Death As A Salesman Onliine

AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH

D E A T H AS A

SALESMAN







As Told By

Dorothy Truth

•B y Dou g lass Truth• 

D E AT H A S A S A L E S M A N



AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH

Death As A Salesman

As Told By Dorothy Truth by Douglass Truth

Teahouse of Danger 2008 

D E AT H A S A S A L E S M A N

Death As A Salesman Text and illustrations by Douglass Truth ISBN 978-0-9801054-2-1

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

published by The Teahouse of Danger PO Box 342 Grass Valley, CA 95945 www.teahouseofdanger.com 877-663-3324



AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH

“Nature does not know extinction. All it knows is transformation! And everything science has taught me--and continues to teach me--strengthens my belief in the continuity of our spiritual existence after death. Nothing disappears without a trace.” Werner Von Braun



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AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH

1 • Dorothy “This doesn’t make any sense.” I guess not everybody has a story about how they met Death, Himself in a bar one morning, and how they helped turn him into the World’s Greatest Salesman while revolutionizing the whole Death business, but I do. My name’s Dorothy Truth, and this is that story. I’m sitting here comfortably in my little kitchen telling all this to a little tape recorder. Maybe I’ll need a ghost writer. Unless I’ve already got one and don’t know it. That could happen. Anyway, I’m not embarrassed to say I need the help; it’s a complicated story, and it’s hard to even find the beginning. I get mixed up almost every time I try to tell the story. So bear with me if you find yourself thinking, “This doesn’t make any sense.” I know it doesn’t make any sense—it never did—but still, it happened. And even though this story is about me and Death, oddly enough my twin brother Douglass Truth is an integral part of the story, even if only because his abuse and neglect over the years drove me over the edge, to the despair that led to my meeting with Mr. Death. My guess is that’s the way it works: some things, maybe most, we just won’t do until we absolutely have to. That’s what happened to me: they made me do it. That’s the Universe’s job, in a way, maybe its only job: to become our unavoidable lessons. Like a teaching machine. My brother and I have quite a different history, which you wouldn’t think, I guess, seeing how we’re twins and all. But we do. Have different histories. Mine is the strange one. I mean, I wasn’t even seen—liter

D E AT H A S A S A L E S M A N ally—till I was 9 or 10 years old. Nobody could see me even though I was standing right there next to Douglass. Really. I know you won’t believe this but what can I do but just tell the whole truth and hope for the best? So yeah—until I was 8 or so, I was completely invisible. Until then, I would just crash in the house in whatever corner I could find, try to stay warm, and steal some of Douglass’ clothes when I needed them. I could get food from the kitchen or pantry, though I had to watch out for the traps. They knew something or someone was taking the food, they just couldn’t figure out who. So they set traps. I got some really sore fingers before I learned to be extra careful when I was going for the cookies. One of the only pleasures I had in those days was watching Douglass fervently denying that he had stolen the cookies. They just didn’t believe him—and he hated that. So I wasn’t starving or cold or anything—except for those times when I managed to get locked out in the winter—but it was still a pretty fucked-up way to be brought up. So then, one day, for whatever reason, Mom suddenly notices me standing there in the kitchen, right next to Douglass, and asks, “Who are you?” She looked around, like she was not sure of her sanity for a second. “Who is that? And why does she look so much like Douglass? Who are you!? This is so weird!” And it was weird, she got that right; and without even talking about it, they just let me continue to live there. Nobody ever said a word about it. I was just kind of quietly part of the family all of the sudden. It was still really weird, though. That’s kind of a Midwestern response: not too much talking about anything, just incorporate the new reality and keep moving. I mean they couldn’t deny my reality any more, but they still kind of resisted the notion. But now I had my own corner to call my own and even some real girl’s clothes now and then. But it took



AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH many, many years* for the family to finally formally recognize me as Douglass’ twin. It hurts, yes, but such pain makes us stronger and more self-reliant. I needed to tell myself that to get through the hard times. And look what happened: now I’m a big star!

*And the lawsuits. 

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2 • Douglass “I’m just sharing.” Hi there. I’m Douglass Truth and I’m going to insert myself into the narrative here; as author I have a responsibility to maintain some small element of control over the proceedings. I don’t want to squelch Dorothy’s story telling inclinations, but some kind of rudder or governor is necessary. In this instance it is me and the tremendous power I wield as the writer of this book. It’s odd but I sometimes I feel the need to apologize to people for Dorothy; I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it. I know it’s wrong because when I do it, people are quick to tell me—too quick—that they like Dorothy just fine. It’s me they have doubts about. I think you’ll agree: having a fictional creation score higher than you socially is a bit awkward. But you know us Truths: awkward is what we do. Dorothy insists to one and all that she is most definitely not a fictional creation. “No more than you are,” she tells me. And she has a point. I am therefore at a loss—in what way can I corroborate my own existence without doing the same for her? It’s a rhetorical question; I don’t really expect an answer. I’m just sharing. Well, I’m going to try to “let it go” as the saying goes. But still I can’t let stand some of the distortions and outright lies that Dorothy has promulgated, not without at least trying to let the world know that as sweet as she is, she prevaricates. That is, she doesn’t always tell the 10

AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH whole truth. A nice way of saying it is “she tells stories,”that is, lies. I would know. First of all the “not-seeing-her-at-all” story dates until she was 7 and not 9 years old. And yes it was, and still is, exceedingly strange. Granted. Dad would never even talk about it. He didn’t just studiously ignore it; no, he ignored it the way a mason lays block. It was heavy work; he could do it all day. And then at the end of the day there’s another wall. Isn’t that poetic? Mom would just cry, and I’d always think it was my fault. After years of trying to expiate the guilt, I learned that it actually was all my fault. Now, I don’t want to intrude unduly on my sister’s story—and it is definitely her story—but when there’s a serious untruth or defamation of character, especially mine, I will use my inherent authority to correct the matter. Set the record straight. Now and then I might have the urge to join the conversation, so to speak. I know Dorothy is going to leave a lot of important stuff out. Thanks for being here.

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3 • Dorothy “The real story.” I keep trying to remind myself that this is my story, not Douglass’. But we’re so intertwined—inter-twined, twinned, you might say—that I can’t really tell the story without Douglass being in it. Much as it pains me. Believe me, I’d love to leave him out of the story. Serve him right. I feel I must say, in the interest of fairness, that Douglass’s own Near Death Experience back in 1998 really does qualify him to get a word in. Like he’s part of the team. In the club. But he always takes it too far. Even though it’s my story, he’ll probably claim that he wrote it, when all he really did was write down what happened. Just watch: that’s what he’ll do. Go ahead, check the cover. I bet it says, “By Douglass Truth.” Am I right? Always claiming credit for everything. He’s just that way. And, mark my words, he’ll even say that he “made the whole thing up.” Or even worse, the most hurtful of all, the thing that I remember so vividly from our childhood: when he would deny that I even existed! “Oh, it’s just a joke,” he’ say. “She’s just a character I made up. There’s no twin sister. Are you kiddin’?” Really. I felt so so, so, so, betrayed and I vowed to get even; more than even, no matter how long it took. And now, now that my career in entertainment is taking off, and his is going flat (at least that’s what I hear), and more people want to interview me than him, well, it’s simple justice. I’m getting a little bit ahead of myself here. The only reason I bring it up is to give you some understanding of my state of mind at the time 12

AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH our story begins. I was a smart girl; smart enough to survive, if not exactly thrive, under such wretched conditions. But I just couldn’t seem to figure out the game of life like most people seemed able to do. It was like I didn’t know—actually couldn’t know—the rules of the game. I was lost, and there was no map to be found. Years go by. I’m working as a server in a high school cafeteria. One of those jobs you take—thinking that you’ll find something more in tune with your talents and proclivities, pretty soon. But the years pass and nothing comes along. And you start to get the night terrors, waking up in the inky darkness thinking that well, maybe everything is not going to work out fine; I had always thought they would. But I started to wonder: what if they don’t? What if I’m just a failed person, a girl who for whatever reason finds it impossible to live up to her potential? “She tried,” they might say. “Happens every day, doesn’t it?” Yesterday I saw an old man, small frame, battered, dirty, confused, beat up by life. And I saw him, too, as a baby, a happy baby, in someone’s lap, growing up somewhere, a child. Someone must have liked him at some time. But now all that’s over and he’s alone in the world. I hoped and thought that things would work out for me. But maybe not. Maybe things don’t always work out in the end. It’s a possibility to consider. I did; I was terrified. And if all this wasn’t bad enough, it was made so much the worse by the constant odious comparisons, in my own mind, to Douglass, Mom’s perrenial favorite and teacher’s pet all the way. Oh, yeah, the Douglass Truth Institute. I know, I know: Enough with the Douglass stuff. But it’s important! I have to set the record straight. If not now, when? This is called Back Story, and you need it to get the nuance and so forth. The complications. Establishing the state of mind, like in a criminal trial. 13

D E AT H A S A S A L E S M A N But Douglass, with the interviews, the books, the art. It drove me and my hairnet crazy. I could go on, but why am I telling you? Of course I don’t need to tell you anything: you can find out everything Douglass Truth wants you want to know about Douglass Truth without coming to me. Just Google him or pick up a brochure somewhere. But if you want the real story—warts, fungal infections and everything else—you might want to stick around to hear it. I remember when I was younger and they were trying different therapies to try to get a handle on me, so to speak, they—the doctors and Mom and Dad—would always take Douglass’ side: “Don’t try to compete with your brother, Dorothy: you’ll lose. What’s the point, dear?” They actually thought they were being helpful, sympathetic. I thought it was annoying as hell.

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AS TOLD BY DOROTHY TRUTH

4 • Douglass “It’s too late for that.” When I created the Dorothy character, it was meant to be a joke. I didn’t think anyone would take it, (or her I guess you could say,) seriously. But things can quickly get out of hand, as one funny little mouse found out in that old Disney cartoon. Sometimes I wish that I could put Dorothy back in the bottle—especially when I am publicly shamed by her antics. But alas, and obviously, it’s too late for that. And seriously, the sacrifice of my dignity is not too high a price to pay if there’s any benefit at all from Dorothy’s strange and heartfelt efforts. Time will tell. The fact that she has been so successful and has, in a limited way, eclipsed my own achievements does leave me kind of confused about the way things work, but I take what I think is a justifiable pride in her success. No matter what happens, we’ll always be brother and sister. When you started on this journey with Dorothy and me, just a few pages ago, I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to stick with us. It’s a strange story, to be sure, and not for everyone. But for some reason I’m feeling a bit more confident about that now, even a few pages into this journey. And though we’re hours away not from dawn, but from midnight, I hope you’ll stay with us to the end—whatever that might turn out to be. I can’t promise anything—who can, really?—but we’ll do our best to make it all worth your while. But before I let Dorothy continue, I feel like there’s one thing I shouldn’t leave in doubt: historically, attempts to define the exact moment of a human’s death have been problematic. Death was once defined as the cessation of heartbeat (aka cardiac arrest) and of breathing, 15

D E AT H A S A S A L E S M A N but the development of CPR and prompt defibrillation have rendered that definition inadequate because breathing and heartbeat can sometimes be restarted. Events which were causally linked to death in the past no longer kill in all circumstances; and remember, without a functioning heart or lungs, life can sometimes be sustained with a combination of life support devices, organ transplants and artificial pacemakers. If that’s your thing. So if you notice that you, or someone you know, has no electrical brain activity, don’t jump to any conclusions.

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