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Basement | Oct 07 2005

I’m in the basement doing laundry with Dave Waldstein. I haven’t seen him in a long time. I’m surprised at how nice his clothes are. I don’t remember him having such nice clothes. I say, “I realize this is going to sound trippy, but I think I’m dead, Dave.”

He glances up from the shirt he’s folding to give me a look.

I say, “I don’t know how long I’ve been dead, it might have just happened. I’m not used to it. All my life I was a part of the world and now I’m not anymore.”

I know what Dave is thinking: If you’re dead, how are we having this conversation? While wondering how to explain this to him, it occurs to me that maybe he’s dead too. Should I tell him? I decide not to.

“Last I heard,” I say, “you were definitely alive. You live in Westchester. You’re still a sportswriter, but I don’t think you like it very much.”

At this Dave gives me a crooked smile, one I take to mean: at least you got that right, buddy.

It’s a half-funny moment, but then suddenly it strikes me that Dave isn’t really Dave, and that I’m just talking to myself in the basement. Holding up a pair of socks, I say, “These socks are an illusion. Something like a dream. All of these clothes are. Even the basement is. There’s really no sense in us folding anything.”