SHOCK: On Sang Lee’s Death

Revised Edition
1st Edition Posted Jan 5, 2010

They are sorry to hear about Sang’s death.

We are so sorry about Sang, Charlie.

Sang died.

Sang’s dead.

We know. We are so very sorry.

Sang’s watch is in my apartment. He loves this watch. I have to call him and tell him he left his watch here.

Sang died.

Sang’s dead.

They found him face-down on the bathroom floor.

Is this real?

I’ve never felt this way. I can’t wait to talk to Sang about it. We should invite Sang over and… but Sang’s dead.

He died.

They found his body yesterday. What the hell happened?!

Well, Mr. Bivona, when you take into account the high blood pressure and diabetes—it was probably a heart attack.

Heart attack? At forty-three!

It happens.

Heart attack, smoking, high blood pressure, financial worries. His heart exploded.

—

Dude! Why the fuck would you worry about death in your thirties?

Sang and I were debating death again. It’s a Buddhist practice, I responded. So when death comes, I’ll be calm and ready…

Dude, Sang replied, you realize that you and I are going to live to be at least seventy-five, right? It’s the average life expectancy. We’ve got a lot of time. So, chill the fuck out!

Sang died. Forty-three. I’ll never see him in three dimensions again. He will never smack me on the shoulder, call me dude, ever again. He will never listen to one of my wild get rich schemes—comic strips or our own brand of greeting cards: Black Death Cards: for fucked up occasions. His response to every crazy project:

Let’s fucking do it.

You really want to try this with me?

Um, Yes! What the fuck, Dude?! Haha!

And we’d work out a plan. We had so many plans.  We were going to create a winning t-shirt logo, or bumper sticker, or screenplay, or commercial— or what-the-fuck-ever.

We would make a million dollars, open a school and a pot bar—in the same building—and just hang the fuck out, talking with people and writing.

Then we were going to stop at Amsterdam on the way to Korea.

But Sang died.

I hope the casket is closed at the wake. I don’t want to see his body. I left before the police brought the body bag out. I just couldn’t. I went back a few hours later.

Don’t worry, the police opened the windows to let the smell out. The landlord is a friend. And I should tell you, there’s blood on the floor. Are you ok with that?

I walked up the dark staircase. To let the smell out. The police opened the windows to let the smell out. The smell.

Chuck, listen, I’m telling you, Asians don’t have BO. Our bodies do not produce odors. Trust me! There is no fucking way my body smelled. Dude, come on!

I smiled.

The door is open, the landlord hollered, Sang never locked it.

There was blood on the bathroom floor. I found his glasses on the window sill. I found a large bottle of Tums on his bed and half empty bottle of Pepto Bismol.

What he felt as heartburn was a lingering heart condition, the Police Detective, monotone, over the phone. The autopsy showed signs of strain on the heart. The heart attack was brewing for months.

I found his watch on his desk. I slid it onto my left wrist. It was a little too tight. You lost all that weight when you found out you had diabetes, I thought. Even your wrists are thinner than mine. Asshole!

Hahaha.

Why are you dead? Are you fucking with me?

I took the watch off and slipped it into my pocket. I felt the watch band slip out of my hand.

He loved his watch band. It was his greatest story. His family lost their business. His mother and father were depending on him for survival, and he had just lost his job. He was driving home in disgrace, to give them the terrible news, and then:

I just didn’t want to face my family yet, ya know? So, I stopped at this jewelry store. I had seen it on my commute every single day, and I always wanted to check it out. So, I said fuck it! I went in.

That was where he found his watchband. It was his trademark. It’s heavy silver with large black opal stones—large ovals, very gothic. Sang loved vampires. He loved the idea of living forever and just accumulating knowledge.

The band was $200. He had $300 in the bank. He had $300, and not a penny more.

I said, fuck it, and got the damn watchband. Because I wanted it. I said to myself: ‘You aren’t going to end up homeless. You aren’t going to starve. You aren’t going to die. You are going to find a job tomorrow. You’ll be fine.’

And he did find a job, the very next day. And the watch band became his symbol of self-confidence, of self-assurance. The watch hitting the bottom of my pocket reminded me of this story. I collapsed in his desk chair and sobbed.

Sang’s dead.

Read

»Drunk With My Dead Best Friends«

or Browse the Something Like Chapters of

Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
by Charles Bivona

» Enter Here «

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