by Jerem Pickett
Dear Posthumous Pocket Investigator: Please forgive me for dying this way—I can only guess how it happened. Perhaps, as my Buick settled near the eight-foot line, pool bottom, I sat there wishing I had worn my other brown tie; or maybe, as I stood choking on a Golden Delicious, I felt the ephemeral sensation of gazing in a darkened theatre; or, as I slipped off an edge at Zion's, I confused dirt and air and wondered if I were really falling. I have always regretted not being able to predict things: when a traffic signal will change, what the weather will do, that a person will stop hoping or staring a certain way and leave only a semitoothed comb, a few navy blue pantsuits, 300-and-some-odd cotton swabs in your closet. No loose ends here— my sewage is paid, photo album up to date; and if you take care of my pet octopus (he's probably at home, wanting to be fed), I won't prod you in Mass, misplace your TV Guide, or disappear down side-streets just after the bars close.