. I also think of this when I’m biking, which is a much more vulnerable place to be. These are just fleeting thoughts, and I’m sure I have them much more frequently than I can even recall. Just, you know, maneuvering around a giant pothole and having the vision of what could have happened.

You would think that living a life where you’re constantly seeing all the alternatives would be debilitating and make me completely indecisive. It’s actually the opposite and makes making decisions and sticking to them easy. When you’re faced with a myriad of options, you pick one. It may not be the best one, it may not be the right one. But it really doesn’t matter because whatever decision you make is the only one you’ll see play out.

When I think about this stuff, I do take comfort in believing that we exist on a continuum. Our parents, or if your parents sucked, the people who helped you grow into the old person you’ve become. That there are people who have affected our lives, we’ve carried their lessons or burdens forward through us, and if we’re lucky, pass them on to other people. Or actively break the patterns of bad stuff.

More so than actually dying, I think that’s what really scares me, that I have not used the things that have been given to me by others, add to them, do something new with them. To not give these things I’ve thrown away a second thought, and to instead see the details of the world around me and to pay attention to the signs and to not be afraid of what will happen, instead take great comfort in being here and being able to make fun of how it’s all going to end.