from
LOOKING DOWN AND POINTING UP
David Cristofano

I spent most of my life pondering its end. I wondered how, when, where. Certainly why. Like most folks, I suppose, I had fantasies of being in the arms of loved ones, deep in my nineties, passing on in a warm slumber, following that bright light into the euphoric oblivion.

Except I died on Wisconsin Avenue, the tire prints of Yokohama AVS Sports over my arms and back, the hood ornament of a Jaguar S-type performing a crude spinal tap. Drunken Georgetown students half-gazed at me, muttering things like bummer and kiss that Jaguar goodbye. It was instant, I came to understand—though that understanding was the first and last time it ever crossed my mind.

So it seems I wasted a lot of time on Earth.

I was never one to be out of control—because I loved it. Control was mine. I studied to be the best student, worked for the constant favor of my family and friends, obtained the most powerful job I could find and the most beautiful woman for my arm. And, as those who knew me best will tell you, I always got the last word—always. This is what concerned me about death, that it would be my first and only interplay with an unknown. With the unknown. And all I could do with the precious days of my existence was dwell upon it.

But no amount of anticipation could have prepared me for the strident cry of those Yokohamas, the pungent smell of rubber, the thud of my own mangled flesh. Within a few seconds, I went from a crowded pub to the chilly pavement to a wood paneled room warmed by a fire with walls of books and antiques—a room I’d always wanted in my home but could never turn into a reality.