Epilogue for an Unknown Man
by Linda Saldaña
The apartment landlord asked me to write the obituary for my neighbor Bill, though I hardly knew him except for snippets retrieved in sporadic conversations while our dogs sniffed butts at the dog park. “And maybe you could foster his dog,” he added.
I protested, to no avail. I was apparently expected to pull together a reasonable epilogue based on almost no known facts. The landlord was covering the obit cost, perhaps out of guilt for the recent rent increase. “Don’t make it too long,” he added.
The cleaning lady had found Bill in bed with the TV on, looking as if nothing untoward had happened except that he had stopped breathing while watching some kind of travesty on CNN. The coroner called it natural causes.
“He was tidy,” she said. “Washed his dishes every night. Even the dog bowl. A real pleasure from my standpoint, that man was.”
When questioned, his cattle dog Muggsie was tight with details, except that she expected punctuality: Potty at 6 a.m., noon, and 8 p.m. Dinner precisely at 5. Strict adherence enforced by nips at the heels. After each trip outside, she hopefully dragged me down the hall to Bill’s door.
Bill had retired, but I couldn’t remember from what. “Wasn’t he some kind of engineer?” said Estelle, who lived across the hall. “He worked for one of those computer companies.” She blew cigarette smoke out of the side of her mouth while her prissy little Pomeranian took a dump on the grass.
“He was a vet. His mail-order bride left him at the altar,” said her husband, retrieving the droppings with a plastic baggie.
“He never told you that,” said Estelle.
“I know that look,” said her husband. “Like a man jilted.”
Estelle rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t know.”
Nobody knew about next of kin—or next of anything other than Muggsie—so the landlord waited the legal amount of time, then hired a company to clear out Bill’s belongings. “Since you’re writing the obit, you can take what you want first,” he told me.
When I went in, the cleaning lady was sitting on the living room floor, putting things into boxes. “I always wondered about this,” she said, holding up a large metal trophy. Engraved on the plaque, it said, “Bill Barnes, World’s Best…” Whatever he was best at had been methodically scratched out. She gave the trophy one last polish before placing it in the box.
“Can I have that?” I asked.
She shrugged and handed it over.
“Do you think he died happy?” I asked.
She closed the box and rolled the tape to seal it. “Beats me. All I can say is, he made his bed like a pro. Hospital corners and everything.”
I lugged the trophy back to my apartment and set it on the coffee table. Let my dog sniff it. Let Muggsie sniff it. Tried in vain to discern what words had been obliterated.
A text tootled in from the landlord asking if the obit was done.
“Just about,” I texted back and then sat down to write it:
Bill Barnes,
World’s Best.
Died while dreaming on August 22.
For his beloved companion Muggsie,
nothing will ever again be as perfect.
I protested, to no avail. I was apparently expected to pull together a reasonable epilogue based on almost no known facts. The landlord was covering the obit cost, perhaps out of guilt for the recent rent increase. “Don’t make it too long,” he added.
The cleaning lady had found Bill in bed with the TV on, looking as if nothing untoward had happened except that he had stopped breathing while watching some kind of travesty on CNN. The coroner called it natural causes.
“He was tidy,” she said. “Washed his dishes every night. Even the dog bowl. A real pleasure from my standpoint, that man was.”
When questioned, his cattle dog Muggsie was tight with details, except that she expected punctuality: Potty at 6 a.m., noon, and 8 p.m. Dinner precisely at 5. Strict adherence enforced by nips at the heels. After each trip outside, she hopefully dragged me down the hall to Bill’s door.
Bill had retired, but I couldn’t remember from what. “Wasn’t he some kind of engineer?” said Estelle, who lived across the hall. “He worked for one of those computer companies.” She blew cigarette smoke out of the side of her mouth while her prissy little Pomeranian took a dump on the grass.
“He was a vet. His mail-order bride left him at the altar,” said her husband, retrieving the droppings with a plastic baggie.
“He never told you that,” said Estelle.
“I know that look,” said her husband. “Like a man jilted.”
Estelle rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t know.”
Nobody knew about next of kin—or next of anything other than Muggsie—so the landlord waited the legal amount of time, then hired a company to clear out Bill’s belongings. “Since you’re writing the obit, you can take what you want first,” he told me.
When I went in, the cleaning lady was sitting on the living room floor, putting things into boxes. “I always wondered about this,” she said, holding up a large metal trophy. Engraved on the plaque, it said, “Bill Barnes, World’s Best…” Whatever he was best at had been methodically scratched out. She gave the trophy one last polish before placing it in the box.
“Can I have that?” I asked.
She shrugged and handed it over.
“Do you think he died happy?” I asked.
She closed the box and rolled the tape to seal it. “Beats me. All I can say is, he made his bed like a pro. Hospital corners and everything.”
I lugged the trophy back to my apartment and set it on the coffee table. Let my dog sniff it. Let Muggsie sniff it. Tried in vain to discern what words had been obliterated.
A text tootled in from the landlord asking if the obit was done.
“Just about,” I texted back and then sat down to write it:
Bill Barnes,
World’s Best.
Died while dreaming on August 22.
For his beloved companion Muggsie,
nothing will ever again be as perfect.
Linda Saldaña is an escaped tech writer finding truth in fiction in and around the San Francisco Bay area.