Sometimes they were sentimental, but most of the time they were functional. Rolled in on a stretcher, the bodies lye there, unaware that they would never use that unopened pack of Trident Wintergreen gum in the left pocket of their khakis, or the freshly loaded subway card in the leather card holder in the butt of their jeans. All of it gone to waste. A tragedy.
Bob Armstrong’s wallet contained a picture of his six-year-old Labrador Retriever. The words September 2016, Griffith Park, were scribbled on the back in pencil so faint it was a surprise that the friction of his wallet rubbing against his corduroy pants hadn’t erased it. The section for cash held a Trojan condom, but when his wife came to claim the contents of her dead husband’s pants, she said he’d had a vasectomy. She insisted that his medical charts be checked, that there had to be a mistake. The man lying outstretched plain as day in front of her couldn’t have been her husband. There must’ve been some kind of mistake. But it was her husband, and the only confusion was hers.
Carl Paterson had two different MasterCards, and two of the same flavor Carmex brand chapstick, the one with the yellow tube and red textured cap. He was a creature of habit, which is why it was a wonder he didn’t die on one of his daily morning runs. He might have died the time a car got too close to him too quickly and almost nudged him into oncoming traffic, or the time his right arm began to ache and throb, a heart attack scare that reminded him to write a will. But he didn’t die either of these times. He died on his sixtieth birthday. Skydiving. Defective parachute.
Cacey Schaeffer received the keys to her first apartment the day before she was hit by a Citi Bike on her way to her Ethics lecture class. The keys were attached to a keychain ring that held a small can of pepper spray, and a small wooden penis that symbolized fertility. Her friend had gotten it for her from a family trip to Bhutan.
Madeline Long had the diamond tennis bracelet her grandmother gave her when she graduated high school, a family heirloom attained by suspicious means, but with good intentions. She died almost forty years after graduation, her excitement for life long expired. So too had her life.
Jake Meyers had a pack of rubber bands, and a small day planner with annotated notes about increases and decreases in Nike stock. The beginning of the week was highlighted in a furious red and as the week progressed, he had elected to use cooler tones ,with Friday’s being turquoise. The planner had a hard leather binding. Inside, a handwritten “I Heart Daddy” bookmark held his place on Thursday, March 21. Written in small letters below business lunch were the words “Spring Equinox.”
Rachel Houghton had cough drops, zinc lozenges, and the thermometer she bought on her lunch hour to check her son’s temperature when she got home that night. He was in the first grade, and all the kids in his class were being sent home with swine flu. He had looked a little pale when she dropped him at school and that was enough to warrant a trip to Duane Reade and a preliminary call to a pediatrician. He didn’t reach the pediatrician, but instead the receptionist that spent her lunch break answering and re-answering different variations of the same question.
There were phones, mostly iPhones, but a few wildcards. Blackberries and Androids of all kinds, and flip phones and burners and, on one guy, a pager. There were notes. Some crumpled and pushed to the bottom of the pockets that were turned inside out. Some carefully folded and kept next to wallets to maintain their shape. There were grocery and to-do lists, and written reminders, and receipts, and chewing gum wrappers, and safety pins and single hair ties, and a mini slingshot that I almost took just for the hell of it.
There were retainers, and birth control pills, and lipstick, and oil blotting pads, and tampons, and Viagra, and loose fish oil pills, and used tissues, and nail files, and hand lotion, and earbuds, and inhalers, and doggie bags, and business cards, and lighters, and cigarettes, and pocket knives, and mini sewing repair kits, and loose change, and in one case—a two dollar bill that I took just for the hell of it.