PEOPLE I HAVE ACCIDENTALLY KILLED WITH MY MIND

Something terrible happened in my neighborhood last night, and in a small and screwed-up cosmic way, it’s partly my fault.

I have a long and storied history of people dying after I think about them, typically within 24 hours. My friends think it’s funny and I get teased for it. It certainly makes for a great party story. I’m not making light of anyone’s death - I’m shaken to the core about the one from this morning - but I would like to lay out the complete history of my thoughtmurders once and for all because it’s starting to freak me out.

It’s a long one. Because, you know. Because I’m such a prolific murderer, I guess.

Shannon Hoon - October 21, 1995

I’m 11 years old. I write a love letter to Blind Melon’s lead singer, Shannon Hoon, on the grounds that he has long hair and tattoos and is therefore dreamy. My sister has proven herself to be an expert at snooping, so when she asks “Whatcha writing over there, HUH?” I am filled with so much terror that I fold the love letter in half as many times as I physically can, stash it in a margarine container, and bury the whole affair in the back yard. Hoon dies inside of a week.

Perry Como - May 12, 2001

I’m 17. Having ignored a story contest deadline for months, I’m frantically banging out a short story to submit by the May 13 deadline - something, anything. I end up writing a story that takes place in 1961 and involves discord between a mother and her 12-year-old son.

I go to my parents for help with historical details. They’re in the back yard. I slither waist-deep out the kitchen window and yell, “MOM, DAD. If it’s 1961 and you hate your parents, what music do they listen to? Somethin’ sucky.”

Without looking at each other or even pausing, they automatically answer in unison, “Perry Como.”

“THAAANKS.” I torso-retract into the house, go straight to the family computer, and finish my story over the next couple of hours.

Later that night, my Dad’s watching the CNN evening news and we catch the report that Perry Como had died at roughly the same time I wrote him into my story. Within the hour. What’s more, he literally died after falling asleep sitting in a chair when he was apparently not fatally ill. Snuffed out like a goddamn flame.

I submit my story the next day. It wins a fair bit of money and earns me my very first writing acclaim.

Elliott Smith - October 21, 2003 (Curiously, the anniversary of Shannon Hoon’s death)

Ohhh, guys. You have no idea how sorry I am for this.

I’m 19 and in college and way late to the Elliott Smith boat. I stay up late one night to watch “The Royal Tenenbaums” and after the suicide attempt scene, I write myself a note to buy some Elliott Smith in between classes the next day.

When I wake up the morning of Oct. 22, I have several frantic emails from a friend in London who is having a meltdown about Elliott Smith’s death.

The timing is weird on this one. By the time I’d thought about him, he was already dead - the day of the very first time I actively thought about him.

This doesn’t stop my coworkers at the school, who already call me “Como Killer,” from dishing out a fair amount of teasing that borders on hostility. We all mope around about it all day.

Shortly after the words “How can this day possibly get any worse” are uttered, the elevator doors open and Billy Corgan walks into our office. It was a really fucking weird day.

Hubert Selby Jr. - April 26, 2004

On a weekend off, I read “Last Exit to Brooklyn” in its entirety and am hooked. I am aware that Selby was briefly affiliated with the school I recently dropped out of. Some of the professors I worked with speak of him fondly. Which is to say, all stories about Selby are loving but wholly unflattering and usually end up with the storyteller bent over at the waist, gasping with laughter. I decide I will call and ask former coworkers for more Selby stories soon because I’m inspired to write about him.

The next morning, April 26, before I can call anyone to even utter a peep, I’m greeted at work with the news that has Selby died a day prior.

My Corner Bar’s Doorman - 2007

This is a long and truly horrible story. But in short, a man who very briefly worked the door at my former neighborhood corner bar was on some sort of a power trip, shall we say, and was being very unpleasant to everyone he let into the bar. Except for two girls that I recognized from elsewhere and who I knew to be a.) obnoxious and b.) very underage.

I told the doorman what he was doing, and he exploded “WHAT, you got beef with these girls? You want me to fight your battles for you?”

“No, I just want you to do your job, motherfucker.”

So, he kicked us all out for “being drunk,” even though we were all about halfway through our first beers of the evening - and I didn’t go back there for quite some time.

When I finally stopped being so steamed about the incident, I went back one night after work and relayed the story to the sympathetic bartender. The bartender searched his memory for any recognition of the person I was talking about, and then a different doorman chimed in - “I know who you’re talking about. He only worked here for about a month, and then he went back to his old job. Bike messenger. He got killed riding his bike the wrong way down a one-way street. Got run over by a garbage truck, man.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about the words “Do Your Job” for a long time after that.

Dan Fogelberg - December 16, 2007

After hearing “Same Old Lang Syne” on the radio at work and not knowing who it is, I google it. Inner narrative: “You know what? Fuck it. I like this song. I’m going to download it when I get home. I’m allowed to listen to ultra-sappy smooth jamz. I mean, the Gordon Lightfoot thing has gotten out of hand, but whatever. And also, look at that beard. Mee-owww.”

Couple hours later, I get home and google him again. DEAD. THAT VERY DAY.

Sky Saxon - June 25, 2009

On June 24, I post a Seeds video on Facebook along with the accidentally ominous “Alas, we no longer live in a time in which it is socially acceptable for frontmen to wear capes.”

John Hughes - August 6, 2009

Inner narrative, evening of August 5: “I should watch ‘Pretty in Pink’ soon. Like, today or tomorrow. I should watch ‘The Breakfast Club’ pretty soon, too. It’s so weird how in 1984, sushi was something so foreign that it could be made fun of. Haha Americans are dumb. Mmm, sushi.”

Corey Haim - March 10, 2010

I wake up, roll over, and seemingly out of nowhere announce to my boyfriend “We should rent ‘License to Drive’ today.”

Amy Winehouse - July 23, 2011

On the afternoon of July 22, I am sitting on the steps of my building with my best friend. We’re baking in the sun and drinking vodka tonics while she serenades my dog with her acoustic guitar. I say something about how Amy Winehouse has got to be pissed that Adele sort of inherited what would have been hers, had she not turned into such a mess.

Conrad Schnitzler - August 4, 2011

I listen to “Das Tier” on the regular, all summer long. It becomes A Thing. “Deet doot deet doot deet doot” is the summer soundtrack of 2011.

The very last time I listen to the song is another incident of waking up, rolling over, and strongarming a boyfriend into doing my early morning bidding on a whim. I whine for “Das Tier” to be located on his phone. (Because, you know, listening to seminal Kraut rock at dawn is such a normal thing.)

A couple days later, Schnitzler dies. I make a “Das Tear” joke and hate myself.

NOT IT

I have received accusatory text messages about Heath Ledger, Michael Jackson, and countless others, but I’m not responsible for them. I promise. However, in the past year I have apparently branched out to more sinister mind crimes.

The Dunkin Donuts on Adams - May 3, 2011

On May 2, Dunkin Donuts screws up my order. Not a big deal until they tell me to “just take it anyway.” Ham is my number one enemy, so I don’t ‘take it anyway’ and quietly leave to dash off to work, breakfastless and annoyed, vowing to never oversleep again and to never go to that Dunkin Donuts again. Pfft. They permanently destroyed the spelling of the word “doughnut.” Assholes.

18 hours later, this happens.

Chase Bank - January 21, 2012

I have some banking to do. But first, I must pick up my dry cleaning on the way. I decide to give the dry cleaners some more time, a thinly veiled lazyperson idea. And I swear to god, a nagging feeling tells me to skip the banking and pick up my dry cleaning another day because woof, that’s like four blocks away.

While I’m mentally chastising myself for being lazy, at that exact moment, this is what’s happening at the bank.

Subway - February 9, 2012

I decide to get Subway for lunch. I get caught up at work and skip lunch altogether. Halfway home, I realize “Oh, I was going to get Subway for lunch. That sounds good. Fuck it, I live right next to one. Dinner plan!” I get home and decide to make some eggs instead.

Three hours later, this happens at the Subway.

Far-fetched, I realize. But I knew her. She was an absolute doll, and she died this morning. Everyone in the neighborhood is comparing stories about her, and they’re all the same - she was sweet and friendly and really into her job. And in an instant, some monster decides his need for money is more important than her life. I’m trying not to beat myself up over it. I realize the difference between coincidence and real life, but given all the stories I’ve listed above, this one hurts.

Maude the Pug - February 13, 2012

On the morning of February 13, I send my dad an email with a link to Refinery 29’s very cute article about Chicago’s greatest shop dogs, along with the message “I have thought about stealing Maude more than once.” He replies that she would very easily fit inside my coat.

On the afternoon of February 15, Facebook blows up with posts from people lamenting Maude’s death on - you guessed it - February 13.

Ravi Shankar - March 7, 2012

The morning of March 3, I’m frantically cleaning my apartment in preparation for a photo shoot the next day while absently wondering if assembling a list of my dog’s past and present nicknames - there are close to a hundred - is something that the tumblr community would find hilarious… or awful. I obviously decide on scrapping the idea immediately. But as I’m scrubbing the living room floors and mentally remarking that someone with a brain the size of a cashew answers to a list of names as diverse as Seamus, Devo, Piglet, Fatty Boombalatty, Chalupa, Pigbear, Dudebear, Pulpy, Dogimus Prime, etc., I remember years ago when I dated a guy who would get baked and listen to sitar/tabla music. In one of those moments, he renamed the dog Stinky Stinkar, which we found to be incredibly hilarious.

And then March 7 rolls around and guess fucking what I read, with a mouth full of indian food, no less?