I’d been feeling pretty well lately, upright and taking nourishment, fit as a fiddle and ready for love. So imagine my surprise at learning that I was dead.
It was my wife who delivered the bad news. I must say she didn’t look too broken up. She had taken it upon herself to straighten out a problem in our credit reports when she discovered that she was a widow. Reports from major credit-reporting agencies listed me as “deceased.” Apparently this has been the case for years. The problem cropped up a few years ago when we applied for a new mortgage. However, this was at the height of the subprime madness, so my being dead was not a disqualifier. We got the loan and forgot I was dead.
A lot of things go through your mind when you learn that you are dead. At first, it’s hard to believe because, from my experience, death is pretty much like life.
I thought of all the things I should have done. Then I remembered I still could do them. But what’s the point if you’re dead and can’t enjoy them? I thought of Mark Twain: “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” I thought of Woody Allen: “It is impossible to experience one’s death objectively and still carry a tune.” I thought of John Cleese complaining to Michael Palin about his dead parrot: “He’s not pinin’! He’s passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! He’s expired and gone to meet his maker! He’s a stiff! Bereft of life. He rests in peace! If you hadn’t nailed him to the perch he’d be pushing up the daisies! His metabolic processes are now history! He’s off the twig! He’s kicked the bucket.
“He’s shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin’ choir invisible! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!” How I loved Monty Python’s dead-parrot sketch. Too bad I’ll never see it again, unless I call it up on YouTube, which I probably shouldn’t do in my condition.
I wondered if anyone came to my funeral. Probably not. Oh, some will claim they didn’t know I was dead. But most probably couldn’t be bothered. Everyone says, “I hate funerals,” like there are people who don’t.
Give me a break. You should’ve been there for me. I looked just like myself.
I wonder what my obituary said. I always meant to write it myself and leave it, as we say, “in the can.” The late Bob Broeg, the longtime St. Louis Post-Dispatch sports editor, used to tend his obituary file with the care of a Japanese gardener. “That’s the one thing they owe you in this business, Kev,” he’d say. “A decent obituary.” I just checked what this business used to quaintly call “the morgue.” I never got mine. Now I’m mad. Nobody at the funeral. No obituary. What good is it being dead? So I spent some time last weekend mailing out letters to various credit-reporting agencies, trying to become one of the undead. I looked up the Federal Trade Commission’s website. It contained all sorts of handy information on how to dispute errors in your credit report. It did not mention how to dispute being dead.
I included a recent pay stub. I included a photocopy of my driver’s license. I included copies of last Sunday’s commentary page, containing my column and that day’s date.
I wondered if I should photograph myself holding that day’s newspaper — another good reason newspapers must survive.
Unfortunately, one of the things I never got around to doing when I was alive was learning how to use the camera on my cellphone. Too late now.
I called up Steven Katz in TransUnion’s media-relations department.
I told him who I was and that I was dead.
“Sorry to hear that,” he replied.
Pretty soon he got it squared away. As far as TransUnion is concerned, I’m no longer dead. I called up Tim Klein at Equifax and left a message. He called back and I answered the phone with my name.
“I thought you were dead,” he said.
He referred me to a person named Donna Watson. She said I had a credit score, so as far as Equifax is concerned, I’m not dead. “If you score, you’re not dead,” she said.
I think that will be my new motto.
The worst part of being dead without actually being dead: You don’t get the Big One answered. You know, life after death. Angels, harps, clouds. Reincarnation. Seventy virgins. Tunnels with lights at the end. Doubts. Nothingness. Whatever.
It would have been nice to know. But I wouldn’t tell you. You didn’t show up at the funeral.
Kevin Horrigan is a columnist for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
Tina Griego’s column will return Tuesday.
