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In John Kenney's I See You've Called in Dead, we meet an obituary writer named Bud Stanley who is afraid to live. After his wife leaves him, Bud hits rock bottom, and in a drunken haze, accidentally publishes his own obituary—leading to a bureaucratic mix-up that makes him "officially" dead and temporarily unfireable. Given a second chance, Bud, with the help of his eccentric best friend, starts attending strangers’ funerals to learn how to truly live.

John Kenney is an award-winning humor writer and a long-time contributor to the New Yorker. He is the author of three novels and four books of poetry.

Read on for an excerpt from the book.

My death and eventual afterlife began on a cold, rainy Sunday evening in April that now feels like another lifetime. It was eight months ago.

It began harmlessly enough, with the mistake of agree- ing to go on a blind date. Well, that was certainly one of the mistakes. There were several that evening.

This was at a bar in Brooklyn, not far from where I live. My office mate set me up. Tuan. His name is Tuan. You’ll meet him.

I arrived early, having stopped at a bodega to pick up flowers. Flowers are a nice touch. Who doesn’t like flowers? It was one of those small hipster bars without TVs. Zinc counters, a working fireplace, a jazz trio that seemed to take a lot of breaks. I sat down and ordered a beer.

The clocks had moved forward, more light in the evenings but still cold, winter holding on. The band played and I checked my watch. She was twenty minutes late. I looked at the flowers on the bar and was struck by a sense of embarrassment. Why had I bought flowers for a blind date?

The bartender—a handsome man with superb facial hair and a topknot—pointed to my empty beer glass. I nodded.

The trio—a drummer using brushes, a stand-up bassist, and a guitarist—played standards: “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” “The Girl from Ipanema,” “In a Sentimental Mood.” After a while the band took a break and I finished my beer. She was forty-five minutes late and I considered leaving.

The door opened and a woman walked in. She was wearing a trench coat and her auburn hair was windblown, cut in a bob. Her face was dotted with drops of rain.

Oh look, my wife just walked in. We’re having a quick drink and then it’s off to a dinner party. No, a play. Wait. A concert. No. A flight to Rome. I’m the new bureau chief there. Actually for all of Europe. I know, amazing. Phoebe works for Doctors Without Borders. Her name is Phoebe. Why, yes, after Holden’s sister. She speaks Italian. Italian and French and Farsi. And Urdu. She went to Princeton. How did we meet? That’s a funny story. She was being robbed and I killed the robbers. No. Wait. We were on a flight together and she fell asleep on my shoulder. Drooled on me. No, no. Friends, mutual friends . . . She said she knew I was the one. Stayed up all night and had coffee and pancakes at a diner. I proposed two months later in Paris. I’ve never been happier. In fact, we have a little one on the way.

Men are stupid. Or maybe it’s just me. How foolish to tell myself a life story about a person in four seconds, based on her hair, how she moved it back from her face, behind her ear, only to have it fall again, the black skirt and black tights and large, darting eyes, lips shining from the rain. What a waste of time to feel that almost desperate pang of—what is it?—desire, I guess. Not merely sexual. Not some teenage lust. But a far more unfair, unreachable illusion. Still. No harm in dreaming.

“Bud?” she said, having somehow closed the distance between the door and the bar.

“Yes. Phoebe. Hi.”

“It’s Diane.”

“I meant Diane.”

She looked confused. “You’re Tuan’s friend Bud, yes?” “Yes, I am. I can show you my license.” I started to take out my wallet.

“Oh . . . no, that’s okay.”

I stopped, forced a laugh, and put the wallet back.

Why was I acting this way? Surely part of it was my lack of practice, the paucity of dates over the last few years. Dates where within minutes we both knew there was nothing there but continued for a drink out of politeness. Nothing much to say after the cursory chitchat, what do you do, what was your last vacation, have you ever considered suicide. Fine, I made up the last one. Dating in one’s forties is a radically different experience than dating in the carefree days of one’s twenties. More pain now. More history. More exes and sometimes children. More lonely, more longing, more guarded. Now I rarely made an effort. I’m not sure why. Instead, I waited, a kind of magical thinking, for life to mend itself, for someone to find me. Superb plan, I know.

Diane said, “You said, ‘We have a little one on the way’?”

“I did?”

“When I walked over. What did you mean?”

“Oh, God. Who knows.” I laughed again. Well, forced a laugh.

“I am so sorry I’m late. I just . . . It’s a long story but . . .” “No worries at all. Please, sit.”

“I can’t, actually.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” “What?”

“Is that why you can’t sit? I have sciatica sometimes. I have to stand all day working. And once a particularly savage case of hemorrhoids.” I couldn’t stop talking. I hated myself.

“God, no. No, it’s not that I can’t sit. I mean I can’t stay.”

“Oh. Why?”

“This is super awkward but . . . I . . . got a call . . . right before I was leaving the house. My old boyfriend.”

“That must have been nice. To hear from him, I mean.”

“Yeah. Um . . . we broke up last year . . . anyway . . . and . . . this isn’t important and it’s just that . . . he wants to . . . I do too, not just him . . . but we both realized we want to get back together.”

“Wow. That is . . . such great news . . . for both of you.” “Thank you. It is. It’s just . . . like when you find that one person . . .”

“Totally.”

She looked at the flowers on the bar. “Are those for me?”

“What’s that?” “The flowers.”

I looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. “These?”

“Yeah. Who are they for?”

“The . . . well . . . they’re for . . . the bartender.” She appeared confused. As was I.

“He’s . . . going through some . . . you know . . . so I thought . . .”

“That’s very sweet,” Diane said.

I nodded in the bartender’s direction, a signal he mistook for my need for another drink.

“Another?” he asked.

“Ah, no,” I said. “I’m good. I just wanted . . . to give you these . . . flowers.”

He stared at me, then looked at the flowers, then back to me. I hoped that somewhere deep in our shared male psyches he could sense my pain.

“Okay. Well . . . thank you. I . . . will . . . put these in water, I guess.” He picked the flowers up, turned to Diane, and said, “Can I get you anything?”

I jumped in. “Happy to buy you a quick drink since you’re here. We can celebrate your being back together with your old boyfriend.”

“Oh. Yeah. Thank you. But . . . he’s kind of waiting for me . . .”

“Well, one drink and we’ll get you on your way.” I winked at her like we were old friends. I was floundering badly, watching myself, a kind of out-of-body experience where I was repulsed by this person. Me.

“No, I mean he’s waiting for me. He’s outside.”

“He’s outside now?”

“Yeah.” She looked over to the door. “Actually, it looks like he’s made his way inside. There he is.”

She smiled and waved at him. I did the same. So did the bartender.

“Cool,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a blind date where someone brought their boyfriend.”

“Well, former boyfriend.”

“I’d say invite him over for a drink, but you probably have plans.”

“We do.”

We both smiled and nodded and looked back over at her ex-boyfriend.

“He’s very handsome,” I said, regretting it immediately. “Isn’t he? I will tell him you said so.”

More nodding.

“Okay. Well. I should go,” she said, wincing. “I’m sorry.”

She turned and I watched her walk over to her ex-boyfriend and watched them walk out the door. I waved and for some reason shouted, “Don’t be late! You know how your mother and I worry!”

I sat back down, trying to make sense of what just happened. The bartender placed a fresh drink in front of me, rapping the bar twice with his knuckles.

“On the house,” he said. “Largely because I’ve never seen anything quite like that,” he added, shaking his head, turning, and walking to the other end of the bar.

Excerpted from I See You've Called in Dead by John Kenney. Copyright 2025 by John Kenney, Published by Zibby Publishing.