My name is Dave and I am dead. The doctors said it was a brain aneurysm no one could’ve predicted. I was only 38. Despite the circumstances, I convinced my boss Andrew to let me keep my job; minus health coverage.

“You’re dead.” Andrew told me while checking off pages on his metallic clipboard. The clipboard made it seem he was writing something important, but it was only inventory.

“Dead people don’t need benefits.” Andrew continued. “They don’t use prescriptions, and they don’t need check-ups.” He flipped a page and thumbed through a box of Payday chocolate bars, marking with his pen as he counted.

When I was fourteen years old, I began walking on water. My parents watched me walk back and forth across the pond a few times. “Angie,” Dad said, “this looks like a miracle.”

“Sure does,” Mom said. “Good job, Michael.” Then they went back to the house and sat down to figure out the profit angle. Mom and Dad were always looking for ways to make money on the farm. The hills made the place picturesque, but the soil was worthless.

6:21AM

A tangerine Scion pulls into my driveway 6 minutes late. I get in the car and look the rookie over. He’s cut from the funny pages: pink-cheeked and yellow-haired, with a Dennis the Menace cowlick. His new badge gleams.

“Officer Wu at your service,” I say.

“Whup Ass Wu?”

“Only one I know. Sergeant Fagen asked me to ride in with you so we could have a talk before your first run.”

“This is a real honor.” He shows his teeth and we shake hands.

“North and Clybourn is next. Doors open on the right at North and Clybourn.”

The train starts to move. Arms tangle with arms, grabbing for something to grab. Legs tuck in, not to trip other legs. Eyes search for a safe place, avoiding contact with other eyes. I have read the same paragraph seven times. Seven times. And I’ll probably read it seven more. Monkeyfucking Dostoyevsky.

Consider the asshole. Now I’m not talking about that pesky micromanager at work or your impossible-to-please mother, I’m talking about that indispensable void between your nether regions that so often goes underappreciated. Much like myself these days I’m afraid. But as a proctologist, rated number one in Palm Beach County according to a 1998 edition of the Jewish Senior Advocate, assholes, particularly the unhealthy ones, is what I butter my bread with. For I am in the business of maintaining the state of your rectum. No, not your anus, Princess, my fine-feathered Budgie. Believe me when I say it, what a joy it is to seldom see your asshole. Even if I pried apart your tidy green feathers, I doubt I’d come across it so easily. There’s only one woman for me these days, Princess and at least your squawking won’t bring on another migraine.