Everything Is Horrible and Wonderful

by Stephanie Wittels Wachs

  The other week we cast him to play a part on the show and he was elated. I remember when we made the phone call that let him know he’d got the part, hearing the excitement in his voice now just makes my heart break. He was so excited and so were we. He was so thrilled to move to New York. He got a ridiculous haircut that he thought looked good. He was planning on losing weight and cutting back on his insane diet.

  It was going to be huge for him.

  I was so thrilled that more people were going to see his genius. It was going to be a raw, unfiltered version of his comedy that we just didn’t have a chance to see yet. He was at the top of his game in so many ways. Knowing he was on the cusp of something so fantastic just adds another cruel layer of sadness to this whole thing.

  I loved him dearly. We all did. And I’m so sorry he’s gone. But the few years I had with him are better than 10,000 years with most of the boring people out there. I’m glad we all had him while we did. I’ll make sure to keep him in my heart forever and everything I do will be in his honor with the goal of trying to make him laugh somewhere, wherever he is.

  He loved you dearly, Harris.

  Everyone did.

  Wherever you are, I hope you know that now.

  22

  Eight Months, Six Days

  In ways, I always felt like your mother. It’s not that our mother didn’t do a good enough job or that we were latchkey kids or something like that—quite the opposite, in fact. I was just so proud of you in this way that—now that I’m a mother—can only be described as maternal. I loved you unconditionally from the start and always jumped at the opportunity to tell anyone who would listen just how special you were.

  Today, Mike and I leave Iris with Mom and Dad and go to a play. Coincidentally, we sit next to two middle-aged women who are talking about Oddball Comedy Festival, which came through town last weekend. They’re raving specifically about Aziz Ansari’s set; how phenomenal, adorable, and hilarious he was. Aziz was kind enough to get Mike and me tickets to the show, but the baby wasn’t feeling well. Or maybe I wasn’t feeling well. Or maybe I just didn’t want to sit there and see Aziz being funny and alive when you can’t be either of those things.

  In the old days, I would have boldly interrupted their conversation with “Oh, my brother is a writer and executive producer on Parks and Rec.” I loved to brag about you and did it often. Not much to brag about now!

  I mean, I could butt in and say: “You know, Aziz Ansari is a truly good person in real life. He sent us a churro cake in the mail. It was creamy and delicious. And he wrote the most beautiful tribute about my brother after he died of a heroin overdose. It made us all laugh after forty-eight hours of feeling like Mel Gibson in the torture scene from Braveheart. Aziz was a pallbearer at his funeral. My brother was a one of three writers on his new Netflix series that’s being advertised every fucking place I look. Social media is a land mine—is that your experience of it? My brother was going to play Aziz’s best friend in the show. It was going to be his big break into the acting world. He was moving to New York. He’d booked an Airbnb.”

  But you died, and none of that stuff happened. So I say nothing.

  Watching Master of None is like sticking needles into a voodoo doll of myself, but I’m some sort of masochist and need to feel the pain. The goodness, originality, and authenticity of the show is mind-blowing. And you had so much to do with that. I hear your voice so clearly in it. Like that scene from the “Nashville” episode in which Aziz and his date are at a BBQ restaurant in Nashville, and Aziz is trying to negotiate what they’ll split until he finds out she’s a vegetarian. This is genuinely heartbreaking to him because it means no “splitsies.” Splitting things was of paramount importance to you. One dish was never enough. You always had to try everything on the menu.

  I think of our family vacation to Maui a few years ago. It was on this trip that you bought that blue Maui cap you always wore. Mom caught this scene on the flip camera you bought her for her birthday that year. It’s one of the home movies in her collection.

  We are seated at a large, round table covered in a crisp, white tablecloth. You and I are negotiating what we’re going to order for dinner. Every meal we’ve ever had at a restaurant starts with a scene sort of like this. Ordering is always an epic ordeal that’s plotted with the precision of a game of Risk.

  Harris: “We should get a lobster dish and a red meat dish. And split ’em.”

  Me: “K.”

  Harris: “I say we get the lobster and the braised short ribs.”

  Me: “You don’t want the steak special?”

  Harris: “I’ll also get—wait, there’s a steak special?”

  Dad: “Ribeye. With the bone in.”

  Harris: “Mom, will you trade seats with me cause I’m gonna share with Steph.”

  Me: “We could get the New York steak.”

  Harris: “That’s boring.”

  Me: “Or short ribs are awesome. I’ll totally get those.”

  Harris: “Yeah they’re amazing.”

  Me: “Okay, so let’s get the short ribs and the lobster, and I want the cake walk, too. You wanna split the cake walk?”

  Harris: “No let’s stick with our own appetizers.”

  Me: “But I kinda wanna get the buffalo tomato salad. Does that appeal to you at all?”

  Harris: “We don’t have to do that together.”

  Me: “But it’s like a big stack.”

  Mom: “Just get your own buffalo tomatoes.”

  Harris: “It does sound pretty good. I’m gonna get the onion soup, too.”

  Me: “I wanted to try that.”

  Mom: “How are you guys gonna share?”

  Harris grins.

  Harris: “Mom, can we trade spots please?”

  I always used to look for you in the credits of Parks and Recreation, Eastbound & Down, The Sarah Silverman Program, and other TV shows you worked on. When Harris Wittels flashed across the screen, my heart would light up and sparkle like some cartoon character and release a sort of chemical in my body that must be what parents feel like when their kid scores a winning touchdown.

  When I see your name in the end credits of each episode of Master of None, I know it’s the last time I’ll ever see your name in this special place. So, it’s a sort of suicide to hear Aziz and Alan Yang talk about the show on “Fresh Air” and in the New York Times and in The Atlantic and in The New Yorker and in Salon and on Twitter and on every fucking podcast and place on the internet.

  But I want to watch the show for all the reasons I want to avoid it.

  It’s the last time I’ll ever see your name in the ending credits of a great episode of television. It’s the last time my heart will light up and sparkle in that way.

  The last episode of Master of None included a title card that dedicated the series to you:

  © Robyn Von Swank

  23

  Nine Months

  It’s both an honor and a punishment to be the person in charge of your estate. There’s a lot of shit to notarize and fax and scan and fill out and keep track of and document and follow up with and put into piles and file in folders. And I’m terrible at filing. My skill set really ends at making piles. There are just so many things that need to get done in a timely manner. We weave a complicated web in our time here on earth, and untangling it amounts to copious forms to fill out and battles with fax machines and conversations with customer service reps that go like this: “I am calling because my brother died, and I need to close/cancel (fill in the blank).”

  At first, these words were impossible to say; uttering them made it real, and I would inevitably break down and cry into the phone to a stranger working off a script. But I’ve said them so many times now that it’s become entirely unemotional. When they say the obligatory, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I respond with a quick “thanks” and scurr
y on to the reason for my call. I’m certain they aren’t sorry for my loss, so it’s ever so slightly insulting. Plus, I just want to get on with it.

  Per the instructions of your business manager, I go to a local Bank of America branch to close out your account. The guy who helps me has spiky, goopy black hair and wears a cheap, olive-colored suit that hangs on him oddly. He can’t be a day over twenty-three. He is notably fidgety and energetic. It crosses my mind that maybe he just snorted a bump of cocaine off his house key in the employee bathroom. He is spinning his desk chair back and forth and drumming on the desk with his pen. We could have just as easily been talking about a concert we both attended. The whole conversation feels nauseatingly banal and irreverent. I am here to close my dead brother’s bank accounts; he’s doing another task at work.

  Like most instances of closing a deceased person’s account, there are numerous unnecessary hoops through which to jump. I’m convinced that institutions make it hard so you’ll just say fuck it and leave all your shit there indefinitely. I was certain I had all the right things—a copy of the trust, an original death certificate, a warm smile—but this doesn’t satisfy the needs of our banking institution. The guy calls some 800 number and asks the representative to guide him through what I assume must be a very common occurrence. After all, death comes to us all.

  He pushes the buttons on his phone with the end of his pen and starts to play with the arm of the office chair as he holds for a representative. When someone picks up, he explains that the account holder died and then looks over at me while covering the receiver of the phone: “Are you his sister? One of his sisters.”

  “Yes.”

  He spins my driver’s license around and around with his fingers on the desk.

  “Oh really,” he says into the phone. “Oh, my gosh. So, do we still have to send it through wealth management or can we just do that letter or whatever?”

  Now he’s snapping his fingers. He’s literally snapping. He picks up the death certificate and starts reading portions of it out loud to the person on the other end.

  “A letter of instruction or something like that?” He starts whistling. “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Mmm-hmmmm.”

  I put my hand over my mouth because hateful sentiments are about to exorcist out of me, and I’m already late picking up Iris from school.

  He hangs up with a chipper, “Thank you very much! Have a great day!” Turning to me, he says, “You have to complete a couple of forms, one for Texas and one for California, and then fax the wealth management department a notarized California Small Estate Affidavit.”

  “Where might I find such a document?”

  “Google it.”

  I leave with a rage that seeps into the spaces between my bones and stays for the rest of the day and night.

  This is how it is. I vacillate between bad days and days where I do a decent job of functioning in the real world. Despite the volcanic rage and profound sorrow that are now a part of my cellular makeup, I am very efficient. I take care of the things that need taking care of. I make jokes, post pictures of my kid online, attend parties, teach students, take daily walks pulling a little red wagon. I keep up with current events, have opinions, feel and express political outrage. I read the news, listen to This American Life, type emojis in text messages. I throw a housewarming party, direct another play, remember to give birthday gifts to my daughter’s teachers. I’m convincing in my role. But when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I’m washing my hands or brushing my teeth, I see the outline of a mask. I don’t look like myself anymore. Because underneath my skin, I’m miserable.

  The dumb internet is partially to blame. I see your friends’ lives moving on online. Proposals, weddings, babies. Things for which you would have been there. Things you’ll never have the chance to do. These are the things that pile up inside of me.

  And then, suddenly, it’s eleven thirty on a Sunday night, and I’m standing in the bathroom in my underwear and a threadbare T-shirt that Harris used to wear, screaming about how bad it hurts. It comes out messy and guttural. I say fuck a hundred times. I melt into Mike’s chest. I feel empty and hungover the next morning like I did when I woke up next to the toilet after my twenty-first birthday, when I drank too much tequila the night before and lost one of my favorite earrings in the subway.

  This sort of explosion is becoming more rare as time passes, which is fortunate. It takes so much energy that there would be none left. Mostly, I’m learning to live with the feelings. It’s all very normal now. I have curly brown hair. My allergies act up after I drink red wine. I had a little brother for thirty years. Now he’s gone. When I do cry, it’s quietly with the door closed. I know how to breathe through the sobs so only silent tears pour down my face.

  It’s not that I don’t want to feel the feelings. I don’t mind the feelings. I welcome them, in fact. I just don’t have anything left to say about them. You’re gone. You’re never coming back. And it sucks. And it hurts. And it will always hurt. And that’s just the way it is now.

  24

  Nine Months, Six Days

  Holidays are drone strikes: calculated and deadly. On the first Thanksgiving without you, Mom, Dad, Mike, Iris, and I fly to Phoenix to be with my in-laws. Mike’s brother Jeff, his wife Hannah and their two girls, Sylvia and Judith, have all flown in from LA. So has my father-in-law, Steve. He and my mother-in-law, Ruth, divorced after Steve came out when Mike was thirteen years old, but they’re still best friends who unite for most holidays and special occasions. It’s very beautiful and inspiring and progressive and sort of like the TV show Transparent, minus the trans part. Ruth still lives in Scottsdale, where Mike’s brother Dave and his wife Jenna recently bought a gigantic house. This is where we’ll stay for the long weekend.

  While I love them all, I quickly realize it’s acutely painful to see Mike’s brothers, their wives, and their children all under one roof. My nieces, whom I adore, remind me that I’ll never have nieces or nephews who share my DNA. My mother-in-law and father-in-law have three grandchildren, including Iris, with two more on the way. Mom and Dad just have one.

  Out in the world on any average sort of day, it’s hard to hear people talking about their big families, multiple siblings, and the three, four, five, six, seven, eight grandchildren their parents have. It’s hard to see photos of sprawling families communing by trees or in front of fireplaces wearing outfits in matching colors—partially because matching color schemes are absurd, but mostly because my family lost one member but shrunk an entire generation. I don’t want to see anyone’s happy fucking family, especially on a holiday. A holiday is the worst: an entire day built around togetherness.

  But Thanksgiving is easier than I expect it to be, in large part because Iris is extremely sick. Vomiting, fever, rash, congestion, cough, generalized irritability. She’s on her very worst behavior and leaving a trail of snotty tissues all over the house. I feel awful for her but realize in hindsight it’s an excellent distraction. There’s so much vomit to clean up, I have no energy left to feel sorry for myself.

  It’s weird—no one really mentions you over the course of the weekend and not at all on the Big Day. This happens on regular days, too, but it feels extra shitty on a holiday. And there’s no green-bean casserole. You loved green-bean casserole. It was your favorite Thanksgiving dish. You used to make Mom prepare two every year so you could save an entire casserole for leftovers. I guess it’s apropos that the dish is absent today too.

  As I lie in bed that night, tears stream out of the corner of my eye onto my pillow.

  “The whole point of the holidays is to be with your family, and a quarter of my family is dead,” I say to Mike.

  He tries to comfort me: “A quarter of your family isn’t dead.”

  “A quarter of my original family is dead.”

  • • •

  When we get home from Arizona, we put Iris on her second r
ound of antibiotics for a double ear infection. She hates it. Twice a day for ten days, it’s a two-man, pin-down job involving a sippy cup, a syringe, and a pacifier. Administering the meds tonight, I remember that time you basically claimed that antibiotics were some sort of sci-fi miracle antidote that boosted one’s immune system for months at a time.

  It was Christmas Day, 2004. It had snowed the night before, which was extremely unusual in Texas. I had gotten home to a room full of presents at 2:00 p.m., wearing the same clothes from the night before. Dad, who was super sick with some sort of upper-respiratory infection, made a passive-aggressive comment about how late it was or how Christmas gets later and later each year or something along those lines. Whatever it was, I took great offense because I was twenty-three and had the energy to take great offense to things.

  “This isn’t one of our better Christmases,” Mom said.

  I was in the kitchen building a giant lox sandwich, and all of you were sitting in the living room. Dad sat on the couch next to Mom with the blanket pulled up to his neck. You were filming all of this on the video camera.

  “You’re making it worse by making me feel guilty,” I shouted from the kitchen.

  Dad chimed in: “That’s what mothers are supposed to do, Stephanie. Loving mothers make their children feel guilty.”

  “She’s not making me feel guilty—you are.”

  “I am!?” His voice raised an octave. “What did I do!? I’m sitting here with a blanket over me. I’m dying. Ever since I quit smoking, my health has gone to hell. I better start smoking again just to save my life.”

  I laughed loudly. This. This was one of my favorite things about how our family functioned. Even in the midst of an argument, we could always break for a laugh.