Of course, you want to see my papers?

I've decided on my epitaph.

Actually, my whole funeral was planned out in the space of an hour, most of which revolved around the epitaph. Say forty five minutes. There was the matter of what happens to my body (cremation/burial e.t.c.): five minutes. The budget my mom should waste: five minutes. What I want done with my possessions: three minutes. The soundtrack to my death: one and a half minutes. Whether or not to write a letter to Mom to be opened in the very likely event of my death coming to pass before hers: thirty seconds. I'm a crappy letter writer.

I don't want to be one of the poor suckers buried in one of those huge graveyards which is basically a mass grave, because in the end your name is anonymous because everyone who remembered it will die with an even more anonymous epitaph.

The old standards of a Loving Son, Greatly Missed, and Beloved Boy blah blah blah are the equivalent of wallflowers at high school proms. Not geeks, not popular, not preppy, completely normal, the envy of many outcasts ' but they still won't be asked to dance. I don't have anything against those people. I don't know them. And yet. I only remember them in scorn.

When people walk past my grave (which will be pretty bare, no roses because it isn't covered in the budget I set out) I'll have it engraved in huge letters. Maybe a different font. Something to make it noticeable. Perhaps:

YOU'LL THANK ME FOR THIS LATER

Michael Grosse

Born April 14th 1989 Died Too Young

(Well at least he didn't die a heroin addict)

I will not mention (because it will cost too much, and seeing as I'm dead won't particularly matter anyway) that I lived as one until the last months of my life. I just want it noted, so that if any of the old crew don't OD before they realize I am thoroughly and consistently dead (being 'dead' in a small world of gangs doesn't last forever) that I didn't want to die the same way that they had lived. That I had lived. I won't mention that. I will not mention the exact day I died. Of course, those kind enough to read the dates will see that I was too young, but to be honest, most people who visit graves are there to see other poor dead people, and my grave will only be given a cursory flick.

And for the epitaph? My masterpiece, my mystery, my forty five minutes otherwise spent reading fictions and facts in a hugely compromised attempt to fill the void inside me, or watching repeats of Happy Days or listening to Marigold rabble on about some crap or attempting to have a conversation with Mom without any of us ever really saying what's on our minds and trying desperately not to break down (of course, when I die I knew that she will do, but that won't be my problem then). What does it mean? Nothing. There's nothing to thank me for. There's nothing that will be appreciated later rather than in the moment it was given. There is no you, no reference to anybody. It isn't a bitter comment, or a particularly funny one. The truth is (now there's a phrase I don't say a lot): I want to be noticed.

There are three reasons why people go into graveyards. The first is obvious: visiting a loved, but undeniably dead, one. I don't know why people insist on doing that. Having fresh flowers over your head, if not directly over, won't make bodies feel any better. Standing by the grave or remembering the person inside it while standing by it or around it could easily be done in the warmth. Graveyards are usually freezing. There should be a joke, inserted around here, about lack of body heat.

The second is the fear factor. This usually entices kids in between childhood and full-blown adolescence. I dare you to touch that grave at the end and other stories, by Theo Soeboard-Kitts. Proving that you are not afraid of non-existent ghosts that, even if they did exist, would not want to spend one more minute in the place they had been trapped for most of their death so far, is fantastically important and involves a flashlight, a bunch of bored and scared and excited kids and candy.

The third is that these kids grow slightly, and all that is needed to build a walking disaster area is to replace candy with booze and drugs and add stoned to the list of adjectives. And those kids need a place to go, to meet up, where there aren't a lot of people around at midnight and certainly not police. Or a payphone. Or a doctor. So when one member of the crew, distracted and dazed, happens to OD on heroin and nearly die, it takes far too long for anybody to get there and the fat paramedic, who should really know about the importance of not being obese considering his job, says he doesn't like being in graveyards, which of course slows down the whole operation because the much too thin paramedic, who should really know the importance of not being underweight considering his job, decides to answer him instead of devoting all his attention on the victim, who may be a heroin addict but is still sixteen and still has a personality and would really like to live if that's not too much trouble, please.

That doesn't have much to do with my epitaph. And yet. Just think, for a second: some people, most schools, go to graveyards and all those kids have to read about the guys in the first row, because the guide is talking excitedly or monotonously (these are fine cut distinctions; teachers have the tendency to either make it or break it) for hours and there isn't much else to do. When that little speech in front of the first row of graves finishes, you are led, as though a flock of sheep, to graves of importance or interest. The important ones might be the Majors or Colonels, but the interesting ones are usually the very young ones, or the women or the Sikh section.

At my memorial service, my gravestone will be properly unveiled, even though there won't be a grave. Of course, it won't be the first row. The grass won't be worn with bored footsteps. But teachers might point and say: There's an interesting grave and right there and then the kids would have a lecture about heroin and ODing and thanking adults for what they do later, even though the last point is far less important. And the kids will remember me.

I am an organ donor. Most of my organs are useless, transplant-wise. Heroin-riddled. But I'm young, and that should count for something. Of course, I could be a cadaver, but I'm not prepared to go that far for medical science. Once whatever needs to be taken is taken, I'm going to be cremated. Mom is going to scatter my ashes in Central Park. I'm sure that that's illegal. I'm also pretty sure she won't do it.

The music at my memorial will not be sad. Black will not be worn. The reverend will be sued if he so much as mentions grief in his Sunday service. Toni Amstar, my ex-girlfriend, will be called up to say what a crap boyfriend and person I was. It's true, but nobody but her would have the metaphorical balls to say it.

Toni was a good person, and above all else, a smart person. I want to say that I was in love with her and that she was my major regret, but in fact she was just a good-looking girl who I asked out first and found out she was a good person later and by that time she'd already figured me out. She liked The Who and sang 5:15 at a school memorial service for an ex-principal who had just died of lung cancer and was suspended for "inappropriate language to the current situation. (Girls of fifteen, sexually knowing, was not considered appropriate for Miss Lexmark, who preached abstinence and as far as anybody knew died age sixty seven, living with her sister and a chain-smoker with a huge collection of disgusting hats.) She wore fishnet tights with holes in them and pretended, quite successfully, that she didn't give a damn what anybody thought. I don't know why she agreed to go out with me. She was good-looking, smart and could drink unholy amounts of alcohol with no side effects aside from a slight headache in the morning. She never slept with me, so I had no reason to stay the night and therefore couldn't be certain whether these were slight or full-blown killer migraines. I was weird, stupid and drank unholy amounts of alcohol that resulted in my stomach being pumped and her breaking up with me.

I phoned her from the hospital. I told her everything. I wanted her to visit me. I also told her, near the end, that I didn't love her and wasn't attracted to her but could see that she was attractive if that made any sense. Her silence held a stony, tentative quality. I used the time to pick at my Led Zeppelin T-Shirt.

"Michael, she said, slowly, as though she was sorry but too tired to do anything about it, "you're already dead to me. It sounded as though she was going to say something else, so I stayed on the line and pictured her worrying the bottom of her lip, but then I heard her Mom call her in the background, and all I was left with was static.

Toni was, above all else, a smart person.