Photo by The Unmistakables on Unsplash
“He was dead, Elaine.”
Tim grabs the bottle of bourbon from the cabinet and pours some into a jigger, looks at it, drinks the liquor from the jigger, and then pours a three-finger glass.
Elaine enters the apartment and closes the door behind her. She turns the deadbolt and then adds the chain, slipping it tight.
Tim tilts his head in disbelief. “He’s not coming home. They’re keeping him overnight.”
“But we told everyone he was dying. They all came.” She grabs the glass from Tim and gulps it down. She coughs, bends over, chokes, struggles to breathe for a moment, and then straightens up, taking a deep breath.
“You don’t even like bourbon.” He goes to pour himself another, and she grabs a bottle of red wine, unscrews the top, and takes a slug, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her coat.
He takes a wineglass from the bar, takes the bottle from her, and pours her a glass.
She drops down on the sofa, swipes the stack of mail from the coffee table to the floor, kicks off her shoes, and lifts her stocking feet onto the glass.
“You want me to take your coat?”
She waves him off and sips her wine like it’s water.
Tim walks around the coffee table and stares out the window at the Manhattan skyline, sparkling in the night.
“Where did we go wrong? We had an NDA and everything.”
“DNR, Tim. It’s a DNR, Do Not Resuscitate.”
“Whatever it is, they were supposed to leave him dead. That’s what the damn thing is for. Do Not Revive the Goddamn Fucker.”
“You are talking about my father.”
He turns and looks at her. For a moment, they stare at each other in silence, and then he raises his glass. “To Charles, the Goddamn Fucker.”
“To Dad,” she says, toasting him with Tim.
The phone in Elaine’s purse dings.
“That’s probably your sister wanting to tell us when she’ll be arriving for the funeral,” says Tim.
Elaine tries to put her glass on the table, but can’t reach it, so she digs through her purse with one hand, tipping the glass almost over with the other. “It’s Dad. He wants his iPad.”
“What?” Tim raises both hands to pull what little hair remains from his head, still holding his glass, which is now empty again. “He’s supposed to be dead!”
The phone dings again.
“He says he’s hungry. They didn’t give him anything to eat.”
“Aaaah!!” Tim stomps to the bar and pours another drink.
“Me, too,” she says, holding her glass out for him to fill from the wine bottle.
“He’s hungry. Of course, he’s hungry. He hasn’t eaten in over a week. I thought his kidneys had failed. What happened with that?”
She takes a sip of wine. “His colon was blocked, too, don’t forget that.”
He stares into his glass and then turns to face her. “It was that chaplain. He came in and said some prayers over him.”
“No,” she says, “I refuse to believe that. He’s not even kosher.”
“He wasn’t Jewish.”
“You know what I mean. He was a hospital chaplain, not an ordained cleric. And, besides, Pop died after he came in. He didn’t even get to finish his prayers. He started, and then, Thhpppf.” She sticks her tongue out and tilts her head to the side. “Dead.”
“That’s when we should have said no, when they came in and revived him. His body was dead. Suddenly, he pops back to life, gives a wicked shit to clear his colon, and his kidneys spring to life? Goddamn!”
Tim drops into the seat beside her and fluffs up the cushion behind him. He puts his drink on the coffee table and then grabs the cushion to his left and holds it out in front of him. He looks at it, looks at Elaine, and smiles.
“No,” she says. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Why not?”
“Tim?”
Her phone dings again, and he jumps up, pushes the pillow onto her purse, and puts all his weight into suffocating her phone.
She smacks him on the head, and he drops back onto the sofa.
“It would be that simple, Elaine. He’s already been declared dead.”
She looks at her phone again and reaches for the cushion.
This is the opening chapter of Dead Again?, a farcical dark-comedy which will eventually become a video short. The idea came from a conversation over dinner at a birthday celebration. Please share your thoughts.

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