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May 6, 2002
My disabled companion bursts forth with: “I’d like to take half of my sister’s ashes from my mom’s house and scatter them in the ocean,” in his loud, whiny, yet sincere voice. The entire cafe looks at our table, they are waiting for me to say something. I do not respond, but nod ever so subtly at my companion. He looks satisfied; now he wants to discuss how Whoopi Goldberg once applied makeup to corpses before she was famous. Our table is really in the spotlight this afternoon, discussing death at teatime, with dead-looking city folks listening to our conversation.