Chapter One
Regarding the death of James Bradley Stomarti: what first catches my attention
is his age.
Thirty-nine. That’s seven years younger than I am.
I’m drawn to the young and old, but who isn’t? The most avidly read
obituaries are of those who died too soon and those who lasted beyond
expectations.
What everybody wants to know is: Why them? What was their secret? Or their fatal
mistake? Could the same happen to me?
I like to know, myself.
Something else about James Bradley Stomarti: that name. I’m sure
I’ve heard it before.
But there’s no clue in the fax from the funeral home. Private service is
Tuesday. Ashes to be scattered in the Atlantic. In lieu of flowers the family
requests donations be made to the Cousteau Society. That’s classy.
I scan the list of “survived-bys” and note a wife, sister, uncle,
mother; no kids, which is somewhat unusual for a 39-year-old straight guy, which
I assume (from his marital status) James Bradley Stomarti to be.
Tapping a key on my desktop, I am instantly wired into our morgue, although
I’m the only one in the newsroom who still calls it that. ̶ ... read full excerpt from: Basket Case ebook
