My name is Raymond Kelnover, I'm 15 years old and I died last night, sometime between 12:30 (when Jay Leno went off) and the time when I noticed my three brothers had left for school. It got very quiet, like always when we've all gone (including Pop) and Mom's still in bed. I can't really say any closer than that what time it was when I died.
Maybe You wonder how I know it's all quiet after we've left. I wouldn't want You to think I'm lying or anything. I don't even actually know if I'm talking to myself in my mind, but I sure hope You're listening. It seems awfully important that I get things straight. And I think truth sounds more truthful when somebody has all the details down pat, or when it's good and boring.
So it's that sometimes I'm, and the other guys, are sick in bed. Both Pop and Mom are real strict about waking them up. So, when we're home, we wait till he takes off for work before we slip upstairs to watch stuff on TV. (Mom moans for sympathy if we get her up. With Pop, it matters more that we' re just quiet.)
Of course, if You know everything, You know all this and also what time I died, probably. But I'm not like ole Louie who takes dumb chances with everything. He even used to wake Pop up, ole Louie did. Till after Pop had his gall bladder out, and said Louie caused it. Every time Pop had to send the hospital a check and Louie was around, Pop'd say loudly: "There's another installment in the real-life story of a self-made little simpleton."
Don't think, please, Pop is a mean fellow who don't care about people's feelings. Well, maybe he doesn't, much. You see, we're Mom's kids first. Pop loved her so much he didn't care at all about us four kids from her first husband. He sure cares now!
Especially with one of his own, who is Joanna. She's in kindergarten now and a darling little girl.
(I just tried again to sit up and nothing happened again too. Since You know I'm dead and all, I don't know how much I'm supposed to say. But there don't seem to be any way I can talk out loud or move or nothing. Since I like to sleep on my back a lot, all I can see is the ceiling 'less I squinch around, inside, some way. Then I can make out ole Louie's area.
(That's what Pop who hated the Army but talks about it a lot learned to call where we sleep in our basement room: Areas. And we're each responsible for our own so since nobody at all remembers this stuff and Mom is too busy working her part-time job up on the first floor to bawl us out much--well, our areas are pretty screwed up.
(Pardon. Disorderly, I meant.)
(Louie's is the worst, like in everything. Yeeccccch!)
I wish I could've waked up now and been Louie.
Not whatever it is I am, now.
)
