LIFE Is LIVING

How does our generation remember the dead?

by Josh Healey

Photo by cicciostoky

While we celebrate life, we also take time to remember those who are no longer with us. Death is part of life, but lately it’s gotten out of balance – too much death for too-short lives. One weekend this past summer, when there were 3 shootings in Oakland in less than a day, I was thinking: how does our generation remember the dead?

The Screen Printer

after Patricia Smith

Everyone I know

is looking for a job.

Or worried they will be

by next week.

It’s tough times, they say.

I say it’s been tough

around here for a long time.
Which isn’t bad for my business.
I studied economics for a year at Laney:

it’s all about supply and demand.

Demand for t-shirt memorials is high these days.

It’s tough times, they say.
My start-up costs were low.

No need for a storefront or ad space.

Just a computer, a printer, ink, the shirts.

And my cell of course.
I get the call.

It’s usually a brother or close friend.

The parents are too busy preparing

the suit, the flowers, the casket size.
This time it’s a cousin.

She tells me his name, how old he was.

I want to stop her there,
tell her that’s all I need.

But I’m the first person she’s talked to,

at least the first person who has to listen,

so she goes on.

She says he graduated from Tech last year,

all city-cornerback, about to start at State,

talked about opening a pet shop on Telegraph one day.

He was at school,

or the park,

or the bus stop,

I’m not really listening at this point.

All I make out is:

Wrong guy. Bullet. Cheek bone.
I take a breath, let her take several.

We agree on quantity and price;

it’s economy of scale, like anything else.

I give her my email so she can send the photo.

Just make sure his folks can tell it’s him.

I promise to do him justice,

wanting to offer her a hug or a discount,

but this is business.
Sitting on the porch,

I see another piece of mine

riding the chest of a boy

biking down the street.

I nod towards him, but he pedals away

without looking in my direction.

Good. Only my clients know me.
I see my shirts all over town.

They look fresh, never worn more than three months.

After that, it’s the back of the closet,

only to be taken out again if someone needs to find

my number on the tag to place another order.

Back in the lab,

I see the woman’s name in my inbox,

open the attached photo.
Damn. I know this one.

Seen him walking around in that football jersey,

always with a girl on his side and a smile on his face.

Seemed like a good kid, taking his time to enjoy life.

It’s a great photo she sent.

He’s laughing hard, hair lined up nicely,

wearing one of those graduation hats.

Gotta make sure not to crop that out.
I work for hours.

Sketch it out first,

add the different colors one run at a time,

make sure to put a piece of cardboard
inside the shirt so the ink doesn’t seep through.

The smell of burning polyester seeps into my skin.

Eventually, I turn out a first draft.

Or maybe it’s a last.
RIP in red,

then his name in yellow,

the photo,

1991-2009 in black.
I email her, saying she can

pick up the box tomorrow morning.

Just in time for church.
A new message pops into my inbox,

asking if I give discounts

for two faces, front and back.

It’s tough times, they say.

I take the shirt out back to dry,

make sure the ink doesn’t bleed off his face.

This entry was posted on Friday, October 2nd, 2009 at 10:05 am. It is filed under A Living Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.