The Ungrateful Dead

Abstract

The Ungrateful Dead Clayton Bradshaw (bio) The same summer the San Antonio Spurs defeat the Miami Heat in Game 5 of the NBA Finals, Robin Williams hangs himself in his final act of ironic comedy, the Philae lander tumbles towards its fateful rendezvous with the Churyumov-Gerasimenko comet, and an over-heated Eric Garner dies breathless in a chokehold, Grayce stands before the judge in Homerville, Georgia, and declares: Greg Clarkson is dead. I killed him. _______ Three months earlier, Grayce stops a millimeter past the stop sign when a cop pulls them over. The red-and-blue lights flash purple against the hood of their car, and they know better than to roll forward that last inch, but they’re in a hurry. They aren’t exactly late for their Saturday shift at Sonic, but every cell in their brain has been shifting in twelve different directions as though they are. In fact, they’ve been in such a rush, they’ve forgotten their driver’s license. The cop walks up to the side of Grayce’s window and knocks on the salt-coated glass. Grayce rolls down the window and notices their reflection in the cop’s boots and immediately adjusts their glasses. When they tell the officer their license is at home, the cop asks, Well, do you know the number? I’ll just run it through the computer. Grayce recites from memory what they believe the number to be, which turns out to be the number for a license belonging to someone named Greg Clarkson. When the cop returns, his lips are twisted towards the right side of his face. _______ At the jail, Grayce stands against a wall, their back rigid against the white-painted cinderblocks. An older white woman in a gray [End Page 32] uniform pressed tightly against her body armor grabs Grayce by the wrist and drags them to a cold steel table under a dark-lensed camera. Grayce shrieks. Hey, that fucking hurts, they say. The woman points to a sign on the wall above the table. No foul language, the sign says. She firmly grasps Grayce’s index finger and rolls it back and forth onto a cold inkpad. Then she rolls the finger on a thin, blue piece of cardstock with faint black grids printed on one side. She repeats this process with each finger on Grayce’s left hand. Then again with each finger on Grayce’s right hand. The woman seems invested in the efficiency of the procedure and does not speak to Grayce. As their fingers press against the cardstock, Grayce begins to feel enclosed by the room and the woman’s grip on their fingers. Their breathing grows shallow and depthless, and the synapses in their brain spark bright and effulgent until Grayce collapses onto the floor. The woman takes Grayce’s limp hand and presses their right pinkie onto the ink and then the cardstock. _______ In a hospital, Grayce wakes up, their hands cuffed to the bed. They recognize the smoky image of Greg in the corner of the room, like a gaseous space cloud, his hands opened wide and reaching towards Grayce’s neck. Grayce breathes harder and harder, and Greg fades in and out of translucence as he inches his way towards Grayce in a fantastically spectral fashion. Grayce grips the sides of the hospital bed. A nurse administers a sedative and Grayce’s spine relaxes, their head sinking into the pillow. The world slows into shrinking ambiguity. _______ Grayce’s body feels numb, pliant and compliant, as they sit in the back of the police car on the way back to the jail. They slump into the seat, their head placed against the plate glass of the side window. The officer stares straight down the road ahead, never acknowledging Grayce’s presence, as though he’s forgotten Grayce exists within the [End Page 33] space of his patrol car. Grayce feels strangely comfortable; they are not used to this degree of obscurity. _______ Walking through the heavy steel doors of the jail, an officer they’ve never seen before steers Grayce with a firm hand on their shoulder. In...