A short short story

Gregoreite
(Gray-gor-ay-tey!)

Mr. Johnson died from watching television.

Not to say that he died of watching TV, which would mean that somehow his nineteen inch set, made by Panasonic, had killed him. To say that he died of watching television would imply that television had been the killer, the mechanism by which Mr. Robert Douglas Johnson’s life had been parted from his body. That would be an understandable mistake, though, if it had been the conclusion drawn by the pair of policemen who showed up at his house on the second day of October, which happened to be a Tuesday.

They had gotten a call from Bob’s neighbors, the Hudsons, who said that the lights in Mr. Johnson’s house had been on all night for five nights straight. At first, they thought he might have just left for the weekend and accidentally left the living room light on. Then, on the third day, they peeped in the garage window while jogging, and saw his car. They thought that meant he was back, but for two more nights, the lights in the living room stayed on day and night. On the morning after the fifth night, they made up some excuse and went over to knock on the front door. They stepped on the porch, and saw a pile of newspapers, still rolled up in cheap rubber bands. They heard the TV on, but didn’t get any answer when they knocked. Something didn’t smell right. The Hudsons called the police.

That’s how it goes, when somebody who lives alone eventually dies that way. It might take a few days for anybody to notice, and then the police show up to find something like they found at 147 Sycamore lane. Eventually they break open a door, find a corpse, and put together a story of how it happened.

This is the story of how it happened.

Bob Johnson was sitting in his easy chair, watching wheel of fortune. He was eating a bowl of macaroni. He had a heart attack, became unconscious, and soon died. He dropped the bowl of macaroni. The lady from North Carolina won wheel of fortune, making $12, 340. She did not win the car. Five days later, the police broke in the back door, and found the body and the macaroni. A couple made out on TV, part of some ridiculous soap opera. The police took notes, called the coroner. He took the body, they cleaned up the macaroni, and turned off the television. That is the story of how his death happened.

But his life? How did the event known as Robert Douglas Johnson happen? What did it mean?

This is the story of how it happened.

Thirty-two years ago, Mr. Johnson had a night where the dread of dying filled him completely. A person living in his dorm at the University of Central Arkansas died. Although he didn’t know the student very well, it began him thinking, and a few nights later he lay in bed, wondering what it would be like to die. He was utterly terrified of what lay on the other side, of what his death would mean, or what it wouldn’t. Eventually, he sat back up in bed, and gave up on trying to sleep. He left the room, so as not to disturb his roommate. He walked down the hall, and downstairs to the lobby, where one of the dormitory supervisors sat watching some late night movie. Robert took a seat, and finished the movie. The supervisor went to bed, but Robert stayed to see what was on next, and was soon entranced by the next movie, which was so bad it had been banished forever to cable at 3:00 AM. Robert watched it all, and fell asleep watching the one that followed. At some point he got up, when other students were leaving the dorm, and went back to his bed.

The next afternoon, he walked downstairs, having missed classes, and turned on the lobby television. He fell asleep ten hours later on the lobby couch, without the thought of going to class or dying. He soon flunked out of school, and moved out. In order to have money to buy food and cable, he worked jobs with odd hours for thirty years, and on the even hours he went home and watched TV. He didn’t think about death again for thirty years. Then he died.

That is how he happened.

Mr. Johnson died from watching television. Not of television, meaning the TV killed him. He died from it, meaning that for him, the moment of death separated him from all that was his life. Television was all that was his life, and when he dropped the macaroni, he departed from his dearly beloved programming. He left TV behind.

Of course, an argument could be made that he died of television. That for thirty years, TV sucked the very life out of him, whittled his life away until October second, when his body finally conceded that there was nothing left. Maybe it is killing us all.