by Third Bass
It was a Sunday night. I was at the sink, working my way through a mountain of dishes, when my meditative scrubbing was interrupted by one of the blings, pings, and dings that increasingly rule our lives and eviscerate our attention spans. It was a message from a coworker: “Jethro’s been taken to the hospital, I don’t think he made it.”
I stood there clutching the phone and blinking, running my eyes over that chilling insubordinate clause again and again: I don’t think he made it. What the fuck? Jethro–the dude I was bullshitting with just two days ago–didn’t make it? He checked out for good, just like that?
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