The Movie My Murderer Makes
My murderer sits in row F, seat 3, just behind my wife and me, in row E, seats 3 and 4.
Seinfeld finishes his last bit, something about the unfortunate slits between the walls of
bathroom stalls, and how they don’t reach the floor, making your face and your feet and
your fear a little visible, and everyone else a little like a voyeur. The coliseum fills with
laughter, applause, spilled cocktails. My murderer laughs. My murderer applauds. My
murderer wails. Seinfeld leaves the stage and things die down after a bit. I hear my
murderer take a sip of something I imagine to be murky and brown, but I don’t turn
around. Ice cubes clink. Seinfeld returns and asks the audience for questions. About
anything. My murderer screams, “Did you fuck Elaine?” Seinfeld refuses to acknowledge
my murderer. My murderer continues, “did George fuck Elaine, did Kramer, did anyone
fuck Elaine?” Seinfeld refuses to acknowledge my murderer. My wife and I don’t talk
about my murderer the whole way home. Seinfeld was so funny.