Fred Lutz, sitting at the top floor apartment. Fiddling with a gun, the silly man. Formerly a politician, but today, most wouldn’t recall that his name existed. What had it all been for? He was too old to admit to himself that he had aged poorly.
     I sometimes imagine that I’d say to him, Mr Lutz, you are hardly a nobody. It was only earlier today, I had passed a shed. Your name in brilliant orange on faded wood. Your name was on wood, not corrugated plastic, for chrissake. You are a veteran of the original, the real. And you’re up here with a gun. If it were not for your attempt to become someone, some family’s lawn mowers would be rusted over, you see, because your sign is a now a roof.
    Lutz doesn’t look up, in my mind. Nothing ever happened to him in the end, because he ceased to be remembered. He became overlooked by everyone, who had seen his name ritually, but never knew why. Mr. Lutz, who died in the newspaper suddenly, it says, was survived by no one. But people came, because they knew Lutz. They loved him.
     The blessed man had done so much, but they smiled secretly whenever they were asked, what? And I know why. Because they never knew why.