Death by Facebook

death.by.facebook

by

Everett
Peacock

~~~

to those
hardy souls

that inhabit
the rainforests

of

Volcano,
Hawaii

~~~

PREFACE

Like
the other half billion or so people using Facebook to keep in touch
with friends, family and business I was reading a stream of posts one
afternoon. Nothing unusual, just the steady flow of clever
statements, complaints about the weather, about being sick, being in
love, being lost.

One
such person I had added to my “friends” list was a girl
from high school I had known, not very well, but enough to say hi on
Facebook. She was an active poster with more “friends”
than most and you could tell she lived a great deal of her life
online, on Facebook. On this particular afternoon she had posted
about being sick with the flu and I scanned her last post with the
same disinterest that I did about other such complaints.

However,
the next day she was posting again, except this time it wasn't her
doing the writing. It was her husband using her log-in to tell her
friends that she had died during the night. He expressed how much
his wife had enjoyed her social life with her Facebook friends, how
she would come to bed at night relating all the wild and crazy
stories she'd heard there. He signed that last post with his name
and I naturally never saw another from her.

Facebook,
of course, is just a another tool humans use to communicate. It was
this lady's death though, announced online that cemented it in my
mind as a tool that had grown up, one that was perfectly suited to
announce such a finality. And, it became clear to me that with such
maturity it was also a tool that could be expressed with a darker
purpose.

Everett
Peacock

February
27, 2011

Kula,
Maui, Hawaii

1

At
this point the only thing in life I truly regret was having my poor
Mom read about my death on Facebook. I had finally managed to
convince her just a few weeks ago that it was the best way to follow
my adventures. Janet was posting pictures of our
sweetmoon
(our vacation
before
we got married) at the volcano in Hawaii and I was posting clever
comments, which I had to usually steal from others. Mom loved all of
it. Well, she “liked” all of it.

In
fact, I had just posted a new profile picture, me up close and Janet
with her chin on my right shoulder. Both of us were smiling, but,
now I guess, for different reasons.

Being
dead is nothing like I thought it would be. Two tours in Afghanistan
made me think death was a horrible experience. I know now that it is
only horrible for those that see it happen to others. For me, it was
pretty quick, a bit of a surprise no doubt, but otherwise a smooth
transition.

I
suppose I was always a simple man, never bothering to think things
through much, and ignoring those things I didn't want to deal with.
But, that gave me a lot more time to love the important things:
fishing, hiking, the great outdoors and Janet. Too many tours in the
Army had let me hit 35 without having had a serious relationship.
That and having been adopted by parents who couldn't sit still more
than six months or so had kept me from having many friends.

Janet
then was my first love, not counting my two flings in Germany. I
loved them too, probably still could, but Janet was so much like me
it hurt. Hurt real good. She could feel my emotions in her soul she
said, and then laughed before I got too confused trying to figure out
how she did that. We almost could read each other's minds too. I
could almost always tell when she was sad and she could always tell
when I was trying to figure something out.

Trouble
was Janet had been sad a lot lately, even as we were due to get
married in just a few days. And, her headaches were sometimes so
severe she got sick, or got the shakes real bad. She told me it was
left over from the drugs they had given her in the asylum. It was
worrisome to me, and true to my nature, I did my best to ignore it.
Bad things, I knew, had a way of disappearing eventually.

Janet
suggested we take my signing bonus (yes, another three years of Army
life for me, for us) and go to see the lava, the beaches, and the
wild papayas you could just pick right off a tree. Hawaii, she said,
was good for the soul.

I
sure liked the idea of being out in the jungle wilderness. What I
didn't realize was that when I died I would be hanging out there as
well, waiting for my turn in Heaven. They said it was temporary and
that was cool by me.

I
guess it was what you might call an angel that told me it would be
just a little while. She looked a lot like my kindergarten teacher,
Ms. Debbie. That same big smile and soft pat on top of my head when
I got lost in thought.

“
Jimmy,
you got some things left here to take care of, OK?” she said
softly, the bright light moving around her like some kind of water.

“
Sure,”
I said. I had the taste of cookies and milk on my tongue just by
looking at her. “When is nap time?” I'd asked, probably
more from habit than from actually being tired.

Her
face lit up just like a Christmas tree when you first plug it in.
“Anytime you like Jimmy.” She had put her arm around me
real tight, just like I remembered and squeezed a little too hard.
“You're a good boy Jimmy.”

I
smiled up at her and she simply glowed and slowly, very slowly moved
up and away from me. I was soon all alone. Again. In the
rainforest, near the volcano. That was yesterday. So, I walked, or
I think I walked. Anyhow I moved through the ferns and the mists. I
didn't need to push anything out of my way, I just flowed, past the
birds and the blooming ginger. In and out of the lava tubes, cold
and dark and long forgotten by their creator; something I was
beginning to relate to. Lonely was something I could deal with,
though, something I had grown up with.

One
thing I must admit to: being dead, or at least not being a human
anymore has some distinct advantages. As I wander around I can sense
things I have never been able to before; I can feel what people are
feeling, like I am in their heads, in their emotions even. I can move
easily, anywhere I point my mind. Wandering through the rainforest
today I stumbled into some hikers. They seemed interesting, so I
simply focused on them. Just for a moment. Suddenly, I was there,
inside their minds, feeling what they were feeling. It was something
I found entertaining and sadly educational. Sad, I say, because I'd
never known people could have such rich experiences. Rich beyond
anything I can remember having experienced. It was a good thing no
one could see me, see my disappointment.

I
looked up above me and I saw that bright light far away, where Ms.
Debbie had come from. I knew somehow, that it was slowly getting
closer and that when it did reach me, I would have to leave this
place and go there.

Finally,
for the first time ever, I really appreciated time. And people.
People were so cool and suddenly so damn interesting, I just wish I
hadn't killed so many in the war. I kinda wondered if I would meet
any of them, when I went up where Ms. Debbie was.

Meeting
guys I'd killed was scary, so I didn't think about it. I was going
to make my way back from the volcano's lower crater, the brochure
called it Halema'uma'u, to see Janet at Cabin #94. We still had
several days booked at the Kilauea Military Recreation Area. I had
to figure out what had happened, and if she was OK. Poor Janet, all
alone now. Alone with her headaches, her shakes and herself.

It
was now almost dawn, the day after I'd died. I felt I was changing
already, even in the few hours since I'd been dead. Now, the
landscape was talking to me, like a teacher. I was no longer a
tourist, or even a dead tourist. I was a welcome guest in this home
of creation, where the Earth herself spoke lovingly to those that
would listen. I was listening and watching and very, very curious.

I
moved through the 4000 foot elevation Ohia forest until I saw a light
go on in a house close by. An interesting house.

2

I
watched as his new bamboo curtains slid silently aside. He was
studying the Mother of Creation still wearing her white mantle for
the rising sun. Dawn on 13,679 foot Mauna Loa started at the top and
worked its predictable way down to the Ohia forests far below.

Larry
Larson knew a good day to fly when he saw one, especially when he saw
so many of them. A large cup of Kona's best, a strawberry papaya
from the Hilo farmers market and a kiss to dear Shirley got him out
the door.

A
sparkling chromed engine sat faithfully in the garage ready to propel
him and his parachute wing with a sweetly balanced propeller. Just
across the driveway, in an open field, he set up to fly, watching the
sun fill the great volcano's height.

The
high mountain air sat patiently, heavy with promise, greeting him
with a brisk embrace of anticipation. An electric click brought his
baby to life, humming a familiar song, hugging him with its
vibration.

The
wing swung up to dance with the engines breath and rose, ready to
carry him up into the gentle flow of the trade winds. Larry pushed
the throttle a little higher and felt the tug of the earth, for just
a moment.

Rising
firmly up into the crispness and soft light of morning he surveyed
the familiar ground pulling smoothly away. He had flown this route
hundreds of times, moved among the clouds and above the jungle, the
lava fields, the sea. Yet, it wasn't anything less than fresh, this
dance with the sky. Hula Me Opua was painted on his wing: dances
with clouds.

He
flew over the lava filled craters, vainly attempting to hide their
ferocity with fumes and smoke and over further to the great expanses
of desolation. As he, and I, rose ever higher toward Mauna Loa her
family stood tall to welcome their visitor. Mauna Kea, her own
mother stood to the north, silent and proud. The ancient great ones
of Maui, Oahu and Kauai hugged the western horizon and beyond them
the unnamed ones rested below the ocean now, forever.

As
Larry was greeted with the first lifting morning thermal, he smiled,
knowing, like I was now learning, Hawaii reserves her true majesty
for those who fly.

3

Below
Larry, I could see Cabin #94, next to the road and the gym. There I
found poor Janet, still sleeping, beer bottles strewn everywhere. It
was as if she had opened every last one we had brought with us. I
tried to focus on her, her thoughts, but it was just a lot of haze, a
lot of static. Moving over to the floor I tried to pick up the cans,
as I might have only a day or so ago. It was disarmingly strange. I
had no way of picking up anything. No hands, no arms, nothing I
could use to help clean the place up. I tried to focus on the cans,
thinking I might be able to do something that way. But again, all I
got was haze and static.

After
some good deal of time waiting on the outside porch watching the
clouds move in from the deep forests across the street I sensed her
wakening. I hesitated going inside with her at first, content to
watch through the cold glass.

She
was as beautiful as I had ever seen her, her hair tossed and
perfectly red. She wore only a thin t-shirt and her running pants,
her bare feet no doubt experimenting with how much cold they could
handle. She moved slowly, like she was measuring her paces, simply
pushing the empty beer cans aside like reluctant cats. I could now
easily see at least twenty cans, on the table, by the TV and even in
the sink.