Transmissions from the satellite parts
I went to a concert last weekend, in Boston, Massachusetts. The particular venue that I went to had a seating chart and seats, unlike so many of the other shows I may attend at any given time, in some sordid basement somewhere. And so it was my lack of demographic appropriateness which may have contributed to my overwhelming sense of confusion and inability to figure out the seating chart, presenting with all of the acuity of a backwoods hick contemplating a New York City map. Perusing my ticket, I noticed that it had a row and seat number, while blithely ignoring the “section” portion of the ticket in a dark light. Arriving to my designated seat, I was greeted by two people who were already sitting in the seats where we were thought we were supposed to be situated. “—Hey,” I said to said revelers, “I think you’re in the wrong seats.” A girl with straight hair and a plain face looked back at me, and registering as she did some far off hitch in my memory. “—No,” she shouted back at me over the music, “You must have it wrong. This is Row N, Seat 14.” I looked at my ticket again and talked to her some more. This exchange may have lasted for several minutes or more in the ill-lit pavilion, as I assured her that she must be the one who has it wrong. As anyone whose ever tried to communicate even the simplest gesture in an environment with loud music playing knows, it’s nearly impossible, and so I may well have been translating a complicated love letter or economic theory. It was totally pointless. And then, all at once—simultaneously—her eyes locked on mine, and there was a moment of clarity. I recognized this person as someone I knew—someone I had gone to high school with and had recently sat next to at a wedding. “You look like someone I know,” she said randomly. And then she did not believe. “—Oh, hey!” I shouted at her, everything coming clear. “It’s me!” But still, she did not believe. And then there were the ensuing moments of awkwardness where I had to convince her of my authentic self, and that I was not some guy who shows up at concerts playing some complicated gag on people. IT’S ME!! I shouted, convincing her some more. IT’S ME! I repeated this several times, until it seemed like I was convincing even myself, imagining almost, the reverberations of this statement eminating out, like a sound wave, throughout the pavillion, IT'S ME!
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They returned McBeans’ ashes in an obscene gray box this week. My grandmother has placed it by the doorway of her home, afraid of bringing it any further indoors. “What are you supposed to do with it?” she asks me. “I don’t know what to do.” I pick it up, contemplating the cold gray box in my hands. It seems weird to me for Mcbeans to be reduced to the pile of ash that I am holding in my hands. He was, it seems to me, just moments ago, a tail-wagging ball of energy and enthusiasm, and now this is all that is left. “I don’t know what we’re going to do,” is all I can tell my grandmother. I’m not sure.

Life feels weird in the absence of McBeans. I enter dog licenses into a computer all day at work and so I think about it, show up to my grandmother’s, feel like I’m going to cry. The house still contains the peculiar smell of a cracker, and his leash hangs idly by the door. The difference is, however, there is no McBeans. Sometimes I go inside, expecting him to come charging out of nowhere, bowl me over with enthusiasm for another day, another walk in the woods. But there are no more walks, and there is no more enthusiasm. All I seem able to discern is the concrete weightiness of death, and how quickly it can come. And how much I miss McBeans.

It’s hard for me to define what was so special about my dog. And maybe it’s just really inappropriate to put into words. You can only pin things down for so long before you realize how much of a jerk you are. And sometimes you just have to let things stand for how they are, and how they make you feel, illogical as that may seem. And so that’s what I miss the most, I think, is everything I’m unable to put into words. It feels kind of weird to say. And it kind of makes me feel like a dork. But mostly, it’s the truth. I might have to convince you.