Funeral Parlor

Jake pulled his Battered Blue Dodge Ram up to the address.  Yep, this was the spot alright.  Dern, I hate these things he muttered as he slid out of the driver’s side and his pale snake-skin boots landed on the hot pavement.  He reached in and his knarled hand closed over his pale Stetson.  The door creaked shut as he slammed it with his jean-shirted elbow.  His long arm arched up and the hat landed firmly on his head in a motion he’d repeated over and over again since he was 13.

His 60 year old legs tall and lanky as a vine unraveled and began to inhabit the new dungarees as he loped towards the door.

Sam, the undertaker stood at the entrance, wincing in the mid-morning sun. He looked uncomfortable in his polyester suit.

Jake tipped his hat in respect and then held it near his chest and he passed through the threshold of the place.  These kinda places always remind me of them slap-up cowboy sets in a movie, he thought to hisself.  Only here as a charade, to offer temporary shade.  He wondered why they didn’t feel more permanent.  Folks passin through, I reckon.

First door on the right, the undertaker informed him.

The hallway was dark and smelled faintly of formaldehyde.  The hat comforted his chest.

Ol’ Miss Jessup a fine lady, he reminded hisself.  She’d appreciate me coming to give my respects.  And he pressed on into the room.  It was small and clausterphobic… the smell of lilly’s just a mite too powerful.  He ached for the prairie wind.  He could see why those injuns hoist up their dead and let the wind blow through ‘em.  Somethin’ to be said for that.

part 2 – other voice

Grandma was quirky. That all there was to it.  She was so stubborn and wouldn’t move from that ranch, regardless of how sick she got.  And how did she stand living with that crazy coot of a cowboy all those years?  I wouldn’t trust him as far as the door frame.  Good thing the undertaker near by.

Oh shit.  Here he comes the old cowboy now.  Speak of the devil.

Look at him.  He doesn’t belong here.  Look at how he looks at her.  What does he know?  I shink back into the corner more, maybe he won’t see me.  Grandma, protect me now, you hear?  Don’t you go leaving me alone here with that big hulk of a man.  I don’t care if he old, he still scares me.

I go rearrange the flowers.  The Paisley girls be here soon.  Got to get the signin book out.

Shallowly he breathed and forced himself to look at the stuffed skin of his landlady.  Damn, sure don’t look like her now.  Ah well.  I’s here and I saying thank you, just in case you can hear it.

Not too many people in my life saw me for who I is, but miss Jessup, you one of them.  I appreciate it, he said out loud, and then caught himself.

The woman in the corner shuffled her black shawl closer.

Diner Scene

She slid into the orange booth with the flexibility of gumby.  Sarah the waitress gave her the eye.  In fact, everyone slid an eye at her at some point.  She commanded that kind of attention in her thin ripped jacket and wispy black hair.  And yet there was that air of solidity about her, her having had the strength to live through much.  George, the detective slid an eye over and took in much, discerning if she qualified for “reasonable suspicion”.

Sarah had been waitressing too long and knew it.  Yet the tips came easy and the routine was as comfortable as the well-worn ruts in the linoleum… she tipped up the white diner cup and slapped down the plastic covered menu.  At least Sambo was good at cleaning the grease off.  Sarah’s veined hand slipped into her gingham apron and fished out two creamers.

The young slip-of-a thing tipped the sugar jar into the coffee and looked up at Sarah with an understanding thank you.

“Two eggs, over easy, bacon crispy.”  The young girl spoke without looking at the menu.

“You got it” replied Sarah who had no need to write anything down.  Despite their decades of age difference, the two women understood each other.  Surviving in a hostile world, taking comfort where comfort good be had.

George looked over at the two women and felt agitated, an outsider.  He felt he was always looking for something and never found it.  He’d never been able to connect to any waitress in that way, especially Sarah.  She always felt stand-offish to him.  Was that he who created it… his awkward searching creating the gap?

He turned his attention to his pad of yellow lined paper.  Okay, suspects – 1,2,3… how to test where they are… somehow it helped him to think here in this diner.  Sarah left him alone, only discreetly filling up his coffee cup when it reached ¼ empty.  He hated when they topped it up all the time – upset the balance of cream and sugar.

The young slip-of-a thing looked relieved to be inside, safe.  She shifted in her black hoody, almost relaxing.

Sarah turned back to the counter, wrote the order on a slip of green paper and clipped it to the rotary.  Constantine would prepare it perfectly she knew.  She sent him an appreciative half-smile before turning back to her customers and the street.  It had been one of those bitter days… not cold enough to talk about but still enough to put everyone on edge, as if the other shoe was going to drop.  No one knew what caused the first shoe to drop, but could feel the other was coming soon, and would take you by surprise, no matter how much you prepared for it.

Things were looking up, thought Jasmine, the lithe slip of a thing.  She knew better than to expect too much from Jason, her new-found artist mate, but at least things were moving in a fresh direction, or so she could let herself believe, at least since it was still morning.  Much easier to be hopeful in the morning.  The detective-looking guy in the next booth was kinda edgy and that bothered her somewhat but she was able to put it out of her mind.

Just then Sarah slid the oval plate of eggs, bacon and homefries down in front of her.  She really was hungry and welcomed the accompanying plate of white buttered toast.  Sarah expertly extracted 2 grape jelly packets from yet another apron pocket.  Anything else? She asked… nope shook Jasmine’s head.

Carly 2

When I walked into the viewing room, Cherry was surrounded by her usual coterie and already in high drama, exclaiming (in hushed tones, of course) to some woman I’d never seen before.  Cherry always had epitomized everything I hated about being female, embracing with determined abandon the look, feel, and sounds of the forced and fabricated versions of femininity that had permeated our childhood.  I was glad I’d brought Fred along.  Since this was all about Cherry’s husband’s family, I could more easily keep my distance, but that was easier to do in a pair than alone.

I glanced around the room, not seeing anyone else from the Randall family that I recognized.  There weren’t even many people there yet and, except for the two guys by the coffin, they were dispersed throughout the room, like magnets aiming at each other with opposite poles.

Taking Fred’s hand, I guided him toward the casket, following custom.  It was odd to find myself comforted by the path of least resistance, but somehow death is like that.  It’s one thing to push back, negotiate, rebel against life.  But death doesn’t work like that, and for the moment I was content to leave the rituals around death unquestioned as well.

Sam 2

I wanted to stay at the back of the room as long as I could, so I looked at the pictures mounted on posterboard, and pretended interest in who had sent each bouquet of flowers.  I don’t think anyone even really knew I was there yet.

I knew Keith and Woodward would notice me soon.  They had hosted my graduation party in New York City back in college, always happy to open their home to family – at least the family that would deign to come.  My girlfriend had said the usual about them – they were so good looking, what a waste.  But I thought they probably put it all to good enough use.

I didn’t have to look at Cherry and her brood to know who was there, and they were too self-involved to care if I were there or not.  Simone was with her, of course, and that did give me a momentary distraction.  When I was younger, I often lingered around her like a dope, as if any moment she might regale me with scintillating stories of her porn star days.  Maybe she’d take pity on me under these circumstances and come hold my hand.

I glanced at the guy in the corner, trying to get a bead on him, but I couldn’t place him.  Clearly I didn’t have to worry about him crashing in on my grief space.  I was laying odds that he’d be out of there as soon as was politic, sooner if he could.  Briefly I imagined slipping out the back, meeting him at his car.  Maybe a sympathy fuck would be more up his alley.

I leaned over to smell the tulips sent by Aunt Marge.

Sam 1

The map of how the Gulf filling was up with oil was more than I could stand to look at.  When Katy came by with the coffee, I latched on just for the distraction.

“Looks like the sun will finally make it out today.”  I surprised her.  I wasn’t usually the chatty type, and she’d already turned to the guy two seats down from me.

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she said, looking back at me while she kept pouring.  Just like she didn’t even really need to see to know where the rim was.  She’d probably refilled more than her fair share.

The teenagers in the corner busted out again then, and we both looked over.  I’m not sure why – it’s not like they were actually interesting.  Their hilarity was contrived -  like somehow it was created more by circumstances than nature.  But I guess it saved us from looking at each other.

The guy next to me stood up, laying a $20 on the counter.  Katy fished out change from her apron, and I swear she didn’t even count before she handed it to him.  Whatever the amount, it seemed to work for him.

Watching him move toward the door, a woman I’d never seen before caught my eye as she paused at the entrance, scanning.  Not too subtle about it either.  I kinda wished I was the one she was looking for, though.  The penetrating quality of her eyes…yeah.  I could get used to that.

I turned back to the paper and saw that ghost Katy had dropped off my check.  But the woman behind me still vibrated in space, warming my back.  Yes, indeed.  I could get used to that.

Carly 1

The teenagers burst out laughing again, and I could feel the twist low down, buried in my abdomen.  It wasn’t likely they were laughing at me, not at all really.  And yet…I almost wished they were.  It was a measure of how unhappy I’d become: I’d rather have the mockery of an audience, laughing and pointing fingers at my plight, than this feeling of sitting here just disappearing.

The trouble was, I had absolutely zero motivation to join in the conversation.  Charlie, Greg, Blackie, and Dan had surrounded me as they gathered their chairs around, taking over three different tables in their usual territorial stakeout.  At breakfast and lunch, the diner was open to other customers only by their good graces.

It could have been worse.  At least these guys tried.  But at best their own efforts to include me confused them, and in Greg’s case at least the resentment lingered and gathered, accumulating around innocuous comments and moments so that nothing was easy.  In my day, it was the diner time that was the work – all the noise and activity of the site was my sustenance.

Derek 2

I understand the sociological, even anthropological, significance of funerals as the markers of a death, the change in a family or community status.  That doesn’t mean I like going to them.  IMHO, in their current form they’re pretty useless.  To keep on the good side of the relations, I decided to go.   But no way would I stay more than 15 minutes.

Sitting in that funeral home, though, I regretted my generosity.  None of these people were the least bit interesting.  I looked at my watch – 10 more minutes.  The group of women chattered away, and the two guys I didn’t know just stood at the coffin – killing time, I guessed, and staying away from the chattering women.  I checked my watch again – 8 minutes to go.

Madeline 2

I was to be the distant cousin from out of town, on his mother’s side.  Cherry had coached me on my supposed lineage, so I figured I could get by if anybody quizzed me.   I had done this plenty of times before, but yeah, I had a few nerves.  We didn’t know if Borkfield would even show up – might just be a waste of time.  But might not.

I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror, tucked a few stray hairs into place, grabbed my purse and headed for the funeral home entrance. 

It was still early for the viewing, but there were about 10 cars already in the parking lot. No one outside, though. I walked through the doors, the blast of A/C sending my carefully arranged scarf back over my shoulder – damn.  Inside, like most of these places, it was rather dark, especially after the bright AZ sun, and plush, with dark yet subdued colors, comfortable chairs, lots of flowers, hushed voices.  I hate these places.  They’re like death – not the kind where you actually die, but the kind where your soul gets slowly sucked out and you eventually are - well, generic, I guess.

I glanced in a mirror in the hallway to rearrange the scarf, then headed purposefully toward Parlor C – Randall.  From the doorway – only seven people in the room, with Cherry in a group with three other women, one skinny, twitchy guy sitting in a corner looking at his watch, and the remaining two at the coffin.  Viewing.  Two tall, good-looking guys, side by side, looking down on the deceased.  Brothers, I guessed.  I headed for Cherry.

She looked up as I moved, and gasped slightly.  As if I was a surprise.  I almost rolled my eyes, but I was a good girl.

“Hello,” I said, as we had rehearsed.  “Are you Cherry?  I was so sorry to hear about Manfred.”  I waited a beat.  “Oh, I’m Marian, Marian Stragthorn.”  I extended my hand.

Derek 1

Thank god – they had wifi.  And it was reasonably fast.  It was one of those kinda old fashioned diners, so I was afraid they wouldn’t.  But Stevo insisted we meet there – said the food was worth it.  Whatever.

I didn’t even know people like this still existed in the world – there was a freaking cowboy in the corner.  Not to mention the gang of construction workers.  I guess I’ve been spending too much time online.  I thought the world was now composed entirely of people who were into World of Warcraft and cloud computing, and 15 year old girls who wanted to have sex with me.  Ha!  Just kidding. 

I linked up while Stevo ordered – like I care that much about food.  I had to check the status of my last comment on the OpenBHD coding problem.  Then, of course, I had to check Facebook to see who else had taken the latest “Which God Are You” survey – that I had created.  10,000 people since last night!  Not bad.

Especially considering the embedded code.

I glanced over. “Hey, geek.  You have coffee on your shirt.”

Madeline 1

I walked in.  It was 6:35, and lots of people were having breakfast – work day.  That’s why I was there.  I was looking for a particular man, who might have information about the Randall case.  I admit, I was hungry, too.

It was one of those seat-yourself diners, so I did.  First I took a good look around the place, to see if there were any guys there who fit the description.  Noticed the cowboy in the corner right away – odd to see a cowboy here.  He looked like the real thing, too, not a Village People clone, dust clinging to his shirt, calloused hands, wrinkled sun-hardened skin, tired eyes.  Not my guy, though.  At least, not my guy for the case.  Then there was the table of rowdy construction workers, all men except for one lone, quiet woman in the middle.  A couple of businessmen in suites – probably salesmen.  Why did I think that?  I don’t know.  But I did.  Then a couple of guys with their laptops open, typing away, sitting at the same table but not even looking at each other.  One spoke; the other smiled.  They didn’t look at each other, didn’t stop typing.  Then a table with one woman, quietly reading the paper and drinking coffee, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.  At the counter, a bunch of guys in suits, all with coffee.  And another table with some teenagers – at least, they looked like teenagers to me.  Might have been older.  Five of them, two guys and three girls, laughing a lot.  They looked like they might have been up all night – eyes a little red-rimmed, their energy just a bit too edgy and high for 6:30.  Well, 6:40 now.

I didn’t see my guy – maybe it was too early for him.  So I chose an empty booth and sat down, pulling out my iPad.