Death by Facebook

by Everett Peacock

  death.by.facebook

  by

  Everett Peacock

  ~~~

  to those hardy souls

  that inhabit the rainforests

  of

  Volcano, Hawaii

  ~~~

  PREFACE

  Like the other half billion or so people using Facebook to keep in touch with friends, family and business I was reading a stream of posts one afternoon. Nothing unusual, just the steady flow of clever statements, complaints about the weather, about being sick, being in love, being lost.

  One such person I had added to my “friends” list was a girl from high school I had known, not very well, but enough to say hi on Facebook. She was an active poster with more “friends” than most and you could tell she lived a great deal of her life online, on Facebook. On this particular afternoon she had posted about being sick with the flu and I scanned her last post with the same disinterest that I did about other such complaints.

  However, the next day she was posting again, except this time it wasn't her doing the writing. It was her husband using her log-in to tell her friends that she had died during the night. He expressed how much his wife had enjoyed her social life with her Facebook friends, how she would come to bed at night relating all the wild and crazy stories she'd heard there. He signed that last post with his name and I naturally never saw another from her.

  Facebook, of course, is just a another tool humans use to communicate. It was this lady's death though, announced online that cemented it in my mind as a tool that had grown up, one that was perfectly suited to announce such a finality. And, it became clear to me that with such maturity it was also a tool that could be expressed with a darker purpose.

  Everett Peacock

  February 27, 2011

  Kula, Maui, Hawaii

  1

  At this point the only thing in life I truly regret was having my poor Mom read about my death on Facebook. I had finally managed to convince her just a few weeks ago that it was the best way to follow my adventures. Janet was posting pictures of our sweetmoon (our vacation before we got married) at the volcano in Hawaii and I was posting clever comments, which I had to usually steal from others. Mom loved all of it. Well, she “liked” all of it.

  In fact, I had just posted a new profile picture, me up close and Janet with her chin on my right shoulder. Both of us were smiling, but, now I guess, for different reasons.

  Being dead is nothing like I thought it would be. Two tours in Afghanistan made me think death was a horrible experience. I know now that it is only horrible for those that see it happen to others. For me, it was pretty quick, a bit of a surprise no doubt, but otherwise a smooth transition.

  I suppose I was always a simple man, never bothering to think things through much, and ignoring those things I didn't want to deal with. But, that gave me a lot more time to love the important things: fishing, hiking, the great outdoors and Janet. Too many tours in the Army had let me hit 35 without having had a serious relationship. That and having been adopted by parents who couldn't sit still more than six months or so had kept me from having many friends.

  Janet then was my first love, not counting my two flings in Germany. I loved them too, probably still could, but Janet was so much like me it hurt. Hurt real good. She could feel my emotions in her soul she said, and then laughed before I got too confused trying to figure out how she did that. We almost could read each other's minds too. I could almost always tell when she was sad and she could always tell when I was trying to figure something out.

  Trouble was Janet had been sad a lot lately, even as we were due to get married in just a few days. And, her headaches were sometimes so severe she got sick, or got the shakes real bad. She told me it was left over from the drugs they had given her in the asylum. It was worrisome to me, and true to my nature, I did my best to ignore it. Bad things, I knew, had a way of disappearing eventually.

  Janet suggested we take my signing bonus (yes, another three years of Army life for me, for us) and go to see the lava, the beaches, and the wild papayas you could just pick right off a tree. Hawaii, she said, was good for the soul.

  I sure liked the idea of being out in the jungle wilderness. What I didn't realize was that when I died I would be hanging out there as well, waiting for my turn in Heaven. They said it was temporary and that was cool by me.

  I guess it was what you might call an angel that told me it would be just a little while. She looked a lot like my kindergarten teacher, Ms. Debbie. That same big smile and soft pat on top of my head when I got lost in thought.

  “Jimmy, you got some things left here to take care of, OK?” she said softly, the bright light moving around her like some kind of water.

  “Sure,” I said. I had the taste of cookies and milk on my tongue just by looking at her. “When is nap time?” I'd asked, probably more from habit than from actually being tired.

  Her face lit up just like a Christmas tree when you first plug it in. “Anytime you like Jimmy.” She had put her arm around me real tight, just like I remembered and squeezed a little too hard. “You're a good boy Jimmy.”

  I smiled up at her and she simply glowed and slowly, very slowly moved up and away from me. I was soon all alone. Again. In the rainforest, near the volcano. That was yesterday. So, I walked, or I think I walked. Anyhow I moved through the ferns and the mists. I didn't need to push anything out of my way, I just flowed, past the birds and the blooming ginger. In and out of the lava tubes, cold and dark and long forgotten by their creator; something I was beginning to relate to. Lonely was something I could deal with, though, something I had grown up with.

  One thing I must admit to: being dead, or at least not being a human anymore has some distinct advantages. As I wander around I can sense things I have never been able to before; I can feel what people are feeling, like I am in their heads, in their emotions even. I can move easily, anywhere I point my mind. Wandering through the rainforest today I stumbled into some hikers. They seemed interesting, so I simply focused on them. Just for a moment. Suddenly, I was there, inside their minds, feeling what they were feeling. It was something I found entertaining and sadly educational. Sad, I say, because I'd never known people could have such rich experiences. Rich beyond anything I can remember having experienced. It was a good thing no one could see me, see my disappointment.

  I looked up above me and I saw that bright light far away, where Ms. Debbie had come from. I knew somehow, that it was slowly getting closer and that when it did reach me, I would have to leave this place and go there.

  Finally, for the first time ever, I really appreciated time. And people. People were so cool and suddenly so damn interesting, I just wish I hadn't killed so many in the war. I kinda wondered if I would meet any of them, when I went up where Ms. Debbie was.

  Meeting guys I'd killed was scary, so I didn't think about it. I was going to make my way back from the volcano's lower crater, the brochure called it Halema'uma'u, to see Janet at Cabin #94. We still had several days booked at the Kilauea Military Recreation Area. I had to figure out what had happened, and if she was OK. Poor Janet, all alone now. Alone with her headaches, her shakes and herself.

  It was now almost dawn, the day after I'd died. I felt I was changing already, even in the few hours since I'd been dead. Now, the landscape was talking to me, like a teacher. I was no longer a tourist, or even a dead tourist. I was a welcome guest in this home of creation, where the Earth herself spoke lovingly to those that would listen. I was listening and watching and very, very curious.

  I moved through the 4000 foot elevation Ohia forest until I saw a light go on in a house close by. An interesting house.

  2

  I watched as his new bamboo curtains slid sil
ently aside. He was studying the Mother of Creation still wearing her white mantle for the rising sun. Dawn on 13,679 foot Mauna Loa started at the top and worked its predictable way down to the Ohia forests far below.

  Larry Larson knew a good day to fly when he saw one, especially when he saw so many of them. A large cup of Kona's best, a strawberry papaya from the Hilo farmers market and a kiss to dear Shirley got him out the door.

  A sparkling chromed engine sat faithfully in the garage ready to propel him and his parachute wing with a sweetly balanced propeller. Just across the driveway, in an open field, he set up to fly, watching the sun fill the great volcano's height.

  The high mountain air sat patiently, heavy with promise, greeting him with a brisk embrace of anticipation. An electric click brought his baby to life, humming a familiar song, hugging him with its vibration.

  The wing swung up to dance with the engines breath and rose, ready to carry him up into the gentle flow of the trade winds. Larry pushed the throttle a little higher and felt the tug of the earth, for just a moment.

  Rising firmly up into the crispness and soft light of morning he surveyed the familiar ground pulling smoothly away. He had flown this route hundreds of times, moved among the clouds and above the jungle, the lava fields, the sea. Yet, it wasn't anything less than fresh, this dance with the sky. Hula Me Opua was painted on his wing: dances with clouds.

  He flew over the lava filled craters, vainly attempting to hide their ferocity with fumes and smoke and over further to the great expanses of desolation. As he, and I, rose ever higher toward Mauna Loa her family stood tall to welcome their visitor. Mauna Kea, her own mother stood to the north, silent and proud. The ancient great ones of Maui, Oahu and Kauai hugged the western horizon and beyond them the unnamed ones rested below the ocean now, forever.

  As Larry was greeted with the first lifting morning thermal, he smiled, knowing, like I was now learning, Hawaii reserves her true majesty for those who fly.

  3

  Below Larry, I could see Cabin #94, next to the road and the gym. There I found poor Janet, still sleeping, beer bottles strewn everywhere. It was as if she had opened every last one we had brought with us. I tried to focus on her, her thoughts, but it was just a lot of haze, a lot of static. Moving over to the floor I tried to pick up the cans, as I might have only a day or so ago. It was disarmingly strange. I had no way of picking up anything. No hands, no arms, nothing I could use to help clean the place up. I tried to focus on the cans, thinking I might be able to do something that way. But again, all I got was haze and static.

  After some good deal of time waiting on the outside porch watching the clouds move in from the deep forests across the street I sensed her wakening. I hesitated going inside with her at first, content to watch through the cold glass.

  She was as beautiful as I had ever seen her, her hair tossed and perfectly red. She wore only a thin t-shirt and her running pants, her bare feet no doubt experimenting with how much cold they could handle. She moved slowly, like she was measuring her paces, simply pushing the empty beer cans aside like reluctant cats. I could now easily see at least twenty cans, on the table, by the TV and even in the sink.

  Her yawn caught my attention as well, not so much by itself, but that she stopped and held her head in both hands as she did. It looked a lot like that famous painting by Munch, the one Andy Warhol copied.

  Suddenly, just as what must have been the next moment in that painting, she fell to her knees, still holding her head and moaning loudly. She fell to her side, curling up in a ball and crying now, loudly. Screaming and crying.

  I looked around, from my outside perch. The place was practically deserted. Most of the military guys were deployed in faraway places, unable to take enough leave to enjoy these distant mountains.

  Looking back in, I just caught a glimpse of her moving into the restroom, and before I could move closer I heard her throwing up. For a long time. Horrible sounds, like demons barking from hell itself. I moved through the wall and to the fireplace and waited. Patiently.

  After a while, I heard the sink running and then a curse or two mumbled from in front of the mirror. Soon after that, she emerged, rubbing her eyes. Her hands looked injured as well, with scratches, fresh from some kind of fight. What had happened there? I was really starting to worry now. Certainly worried as she stopped and looked right at me. Stared at me! Her stare was blank, though, as if she was looking right through me. I had to laugh a little at that. Of course, she would be looking right through me! My laugh was short lived.

  “Jimmy?” she whispered.

  I remained where I was even as I looked to see if I had suddenly reappeared, or had suddenly reincarnated. I had not.

  “Oh Jimmy,” she moaned and looked at her hands. “I'm so sorry Jimmy.”

  I found myself focusing on her now, trying to read her. The static was gone, but the haze was thick and I could only sense confusion.

  She turned away from me now, and sat heavily at the small round table, sweeping three empty beer cans off to the floor. I watched them fall, all of them, bouncing off the floor once and then rolling contently against the wall. I heard more static as I watched them.

  Janet was obviously distraught, and injured. I couldn't remember much about what must have happened to me, but it looked like she got hurt as well. She had her head down on the table now, brought her wounded hand up to her mouth and began licking it, like a dog would. I felt like a voyeur suddenly, watching a stranger. A stranger in her own personal, strange land.

  Watching her finish licking her wounds I found myself remembering when I would do the same thing, as a kid. I had even licked that bullet wound before the medics got to me in Kandahar. The blood wasn't the main attraction, though. It was the soft torn flesh that felt good against my tongue and between my lips. Janet seemed to have that same fascination.

  Suddenly, she stood up and took two quick steps to the small refrigerator, flung it open and grabbed two more beer cans. Sitting back down at the table, letting the refrigerator fend for itself, she pulled her laptop over.

  Opening its lid she waited to turn it on, watching the blank screen for minutes. She drank the first beer slowly as she continued looking at the darkness. Finally, she crushed the can empty and closed her laptop. Reaching over to the far side of the table, she pulled my laptop over to herself.

  Quickly she booted it up, the false light painting her face a ghostly sheen which broadcasted the redness in her eyes obscenely. Why would she use my computer? I checked what memory I could and wondered at what I might have on there that she would be interested in.

  I had no old girlfriends, no bones in my closet, no pornography even. No banking records, she did all that anyhow. She managed all the number stuff.

  My view from the fireplace was getting stale, so I moved. Moved over to her shoulder, her right shoulder, where I might have smiled once. Here I could see her open the web browser. My homepage tabs all came to life. CNN.com, MTV.com, TheParrotTalksinChocolate.com and, of course, my favorite, Facebook.com.

  I did love my news and music videos! The parrot that talked in chocolate was one of those light-hearted tiki culture blogs fashioned after a favorite book. I loved that stuff.

  She clicked immediately on Facebook, where I was automatically logged on. Over her shoulder I saw the latest news feed. I read it all immediately, soaking it up.

  Jim Cannon “When the call goes to voicemail and the voice of your friend asks you to leave a message after the beep and you are all prepared to talk THEN the automatic cell phone lady follows this with "if you would like to leave a message, blah blah blah, when you are finished, blah blah blah, to leave a callback number press 5, …”

  That guy Jim was some kind of master piano tuner in Texas but had found his comedic genius nested somewhere between original posts and clever responses to others. I had stolen many of his posts when I couldn't come up with anything on my own.

  My favorite tiki parrot had a recent post as well.
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  Tiwaka.Tiki “the Tiki bar is rocking tonight! People are dancing and drinking and falling all over each other...it looks like a bunch of drunk pigeons!”

  And finally Mom had a post! It must be like her second one only, and I felt a twinge of pride. She could do it, I'd known she could!

  Agatha Anne Turner “off to play a little bingo with Jessie and the girls.”

  Most of the rest were old posts, before we had left for Hawaii. Janet scrolled down the page, looking for something. She clicked on my Friends list and spent a long time looking at the few girls there. Most of them were simply Army buddies, the only people I had ever really spent any time with.

  She seemed to get bored after a moment and opened her second breakfast beer. Tipping it high it looked like she downed half of it before slamming it into the table and burping, burping loudly like I might have. I was a bit shocked, but what got me was her next move.

  Janet clicked in the text entry box near the top of the page, where it said “What's on your mind?” Immediately those words disappeared, awaiting some clever or more likely inane post. I couldn't quite figure it out. Why was she going to post under my profile?

  I pulled back a little from her, in fear mostly, but a fascinated fear. Like the fear I had in Afghanistan when our foot patrol moved into a quiet neighborhood. A neighborhood with no kids playing in the streets, no women carrying bags of who knows what on their backs, no old men sitting around doing nothing. The fascination that comes right before danger, right before a bullet.

  Even this far behind her I could see her type the words. Words I can't believe anyone would ever believe I would say, certainly nothing I believe I ever could say. She clicked on Share and there it was for all the world to see.

  Jimmy Turner: “I just wanted to let you all know that I am dead.”