Making friends is a joy of living and losing them is part of dying. I detested the way everything was crumbling around us but I couldn’t stop or change any of it. I was disconsolate as I walked back to the pier. By the time I got there I had decided that enough was enough and that my half-off sales wasn’t selling my crap quick enough. The hell with it, I thought and so I started giving stuff away. It didn’t take long for demand to increase. Once word got out that it was Christmas at Arnold’s a whole lot of people , many I hadn’t seen since I started charging admission, were suddenly glad to stop by to say hello and goodbye.

          When Blackie failed to show again at sundown, I knew something was wrong. I tried calling him and got his answering machine. He was too sock to play games so I climbed back into my car and drove over to his apartment.

           I rang Blackie’s doorbell and pounded on the front door. When I got no answer I tried to break the door down by ramming it with my shoulder. I wasn’t strong enough to do it and hurt my shoulder trying. Not knowing what else to do, I went down to the apartment office telephone and called 911. Then I went and stood back outside at Blackie’s door and waited for the police.

          Within five minutes a patrolman arrived. He used the pass key the manager gave him. Blackie was dead in bed, face up and stone stiff. His skin was super white, the pallor of toilet tissue. I’d never seen him so pale. I also hadn’t noticed how boney and thin the cancer had eaten him. He’d been dead for awhile and his torso was bloated but his arms and legs looked like skin-covered sticks.

          “He looks peaceful,” I said to the policeman who was starting on his paperwork.

          “They usually do,” he replied without looking up. Not the gunshot ones but most of the rest. The gunshot ones always look gnarly.

          He was a young copy. I guessed barely thirty. Jacksonville Teach is a quiet burg and I wondered how many dead guys he’d see. It was probably more than me since Blackie was my fourth. The other three were gruesome murders.

         “Heart attack?” I guessed.

         “Maybe,” the cop said. “Maybe a stroke. The bloodshot eye could mean a stroke. Ruptured blood vessel in the brain would do that. From the looks of how wasted away this guy is the coroner might just call it natural causes.”

          “Natural causes?” I parroted. “People don’t die from that too often these days, do they? You don’t hear it described that way any more. It’s always something specific.”

          “Yep,” said the cop. “Science knows too much these days. When I joined the force I thought that natural causes and old age were dignified days to die. Now it seems like nobody’s allowed to die that way. You have to die of something more specific.”

          The patrolman called for a hearse to cart Blackie’s body away. When I volunteered to stick around until it arrived the patrolman went ahead and left. As I waited I looked around. I took a couple mementos that Blackie probably wanted me to have. Nothing big mind you, just a couple souvenirs.

          Next to Tim I was the closest kin that Blackie had so I rode down to the coroner’s office along with the two guys who came to haul him off. Blackie didn’t weigh much so it was an easy move. Traveling alongside a dead friend was sort of robotic. I know that I went through the physical steps of doing things but mentally I wasn’t really there. I wonder where my mind goes at times like these, ‘cause it sure doesn’t stay with me. It’s all a blur and I remember almost nothing.

        Making friends is the joy of living. Losing them is dying. Everything was crumbling around me. I couldn’t stop it, or change any of it.

          Disconsolate, I walked back to the pier. Enough was enough. The half-off sale wasn’t selling the crap quick enough.

          To hell with it. I started giving the stuff away. Demand increased. Word got out. Christmas at Arnold’s. A whole lot of people I hadn’t seen suddenly stopped by to say hello and goodbye.

          Blackie failed to show again at sundown. I knew something was wrong. I tried calling him and got his answering machine. So I climbed into my Chevy and drove to his apartment.

          I rang the doorbell and pounded on the door. When I got no answer, I tried to break the door down by ramming it with my shoulder and hurt myself trying. Not knowing what else to do, I went to the apartment office and dialed 911. Then I waited outside Blackie’s door for the police.

          A patrolman arrived in five minutes, and used the pass key the manager gave him.

          Blackie was dead in bed, face up, stone stiff, skin the pallor of toilet tissue.  He’d been dead a while. His torso was bloated, but his arms and legs were skin-covered sticks. I hadn’t noticed how bone thin the cancer had eaten him.

          “He looks peaceful,” I said.

          The policeman was writing his paperwork. “They usually do.” He didn’t look up.

          The cop was young, barely thirty. I wondered how many dead guys he’d seen. “Heart attack?” I asked.

          “Maybe. Maybe a stroke. The bloodshot eye could mean a stroke.”

          The patrolman called for a hearse to cart Blackie away. I stuck around. I took a couple of mementos Blackie would have wanted me to have. Next to Tim, I was the closest kin Blackie had.

          I rode to the coroner’s office with the two guys. Blackie didn’t weigh much. Traveling with my dead friend was robotic. I wasn’t really there. It was all a blur.