SHUFFLING OFF

         Time creeps by out here in the country. I think I saw the New Year baby crawling down the road this morning. He or she was accompanied by the two walking ladies and their Samoyed. My dog was asleep and did not see them go by. Seeing the babe with "2002" emblazoned across its chest reminded me that eight days into the New Year I must present myself to the surgeon at the hospital and have an internal organ removed.

         She has assured me I will be in one day and home the next, although I will not be able to drive home. That does not bother me; I am sure I can hitch a ride on the ramp to I90. This assumes all goes well with the surgery. The surgeon has listed ten or twelve things that can go wrong, but none of which she has ever experienced. I don't ask her how many of these she has done so that I can compute her batting average, or better still, her on base percentage, but these slip-ups do prey on the mind. Usually this happens late at night, when the cat is crying for yogurt and the near full moon is high in the winter sky.

         The idea that I won't come home is not that disturbing. The thought that the cat will not receive her hourly beneficence is humorous in a way. I wonder if, in the time between now and next week, I can train the dog to spoon out her favorite flavor, blueberry. If not, the cat will learn a good lesson. I picture the dog on my bed, chin flat on the surface, listening for the sound that will never come, the key in the door. Oh the bathos, oh the melancholy! I might be able to sell the screenplay before I leave, and stipulate that the proceeds go to take care of my faithful companions.

         Yet there are certain things I would like to see settled before I sign myself over to the medical profession that day. At the end of this coming month, the Publishers Clearing House will be awarding ten million dollars to some lucky person directly after the Super Bowl. In the past week, my late wife has received a number of envelopes from them promising her that she surely will be the one, especially if she buys the definitive Tennessee Ernie Ford tape collection for only four payments of $7.98.

         Morgan would sit through the fourth quarter of the great commercialthon every year, hoping the Prize Patrol would pull up to our house. One year I spotted the police blocking our street an hour before the end. It turned out to be a raid on a noisy party, but I changed my sweatshirt and for a few minutes we were planning the spending of our riches.

         The thought that this prize could go unclaimed as the van arrives at the house with one light lit inside, and a thirsty dog barking at the door, is distressing, so I shall advertise for someone to house sit that night, paying them in advance. It would help if the person were female and could learn to sign Morgan's signature. She could split the ten million with the pets. That would take care of that matter, but the world is bigger than the sweepstakes.

         My tax software has arrived. I have 95% of the information to do the return of my favorite client, the writer of this drivel, but I won’t be able to complete it. Only I know where all the lies can be found, those numbers that will take the two thousand dollar deficit and turn it into a refund of one thousand. I will leave this tip to my executor. Look in the top left-hand drawer of my desk, under the Britney Spears photos I downloaded in a moment of weakness.

         I would hate to kick off not knowing the whereabouts of a certain evil Saudi whose initials are ObL. To depart this earth with his existence unsettled is disconcerting. Suppose he is in front of me in line at the reception hall wherever we are sent, making another videotape? Would he take his rage out on me? I'd like to know beforehand so I can slip out to the water fountain. I suppose they have a water cooler, I did not think of that.

         If he is in line, I might also take a little longer to fill out the papers that they give me. Every place I go these days I am handed a clipboard and a pen and am instructed to fill in a questionnaire that is held by a clip. I suspect it will be no different there, and just like on earth, my responses will never be read, except for the part about my health insurance.

         Then there is the unfinished murder mystery. I am not reading it, nor am I writing it, but the naïve authoress has taken me on board as an unpaid consultant. I am not sure why. I have never committed a murder unless you count the mice I have dispatched, but I have been asked to keep the plot from plunging off the road into a bog. The author is resisting my advice, which is to have the rabbi do it. She says such happenings are impossible. She also points out that no one in the story is Jewish. Picky, picky, picky!

         We are deadlocked on this point, a veritable hung jury in this case. Now where did I get that phrase? I suppose she will take my name out of the preface, and probably not list my estate in the royalty agreement that will cover the HBO special. I can’t blame her. In my mind, I have already cast Denzel Washington as the rabbi. I have this vision of us sitting in Director’s chairs, watching Denzel and Roseanne plight their tryst. The author is holding out for Richard Gere and Cher.

         As for my other literary effort, what will happen to the character I have created for the Collective Novel my writer’s group is writing. I admit the woman is not a strong character, but? My advice: hire the rabbi. Bump her off. It might make a series.

         Now that covers the pets, the sweepstakes, Herr binLaden, my taxes and my writing. That should just about do it. I am at peace now. But a voice from the woodstove intones, “And shall I die, and this unconquered.” What unconquered? What’s he talking about? My cooking? Well, I am sorry, but I could never get the hang of tortillas.