Darren, by Alfonso Colasuonno
by Alfonso Colasuonno
Darren was a dreamer. Darren believed in impossible goals. Darren inspired.
Darren was a failure.
Darren believed he could change the world. Darren didn’t change the world.
Darren was born in Brooklyn, raised in Queens, worked as a stockbroker, chased a dream, had his legs broken after his shift, was a compulsive gambler, died of cancer, and his body was burned.
His ashes are in an urn in his father’s basement apartment in Maspeth, Queens.
Darren is an obituary.
Darren, wearing a Flyers jersey at Madison Square Garden, had 15,000 Rangers fans plotting his murder. Darren died 20 years later.
Darren smoked marijuana. His mother informed the police. The police allowed him to smoke his joint in peace. Apparently, it’s too difficult to transport a 95-pound future corpse to Central Booking. And besides, the paperwork is hell. Also, if any bones were to break, the News might report it even if it the Post wouldn’t.
Darren lived in an apartment with 14 undocumented immigrants above a car service in Woodside, Queens. Darren knew every Spanish curse word and none of the verbs.
Darren drove a secondhand car with the detritus of a hundred pigeons on the windshield. Darren had a clean driving record and low insurance rates.
Darren tried a Ouija board. It didn’t speak to him. No profound insights. No remarkable claims.
Darren was a talker. Darren didn’t say much at the end. Darren fades into silence and nothing remains.