When I die, don’t give me a spendy funeral. You need that money for chew, beef jerky, and beer.
Let my shroud be a bright blue tarp, honoring the roofs and walls of my kind.
Let my hearse be an old pickup truck, one that has been beat to hell but somehow still runs, one that has a cracked windshield and a different-colored tailgate.
Let my coffin be the truck box, the kind of truck box where you have to jiggle the key to unlock it, with worn out shocks so you have to prop the lid open with a stick.
Dress me up in my best Prison Blues, hoodie, and Realtree hat. On my feet put my best Romeos, the ones with no holes or oil stains.
Drive me through town, wrapped in my shroud, lying in my coffin, riding in my hearse, past the Les Schwab, the Dollar General, the Rite Aid, and the Circle K. Don’t forget the Dairy Queen drive through.
Gather everyone at the boat launch and maybe have Phil say a few words about me. Phil won’t talk bad about me. Phil never talks bad about anyone.
Make sure there is plenty of Rainier in cans. Make sure there are jojos and poppers.
Take me to my final resting place, up in the woods, up a grown-over logging road with brush that scratches the sides of my hearse (it’s a cobby road so put it in 4), all the way up to the old landing on ground that used to be Stimson but now the owner is some big faraway company no one knows the name of.
Don’t bury me, just dump me off the tailgate like an old couch, wrapped in my shroud, bright blue, the only object that gets brighter in a rainstorm.
When anyone asks about me, say “Oh, he died, quite a while back”, no matter how long it’s been, so people don’t feel too sad or awkward or like they have to say something special.
Then, in a generation or two, forget I ever existed, time obscuring my legacy, ferns obscuring my grave.
Bike Newbie 