The Funeral
It's a Saturday. Another funeral day. I go downstairs for a morning coffee after a fight with my black suit and pull on my dress shoes, which are also my everyday shoes. (you never know when someone you know's gonna drop dead.) I stand up straight in front of the mirror, a rare occurrence as it is, but now I realize that I look like a parrot and nothing like myself. Good, my wife remarks. You finally look presentable. I didn't think it could be done. I waft her away from my undone tie and unkempt handkerchief, which I've tucked into the pocket of my jacket to artfully hide the grape juice stain our toddler has committed all over the silk fabric. I glance once last time into the mirror. I then pull my frantic, drunken wife out the door and into the car. We embark on a journey to the graveyard, or nicknamed appropriately by my wife, our "second home and final destination".
We make it a half hour before it began. Upon arrival, we stop at the mini-mart in the neighboring town and equip ourselves with a bottle of cheap champagne and another crappy bouquet of flowers. The cashier knows us by name, due to myself being a bestselling author, I joke. My wife shakes her head and hands over her card.
Stepping out of the car, we once again become aware that our current cynical moods are not going to be welcome by the staff and supervisors of the funeral home. They hate us, my wife claims. Frankly, I don't give a damn. The funeral goers are all there; the 30-year-old and unders are all crying by the trees with tissues in their hands. We give a wave to the one that isn't. He reciprocates, annoyed. The older ones are chatting by the food table, filling up on wine and cheese, before the service starts and inevitably rips them away from indulging perhaps the most expensive thing they've put into their bodies in the last three months. We steer clear of them as well, for our bodies have been spoiled with cheeses and cakes and soppy scotch and gin and tonics over the last decade. We are far past being starving artists and having to live on funeral food. No. Now we choose to feed solely off of watery coffee and Ritz crackers.
The funeral starts. The women flurry around the rectangular hole in the ground. The men make up a loose border behind them and try their best to keep stoic and straight, as a man should, apparently. I can't be bothered to do either. I lean against a tree and observe the outskirts of the ritual. I've noticed that the most interesting things took place there. And only three minutes into the service, a handful of people scattered around; a young woman holding a book with the victim's name on it, his work in it. I was there when he wrote it. A good fraction of it, at least. And so was she. She was naked on his couch in his bedroom, but she was there. There was a pipe in his hand, a ring on his finger, and a young fanatic in his bed. It was a beautiful set of evenings. A smile stretches itself out on my mouth. I move onto the next person.
An old man. White hair, white skin, yellow teeth. His teacher, perhaps. He clutched a single cloth napkin and shook fervorous. I felt bad. He probably never thought that he'd be invited to his protege burial. But on the other hand, he should've known, with the way his said protege reeked of cigarettes and seemingly suffered from regular morning nosebleeds. He should've known. But still, I felt bad. God knows what he must be feeling. But I refuse to believe in gods, and God knows that, so I shuffle onto the next person. My favorite person.
The ex-wife. What a character. In my eyes, she was the winner in this whole scenario. Out of having to pick between being a widow or a divorcee, she got both. Her little one isn't so little anymore, and he refuses to leave the house for these kinds of things now. I understand him. I watched him grow like a weed in between the crack of his parents' relationship(s), and become marginalized in all of them. They deserve everything and anything he decides to throw their way. Well, her way. I can also understand why she's chain-smoking and glaring the way she is at her dead husband, smirking the way she is and shaking her head, thinking, "You old fuck. You've never shared our burdens." I laughed. At least now you can get his settlement checks, my dear. I'd say if we were conversing telepathically. All those years of breaking his vows to you are about to pay off. Just you wait and see.
They lower him into the hole melodramatically slow. People are crying. My wife is on her fourth vodka tonic. I'm proud of her stoicism. I make my way to the dining hall, the place with food and people in black. I greet each one as I pass them and their platefuls. Finally, I find the one lad I've waved to earlier in the day and introduce myself. His name's Hank. He's a poet. We make small talk. He's vulgar and arrogant. I decide that I am in love with him, and put his contact in my phone under "Chinaski". It seems appropriate.
It becomes late. The gel in my hair begins to wear off and crust. I find my mess of a wife and drag her into the car once again. She doesn't recognize me and calls out the name of her lover. I roll my eyes and toss her into the backseat, next to the bucket. (With her drinking habits, you never know, but you can guess, which is better than nothing.) Hank climbs into the car beside us with some scrappy girl neither he nor I have ever seen before. I give him another cheeky wave. He salutes back with a devious smile. I make a mental note to call him later tonight despite my blood alcohol level telling me not to.
We arrive home. The wife's asleep. I pull the keys out of the ignition and, with her slung over my shoulder, make my way into the house. I make no effort to take my shoes off, and head upstairs to deliver her to into bed. I wake her up by accident, but she fakes sleep until I exit the room.
I enter my study and put a record on. I dial up Chinaski. He doesn't answer. I figure he's six feet deep inside that scrawny girl he's left with. I start writing a sappy poem about my wife's black panties draped over the couch. The phone rings. I answer and speak to Hank about sponsoring him and his awful poetry. He agrees and we set up a conference for next week. Quiet enough for my wife to hear, but not my child, I describe the fastest route to my house from Hank's, listening to him scurry around for his keys over the phone and him whispering "I'll be there in 20" and hanging up. I sink into the couch, satisfied. I look up at the heavens and thank my dead friend for dying. How much contrast a single day can hold! I doze off before Hank or anyone else arrives, and it's not for shame. After all, I've got my drunken wife, and he's got his scrappy girl, and anything more would be ambitious. Only the young are ambitious, but I am not young, for the young don't bury a friend every other month, nor do they seek to cheat on their wives with angsty modern poets after doing so.