I wanted my funeral to be like one of those drive-thru car washes where they set my casket on some rollers or whatever and wheel me through a long glass tunnel. So, when I died, they modeled my funeral after one of those drive-thru car washes. Pretty killer, man. Now I’m propped up on a bunch of pillows in my casket, drinking a cold beer, and waving to everyone who’s either crying or laughing or I can’t tell which because their faces kinda look the same either way.

Goodbye, friends!
Goodbye, family!
Goodbye, property taxes and freeway traffic and electricity bills and blah blah blah!

It’s onward for me.

At the end of the tunnel there’s this big hole where I’ll fall down, down, down until I reach the afterlife or wind up in the future where everyone is made of sunshine or metal or something. I take one last look at the world and whoosh! The wind blows through my dead hair and I’m off to eternity.

The casket almost topples over as it lands back on the rollers. Everyone except my family is gone. My wife goes, “What the fuck are you doing?”

I shrug.

I try to get out of the casket. My legs don’t work anymore. Bummer. But there’s a fresh beer in my hand and Stone Temple Pilots are playing and my wife is still here so it ain’t all bad. I reach the end of the tracks, tell my wife I love her (again), go down the hole.

Songs: Ohia is playing in the tunnel this time. My wife is there, but she’s older. Like, ten or fifteen years older. She’s got grey in her brown hair, wrinkles brushed around her eyes. She’s wearing my Wrangler shirt and drinking a PBR. I love her even more now that I’m dead.

“They cured cancer,” she says.
“I didn’t have cancer,” I say.
“No, but it’s still pretty cool.”
“You’re right. I love you!”
“See you soon!”

My wife flashes me her tits. They’re old, like her. She’s still got it, though.

Whoosh.

The trees outside the tunnel have grown over a thousand feet tall. They’re filled with bluebirds and jaybirds and parakeets and basically all kinds of birds. My wife is asleep in her wheelchair. I try not to wake her as I crack open my beer.

Whoosh.

Snow is falling in soft white blankets like dreams coming to children for the first time. My wife isn’t here. Damien Jurado is singing “The Last Great Washington State”. It’s a song about leaving. My favorite song, actually. I wonder why I ever left. I miss my wife, my kids.

Whoosh.

The lights are off in the car wash funeral. No music. The wheels barely spin anymore. They creek. The beer is stale.

Whoosh.

The car wash funeral is free-floating in space. Everything that’s ever existed is gone.

“You’re back,” she says.
She’s behind me, in her own casket with her own wheels, and two fresh beers.
“You’re back,” I say.

We drift out into nothingness, together, getting drunk and making out and listening to whatever music is left in the void.

Whoosh.