Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York

Highlights from "Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living in New York" by Gail Parent

Yes siree! Had I known the facts … the actual facts … I never would have gone. Some call New York a jungle. It’s not. It’s a big jockstrap. It supports the men. Just look at the figures.

Dad, why were you there to talk to me? You hadn’t talked to me in twenty-one years. And the only plausible answer is the old joke … “I didn’t talk to you for twenty-one years because everything has been fine up to now.”

I hope each and every one of you ends up in hell. You should each have a little room like the boutique on the third floor of Saks, only they should be out of your size in everything. Your breasts should sag, and your hair should lose its shape. In front of each of you should be a typewriter.

FACT: Girls who are having a good sex thing stay in New York. The rest want to spend their summer vacations in Europe.

Strange play. A lot of people playing a lot of symbols. One of those cerebral things where you are bored to death, but you’re scared to say so because you’ll be labeled stupid by a group of pseudointellectuals

Mrs. Levine [I hated her], would you mind taking your shoes off and stepping on the scale so that we can get your correct weight?” Step on the scale? Right here in the middle of the afternoon with my clothes on? You can’t do that to me. I’m an American. I have my rights! I stepped on the scale but didn’t look.

YOU CAN’T IMAGINE how great I felt once I made the decision. I know it’s strange, but I felt healthy. You don’t know what a relief it is to finally ignore Dr. Stillman and his water diet, to say good-bye to Dr. Atkins and his low carbohydrates. Now I didn’t even have to consider getting those pregnant women’s urine shots. True. They help you lose weight. Yes, sir, the first thing I did when I made the decision to kill myself was to stop dieting. Let them dig a wider hole.

was always embarrassed by cemeteries. Whenever I entered one, I bowed my head, afraid to look the mourners in the eye. Not any longer. The cemetery is now merely a place to hang my hat, so to speak. It’s like looking at a new apartment and, thank God, I won’t have to move again.

Here we are. We have site Thirty-four A and B and we have site Sixty-five A and B. They’re both lovely locations.” “What do A and B mean?” “A and B are two plots together. I assume your husband will be joining us.” “I’m single.” (That’s why I’m going to be here, shmuck!) “That is a problem. A very serious problem. [He’s telling me!] You see, Rossman Memorial Park is a family cemetery. We have the Linbergers, over twenty-five members, three generations, with us. The problem is, dear, we don’t cater to single people. All our plots are double.” Do you believe it? Do you believe what this man is saying to me? Rest in peace. Ha! To my grave, in my grave, I’m having single problems

I spoke to Rabbi Stine. Does he have a eulogy for me! He talks about vaginal spray and everything. He’s gonna say how it’s such a shame that a girl feels she has to be married and how we should teach our daughters to be human beings as well as wives. And how every person there is responsible for my death. Very dramatic.

Mom, Dad, listen. There are so many last-minute things. People are going to send sympathy cards and letters. And you’re going to have to answer them. What can I say? Please write back: Thank you very much for your expression of sympathy. Our daughter, Sheila, wanted you to know that you should think twice next time you ask a single girl when she’s going to get married

And suppose I end up in hell? It should be nice compared to living in Manhattan. There’s probably a lot of single girls down there, in the suicide section alone.

I remember being carried into the ambulance. I was placed on the sidewalk for a moment while the doors to the ambulance were being opened. I attracted a small crowd. Every one of them had an unhappy face. All the happy faces in New York go away for the July Fourth weekend