Pulling a Marlboro out of his pack with his teeth, he reached into his pocket to pull out his Zippo. The silver casing shimmered around the engraving BOB, reminding Durwin of his Christian middle-school education with its notions of places where everything was white glowing, gleaming, and bright.
Romantic notions of creatures that know that they’ll be dead soon.
Durwin thought of a joke that one of his fellow students told him once: Santa Clause, God, and The Easter Bunny walk into a bar. Santa and the Easter Bunny both complain that, once children grow up, they stop believing in them. The Easter Bunny looks to God and asks him why human beings continue to believe in him when they become adults, but God doesn’t say anything. The Easter Bunny turns back to Santa and asks, “Why isn’t he answering me?” Santa throws back his drink, and with a voice tightened by a shot of whiskey replies, “Because he’s a figment of your fucking imagination.”
Durwin considered that he didn’t want a place where he could meet up with everyone else after he was dead. Dead is a place for quiet, not conversation or hymns. Leave him to the quiet songs of feasting worms and settling dirt.