A few months ago, I got home to find my housemates cooking and in the midst of a heated discussion. This isn’t irregular, but when they saw me, their tone turned serious. “Sam, we need to talk.”
“Give me a minute,” I called as I set down my backpack, running upstairs to change and fretting about whatever they wanted to discuss. The change in tone was worrying, and had me questioning whether I’d forgotten to clean up after myself or was taking up more than my share of fridge space. I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the best housemate in the house (that honor goes to the cat, Clay Pidgeon) but I think generally I’m a good housemate, even if I don’t wash the dishes as much as I’d like to.
After we’d all grabbed bowls of curry, one started: “We need to know your end of life plan for when the obituary drops.”
It was a string of words I hadn’t expected, and it took me a moment to parse the meaning.
“Like when I wake up at 4am and see the news,” he continued, “do you want me to wake you up immediately to tell you, or run to the store before they sell out of champagne?”
A few weeks prior, this housemate had told me a story about a man in the Soviet Union who walked past a news stand daily, looking at front pages of newspapers and walking away dejectedly. Eventually the person working the news stand asks the man what he was looking for. “An obituary,” the first man responds. The second man reminds the first that obituaries aren’t on the front page. “The one I’m waiting for will be,” responds the first. Remembering this story, I finally understood what he meant.
At this moment, I’m sure I could have gotten nearly anything out of my housemates. If I requested to wake up to a musical number with choreography and special lighting, I’m sure he’d do his best to prepare. Instead, I thought about all the time I’ve spent thinking about the person we were waiting on to die, and all the things I’d rather have done with my time. How on the day the obituary drops I’ll hear about it at whatever time I wake up, and I don’t want to spend more time thinking about him, even to learn about his death.
“I think you better make sure we have champagne before they sell out,” I responded, “and we should maybe do waffles or brunch? You should probably get something for mimosas.”
That was the plan, until another friend pointed out that Michigan law typically prohibits the sale of alcohol before 7 AM. At that point we figured it’s better to have at least something for mimosas in the house at all times, and a bottle of Prosecco now sits above the microwave, waiting for the day when the obituary drops.
