Seven or 8 days after that somebody noticed the smell and called the police.

Three days later (which would be today) I’m in California with my sister going through his stuff.  In the apartment.

My brother was 2 years younger than me, making him 43.  He was an alcoholic.  He was so good at being an alcoholic that he’d destroyed his liver and his kidneys by the time he was 41.  Or 42.  Somewhere in there.

He didn’t have a relationship with anyone in the family except our mother.  She died 2 years ago.  He lived with her until then and never lived on his own, unless you consider incarceration to be living on your own.  For years we wanted her to kick him out but she appreciated the company.

He wasn’t a really bad guy, more self-destructive than anything.  He wasn’t necessarily a good guy either.  He just wasn’t right.  I don’t know what was wrong with him, apart from the alcoholism, but my older siblings (15 and 17 years older than me) tell me something was definitely off with him from an early age.

Our sister managed his money for him, at least the portion that came from our mother’s estate.  When he needed money she’d wire it to him.  As a social worker she was able to advise him on services available to him (he was partially disabled because of a motorcycle accident), but he really didn’t pay much heed.

She was also on the lease with him – it was the only way he could get a place to live.  I told her today there’s a special place in heaven for her.  She replied, “yeah, Suckerville”.

Though Sunday night I learned my brother died it really wasn’t until Monday, yesterday, that I felt sad.  I wasn’t sad because he was gone and I’d miss him – we really haven’t had much of a relationship for 25-30 years - but I was sad for him and the life he had.  He died on the floor of his apartment and he was not missed.  No friends wondering why he didn’t call.  No coworkers wondering why he didn’t show up for work.  No Facebook status unchanged; no Twitter feed gone silent.

The world continued on unphazed, his absence unnoticed, at least until the smell got too bad.

There will be no service.  Just an autopsy, a cremation, and then he’s reunited with our mother.  She’d purchased space for him in her grave.  BFF, truly.

After discussions with both my wife and my sister, I decided to fly out now and help deal with the estate, such as it is, rather than fly out later for the burial of the ashes.  That would be a useless trip and I’m a Man of Action.  It was something I could do for my brother and my mother – she would be grateful and it would honor his life in some small way, even if no one else noticed it had ended.  As fucked up as his life was and as distant as he was from the rest of us, he’s still my brother and it’s our job to sort through his life.

My sister gathered an array of weapons worthy of any CSI team: cloth overshoes, gloves, masks, essential oil (pine – for under the nostrils), plastic drop cloths, trash bags.  And cleaning supplies.  I don’t know why – that cleaning deposit is long gone.  If someone dies on your rug and is undisturbed for a week, well, your best bet is a large fire.

She brought her camera too.  She’s not sure why.  I didn’t think that odd, for I brought mine as well.  I don’t think I’ll put any pictures up, however.  Just admitting we brought cameras is whacked enough I think.

We arranged to meet at the office of the gated apartment complex.  I arrived first and went into the office to talk to the manager.  I was greeted by a large inflatable grim reaper, a coffin with an undead man rising from it, and other assorted Halloween decorations, all appropriate to the task at hand.

The woman at the desk smiled and asked if she could help me.  Crap.  I hadn’t thought this part out.  What’s was I supposed to say?  “Hi”, I replied, “ummm, well, my brother died here”.  I tried to keep my voice low so the prospective tenants at the next desk couldn’t hear me.

Strangely, she knew just who I was talking about.  I asked her if this sort of thing happens a lot.  It doesn’t.  She did, however, have the number of a crime scene cleaning service they’d call in after we were done so I suppose there is some chicanery going on in these apartments.

My sister finally arrived and joined me in the office.  Since she’s on the lease she had to sign a 30 day termination notice.  I thought my brother gave notice quite decidedly but the apartment complex needed it in writing.

Paperwork accomplished we made our way to our late brother’s apartment.  The cororner had thoughtfully sealed the lock with a tamper-evident sticker.  That was a nice touch and added an air of mystery to the whole affair, plus a bit of assurance.  We were relieved no one had been in the apartment since they carted the body away.  My brother often preferred cash over banks and it was a distinct possibility that he had thousands of dollars in cash hidden somewhere.

I peeled the sticker off the deadbolt, and turned the key.  The door was now unlocked but still closed.  We weren’t in our Ghostbusters garb – I wanted to assess the situation before we dressed up.  I turned the knob and pushed the door open a quarter inch.  I don’t know what I was expecting but whatever it was didn’t happen.  Just silence.

I pushed the door open further and a wall of smell hit us in the face.  Do you know how when a mouse dies in the wall you can smell it?  Do you know how much bigger a person is than a mouse?  Scale the smell up accordingly.

There’s not much to the apartment – it’s a studio – so I peeked in and saw a back sliding glass door.  I quickly walked in, jumped over the person-shaped bodily fluid stain in the middle of the carpet, and threw open the back door.  Blessed fresh air.  Either the apartment aired out quickly or we rapidly acclimated, but in short order we no longer noticed the smell.  Much.  The pine oil was a big help.

The first order of business was donning the CSI booties, though I brought old sneakers that are not coming home with me.  Second order of business – cover the body fluids with the plastic drop cloth.  Third order of business…well, our plan wasn’t much more than “deal with his stuff” so that’s what we did.

Some of it was easy…obvious junk went to the dumpsters.  Other, more personal things, I found hard to throw out.  His first or second grade “student of the day” book and certificate, for example.  Everyone in the class writes a page about why the “student of the day” is so great – “You’re a fast runner”, “You’re nice”, “I like you”, things like that – and the pages are stapled together and presented to the student.  Teachers do this today – my kids have similar booklets.  It made me think of my brother as he was when we were younger.  Did he keep this because there was still some part of the little boy in him, before he became all fucked up, or did he keep it because he just kept a lot of stuff?

My sister pointed out that these things had meaning to him in his life, but now that his life is over the things have no purpose.  She put it much better than that but that’s the gist of it.  It still made me sad to throw them out.

“Very well, then!” cried the woman. “That’s enough. Who’s the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose.”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Dilber, laughing.

“If he wanted to keep ’em after he was dead, a wicked old screw,” pursued the woman, “why wasn’t he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he’d have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.”

From time to time I’d read the things he’d saved.  A “here’s what happened in the year you were born” birthday card from our mother, with a 1966 penny she’d taped to the front still attached.  How long did it take her to find that penny?  Letters to him in jail.  Old schoolwork.  The Christmas card we sent him last year.

Ah, but I’m becoming maudlin. 

We labored on, filling the dumpsters throughout the day.  What can be donated?  What goes in the trash?  And, like the aforequoted charwoman and laundress, what do we divvy up amongst ourselves?

I found a bit of marijuana hidden in a stereo box, a two bundles of large sprigs.  Branches?  I don’t know about such things…the depth of my experience with drugs is limited to being around friends who smoked pot in high school and a marijuana cupcake a friend’s mother served me on the occasion of his 18th birthday.  The sprigs went in the dumpster too (if you happen to be in Fremont, CA anytime soon, dive in and they’re yours).  Neither of my siblings, despite having been teenagers in the 60′s, wanted to take them.

It was surprising how rapidly we became inured to our surroundings, though it was best not to think about what was under the plastic sheet we were walking on.  The clear plastic sheet.  Something caught my sister’s eye and she bent down for further inspection.  Maggots.  Clumps of writhing maggots.  One thing is constant in life – the world takes care of its business.   I hope the apartment won’t be filled with flies tomorrow, a la the Amityville Horror.

In the end we rented a U-Haul truck.  It’s surprising how much stuff can be crammed into a studio apartment.  All the furniture is trash, making my job much easier.  No worrying about scratching the finish on this moving job.  No worrying about keeping the furniture intact, either.  I think tomorrow will be much easier than it was today.

I wasn’t able to make sense of my brother’s life or the path he took but I did get a handle on his death.  For you or me, the way he died is truly sad, but in the context of his life this was the best ending possible.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a happy ending but considering how he chose to live we can’t think of a better scenario for the end of his life.

It’s a hard truth – “the best outcome for you is to die quietly on the floor of your apartment” – but there it is.  It’s still sad, though.  What a waste.

P.S. We found the money, sort of, but that story will wait until next time.

Of course, I had to run some errands out at Ft Meade (15 minutes from the house) and while I was out Jack threw up a couple of times.  He came downstairs a little while ago – he had the sensation that his loft bed was moving.  He’s sleeping now…see:

No, it’s not the greatest picture in the world but I turned off the flash.  Look, I may be running around taking pictures of my sick child but I’m not totally unsympathetic.

Often when faced with life’s everyday adventures my first thought is to take a picture.  Probably for the better I usually don’t have a camera with me but it does explain why I have a lot of pictures of my wife eating.  More often than not she’s not eating, but the times she is eating (e.g. family gatherings) I have a camera in hand.

(this will seem like a non sequitur but it all ties together, trust me)

My mom died in 2007.  I flew out to CA before the funeral and the first thing I did on arrival was drop by the funeral home for a viewing, I guess it’s called.  Chapel of the Chimes, in Hayward.  They were very accommodating and took care of my unannounced visit (I called on the way from the airport) with kindness. 

I was 19 when my dad died, and I was out of town and out of touch at the time, doing some camping with a friend.  As my father’s oldest child (my parents were divorced) I was hit with a ton of decisions and preparations to make.  My mom really carried the day but some things required me to take care of.

One thing I didn’t do was look at the body.  The funeral was closed casket and the thought never occurred to me.  After all, why look at a dead body?

For years after that I’d have the thought, “is he really dead?”  Was my dad actually off partying with Elvis and Jimmy Hoffa, and this was some elaborate hoax?  He died at home in his sleep, so maybe his brother and others were in on some conspiracy.  Of course, he was dead and I knew that, but still the idea was there.

That’s why it was important for me to see my mom as soon as I got into town…I learned the answer to the question, “why look at a dead body?”  I didn’t want to wonder, “hmmm, is mom secretly living in my sister’s back bedroom?”

When I arrived at Chapel of the Chimes before my visit I sat in the car for a moment and thought, “should I bring the camera in?”  Lest you think my mind is totally warped, I wasn’t thinking of “Weekend at Bernie’s”.  Death comes with life, and I have this urge to document life (never mind the glut of pictures awaiting sorting and tagging).  I took my dogs’ ashes across country and hiked up Chilnualna Falls in Yosemite to scatter them…then took pictures of this gray cloud drifting downstream.

Ever repsectful, I waited until the topless female backpacker was done bathing upstream.  I didn’t take her picture…I figured she wouldn’t appreciate me documenting her life.

Photographing a dead parent isn’t without precedent.  I remember reading a story written by a photographer about the passing of her mother.  She was with her mom when her mother died, then took a picture afterwards.

I’m not particularly talented with any of the arts, yet even I recognize the artistic difference between a mother laying serenely on a couch and a mother wrapped in a sheet on a gurney having been just rolled in from a refrigerator.  Even if the room I was in was a nice room.

So I didn’t take a picture.  My mom would have been furious with me if I’d taken one.  Her hair wasn’t done (she died in a hospital) and she was dressed in a sheet.  Then there was that whole “being dead” thing…don’t think she would cared for that much either.  As it was, standing in the room with her body I kept hearing her say, “why are you standing around talking to my old dead body?”

And really, that wasn’t the last image I wanted of her.  It may be stuck forever in my mind but I saw no reason to pass that picture along to my kids.

When I die (it’s not in my plans but it seems unavoidable) feel free to take all the pictures you want.  In fact, I want to be stuffed and propped up in the family room.  Give me a couple of glass eyes so I look like I’m awake.  Maybe I could record some sayings that could come from a speaker on my body…you know, that wit and wisdom only dad can provide.

“When I was alive I didn’t watch nearly that much television.”

“Are you really going to go out dressed like that?”

“Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto”

“What’s for dinner?  I can’t remember the last time I ate!”

“Can we drop by the cemetery later?  I’m dying to visit.”

“Pull my finger.  No, wait, don’t…it might come off.”

“Soylent Green is people!”

And if my daughter wants to go a date she has to take my body along for the ride.

“Put both hands where I can see them, mister!”

This wasn’t the post I had in mind when I started but somewhere along the way I lost the thread.  Now my wife is home from work so it’s time for me to go back to work.  I don’t want to but since all the problems with our software are now in my part of the code it’s probably a good idea.  After all, no bucks, no Buck Rogers.