We are seated at a large, round table covered in a crisp, white tablecloth. You and I are negotiating what we’re going to order for dinner. Every meal we’ve ever had at a restaurant starts with a scene sort of like this. Ordering is always an epic ordeal that’s plotted with the precision of a game of Risk.
Harris: “We should get a lobster dish and a red meat dish. And split ’em.”
Me: “K.”
Harris: “I say we get the lobster and the braised short ribs.”
Me: “You don’t want the steak special?”
Harris: “I’ll also get—wait, there’s a steak special?”
Dad: “Ribeye. With the bone in.”
Harris: “Mom, will you trade seats with me cause I’m gonna share with Steph.”
Me: “We could get the New York steak.”
Harris: “That’s boring.”
Me: “Or short ribs are awesome. I’ll totally get those.”
Harris: “Yeah they’re amazing.”
Me: “Okay, so let’s get the short ribs and the lobster, and I want the cake walk, too. You wanna split the cake walk?”
Harris: “No let’s stick with our own appetizers.”
Me: “But I kinda wanna get the buffalo tomato salad. Does that appeal to you at all?”
Harris: “We don’t have to do that together.”
Me: “But it’s like a big stack.”
Mom: “Just get your own buffalo tomatoes.”
Harris: “It does sound pretty good. I’m gonna get the onion soup, too.”
Me: “I wanted to try that.”
Mom: “How are you guys gonna share?”
Harris grins.
Harris: “Mom, can we trade spots please?”
I always used to look for you in the credits of Parks and Recreation, Eastbound & Down, The Sarah Silverman Program, and other TV shows you worked on. When Harris Wittels flashed across the screen, my heart would light up and sparkle like some cartoon character and release a sort of chemical in my body that must be what parents feel like when their kid scores a winning touchdown.
When I see your name in the end credits of each episode of Master of None, I know it’s the last time I’ll ever see your name in this special place. So, it’s a sort of suicide to hear Aziz and Alan Yang talk about the show on “Fresh Air” and in the New York Times and in The Atlantic and in The New Yorker and in Salon and on Twitter and on every fucking podcast and place on the internet.
But I want to watch the show for all the reasons I want to avoid it.
It’s the last time I’ll ever see your name in the ending credits of a great episode of television. It’s the last time my heart will light up and sparkle in that way.
The last episode of Master of None included a title card that dedicated the series to you:
© Robyn Von Swank
23 Nine Months
It’s both an honor and a punishment to be the person in charge of your estate. There’s a lot of shit to notarize and fax and scan and fill out and keep track of and document and follow up with and put into piles and file in folders. And I’m terrible at filing. My skill set really ends at making piles. There are just so many things that need to get done in a timely manner. We weave a complicated web in our time here on earth, and untangling it amounts to copious forms to fill out and battles with fax machines and conversations with customer service reps that go like this: “I am calling because my brother died, and I need to close/cancel (fill in the blank).”
At first, these words were impossible to say; uttering them made it real, and I would inevitably break down and cry into the phone to a stranger working off a script. But I’ve said them so many times now that it’s become entirely unemotional. When they say the obligatory, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I respond with a quick “thanks” and scurry on to the reason for my call. I’m certain they aren’t sorry for my loss, so it’s ever so slightly insulting. Plus, I just want to get on with it.
Per the instructions of your business manager, I go to a local Bank of America branch to close out your account. The guy who helps me has spiky, goopy black hair and wears a cheap, olive-colored suit that hangs on him oddly. He can’t be a day over twenty-three. He is notably fidgety and energetic. It crosses my mind that maybe he just snorted a bump of cocaine off his house key in the employee bathroom. He is spinning his desk chair back and forth and drumming on the desk with his pen. We could have just as easily been talking about a concert we both attended. The whole conversation feels nauseatingly banal and irreverent. I am here to close my dead brother’s bank accounts; he’s doing another task at work.
Like most instances of closing a deceased person’s account, there are numerous unnecessary hoops through which to jump. I’m convinced that institutions make it hard so you’ll just say fuck it and leave all your shit there indefinitely. I was certain I had all the right things—a copy of the trust, an original death certificate, a warm smile—but this doesn’t satisfy the needs of our banking institution. The guy calls some 800 number and asks the representative to guide him through what I assume must be a very common occurrence. After all, death comes to us all.
He pushes the buttons on his phone with the end of his pen and starts to play with the arm of the office chair as he holds for a representative. When someone picks up, he explains that the account holder died and then looks over at me while covering the receiver of the phone: “Are you his sister? One of his sisters.”
“Yes.”
He spins my driver’s license around and around with his fingers on the desk.
“Oh really,” he says into the phone. “Oh, my gosh. So, do we still have to send
