Let me Explain

They say only the good die young. So, clearly, I must have been a saint! I mean, I am, or should I say was, a good person. I was a skilled nurse, a loving spouse, and an amazing mother. I obviously deserved to die young. But I’m not sure why I had to be murdered. I wonder what level of goodness you’d have to be to get murdered. Is it less good or more good than dying from cancer or let's say, a car accident? I guess I'll never know.

So, there you go. You already know the end of the story. I am dead. In fact, you probably know the whole story: a wonderful and amazing lady gets murdered. It happens all the time. You hear it on the news: “A young woman was murdered last night and police are still investigating.” You hear it online or on Facebook, or if you read a newspaper, you may see it fully captured in the headline, if the story is shocking enough. “Young mother murdered, no suspects, no leads.”

Unfortunately, I have no idea what my headline or my sound bite was or what people said at my funeral. I don’t get to know. I am dead. I can only imagine. But for some strange reason. I do get to tell you the story of how I died. I know! It hardly seems fair, so many rules in the afterlife, and they seem as arbitrary as the rules on earth.

I wish I could rate afterlife and leave a strongly-worded suggestion as a comment. I would give it 4 stars. It probably deserves 3 but I’d hate to kick it out of the 4-star and up filter category. There doesn’t seem to be a heaven or a hell. I just “exist” as my conscious and all I do is think and “talk” to the universe. I’m like a radio station, I only really exist in the waves and in the ears of my subscribers. Thank you for tuning in to my afterlife channel!

Let’s call this story a podcast and give it a cliché name like Murder at Macy’s, you know like Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I like it but I’m concerned you may start to think I am foreshadowing a murder at department store, which is not how it happened. So, just let me explain. Throughout this story I will take what seems like pointless detours and sometimes they are but they help me tell the story and now that all I am is a bodyless conscious, I figure you’d be decent enough to sit through a few detours, here and there. Just think of it as stopping to smell the roses.

My name is Macy, like the store. Unfortunately, it’s not short for anything. I wish my parents were more creative, but hey, you don’t pick your parents, but they get to pick your name. What’s that about? Anyway, I digress. My name is Macy, and this is my murder story. In the end, I’m sure you'll see it the way I do: a young woman murdered in the prime of her life. She must have been a great person!

This isn’t a whodunit thriller. It is a straightforward, case-closed story. My husband killed me. Just kidding. Everyone always thinks it's the husband. I tend to joke when I am uncomfortable. Get used to it. But all jokes aside, it was Jake, from State Farm. It is a long story, so I’ll start from the beginning.

I was born Macy Jane Fitz on June 6, 1990, to loving parents Jim and Rhonda Fitz. Ok, maybe that is too far back. Let’s start at Walmart.

I hate Walmart! It is always so crowded, dark and grimy. Target is my normal spot. They have higher prices but I willingly pay a bit more for a more pleasant shopping experience. I mean, have you ever been to Target? It just feels good, right?

Honestly, I think I married up so I never had to shop at Walmart ever again. But that day, I had no choice. I needed lady products and there wasn’t a better store close enough. So, I grabbed my hand sanitizer, my sun glasses and a hoodie. I would not be caught dead in a Walmart, but I hoped I could make it to the pad aisle and back without being caught alive in a Walmart! But no. I am spotted by the man who’d eventually murder me: Jake, from State Farm.

“Hello Macy, right?” he asks, but seems surer than would imply the question.

“Hi,” I reply coldly and turn back to look at pads. It felt really awkward as you can imagine. I decided to keep my head down and glasses on. Most people would take a hint. But apparently not this guy and the social guilt compels me to say something more.

“Do I know you?” I ask and immediately feel more guilt at such a heartless response. He is wearing a red shirt and khakis and reminds me of the State Farm commercial. I feel a weird sense of comfort because he looks like he works at Target. I relax and take off my sunglasses.

“Yes. Well, maybe. I work at J. Bean Hospital?” he offers a hand to shake and I reluctantly reach out. “I’m Ralph. I am a janitor at the Hospital.”

I apologize and listen while he recounts his daily routine at the hospital and how he saw me caring for one of my patients. I nearly spaced out until he said “You are a very skilled nurse and you can tell you really care for your patients.”

“Thank you!” I said proudly. It felt good that someone had noticed. I put a lot of effort into my work, or shall I say my calling, and I don’t get much thanks for it.

“You know what? I recognize you, now.” I lie. “You look like Jake from State Farm in that outfit. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

He seems to feel better and I feel less guilty. But I still turned up the faux charm “I’ll call you Jake from now on. Jake, from State Farm.”

He smiles and turns his cart around. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

I smile and laugh nervously realizing I just created an inside joke with someone I just met in the lady products aisle of a Walmart! I can hardly believe it myself but as you know, I joke when I’m uncomfortable. Plus, it seemed harmless. I felt bad for him. He couldn’t have had many friends being a janitor and all. On top of that, I heard him mention something about being a widower. I can't recall exactly what I knew at that time because I spaced out while he was talking. I just remember feeling bad for him and only imagined that we might pass each other in the halls and have a chuckle.

In hindsight, I should have ignored him and kept walking but I am just such a nice person. I know I wouldn’t have been able to go back to work without being reminded of how rude I had been. I know. I know. It is common sense; don’t talk to strangers. Yada, yada, yada. But he wasn’t really a stranger, right? I mean, we worked in the same building. I obviously have a higher station in life and I have always felt a strong sense of noblesse oblige.

I bet you are wondering what Jake looks like. It shouldn’t matter but if you must know. He looks like what you wish your high school enemies looked like at the ten-year reunion: fat and prematurely balding. Instead of how they usually look: the same or better and more successful than would be fair considering how horribly they treated you.

In my case, Jake looks how I wish Dylan Pepper looked today. Dylan Pepper was a very attractive guy. I even had a small crush on him Freshman year. But when he had the nerve to call me Plain Jane in front of several popular kids, all his cuteness faded away and all I saw was devil horns. How could he! How did he even know my middle name? Or did he? It wasn’t at all clear. But what was clear is that he made me the butt of a joke and everyone laughed. He became known for hilarity, while I was just an average nobody!

Why did he have to hit me there? Plain Jane! I was self-conscious, like any other teenage girl. I would have never bullied him like that. He had some quirks and honestly, he wasn’t that cute or cool. I didn’t make fun of his braces or his wrinkled t-shirts, and no one else did either. Why? Because decent human beings don’t do that!

I hated that nickname and I resent him, even now, for such an embarrassment. Plain Jane! I mean really, I was never plain. It just rhymed and that probably all his pea sized jock brain could come up with in that instance.

I used to lie awake in bed and ponder his future demise. I had several revenge fantasies that rivaled the potency of an orgasmic dream. But alas I was a good person, so I did what all good people do in situations like this. I pretended it didn’t bother me and cooled my anger with the soothing thoughts of his dull and unproductive future. I’d see him walking down the hall and I’d grin just thinking about what he would look like at 30. An unattractive lout, with a beer belly and a few baby mamas.

But no, the future was kind to him anyways. He is now an attorney. A human rights attorney at that. He is bilingual and has a gorgeous Latina wife. She is not as beautiful as me but still quite pretty. And he has two adorable twin toddlers. They are immensely happy, according to Facebook.

It just feels so unfair that the poetic justice you expect, never happens! Don’t believe what those high school reunion movies tell you. There is no justice in the end! They were mean to you and they just get away with it! I’m still pissed about it, even in the afterlife.

Anyway, let’s get back to the story you tuned in for. I know you are only listening to this because you really want to know how Jake killed me and for that matter what he looks like.

Jake, aka Ralph, really does look like the guy from the commercial when he wears a red shirt and khakis. He is a bit taller and a bit chubbier, though. He is balding at the crown of his head. He is probably in his mid-forties. After this first encounter, I made a lot of assumptions about him that I now regret. I figured that he was like a middle-aged dad who lost his wife and worked several low paying jobs to feed his kids. I mean, it made sense. He had a quiet demeanor but wasn’t shy. I thought this would be the end of my social obligation of kindness to strangers, but he turned out to be more of a friend than I anticipated. Well, at least until he killed me. But more on that later. I want you to really understand how I got there. I am not stupid; I am just a good person who met someone who I thought was also a good person. I think you’d have done the same.