Hatred courses through me
Like the California Wildfires.
The taint of reading
About the children's suicide
And the Pain they've endured
Flashes me back
To the days of my own
Suffering and humiliation.
The times were less then,
The days seemed shorter
And the hatred infinite.
The children drew their power
From my naivete
And turned it all back on me,
Whisper campaigns
In the old child's way
Following me like flies,
Constantly buzzing
And tearing my attention
Away from those
Who deserved it most.
These harsh words,
About my size
And about my preference,
Were wolves of grammar,
Gnawing at my
Pride and self-esteem,
Until nothing else
Was left in my place
But an insecure child
Frightened to be outside
Or communicate with others.
My friends were my toys,
Bits of plastic
Imbued with thoughts
And feelings and souls,
Entire communities of them
Existing purely
On the power of
My imagination.
I was a superhero,
A god manipulating
The good guys
Into confrontations
Where the bad guys
Always suffered as I had,
And the heroes
Always saved the day.
On particularly bad days
The villains would die,
Limbs rent from
The injection molding
And sent flying,
Old toys meeting their end
And making way
For a new input group.
The life cycle was short
And replacements
Were a beg away.
But when I would leave
The pain would return,
And a turn of the corner
Would bring my happiness
Crashing down.
The neighbourhood kids,
Intimidated by intelligence
And frustrated
By unimaginative lives
Would torment me
And humiliate me
And turn my life
Back in to
The hellish world
I frequently knew.
I see a new generation
Coming up as I had
And feeling the pain
As I have felt.
I want to reach out to them
And guide them
As I wished to be guided
Or give them
The tools that helped me
Endure the pain.
But I can't.
This type of pain,
As I know from experience,
Is a personal matter,
And learning to live
With what they've done
Is a part
Of growing up strong.
Some people can not.
Some people have seen
And felt too much
And in their eyes
Life is pain
And death is the excess
They've been longing for
So they indulge.
I can not nor will not
Hate or judge them.
The people who drove them
To their untimely graves
Need to suffer
As we have suffered.
And once more
I am reminded of
The ineffectual concept
Of Karma
And how "What goes around
Comes around"
And realize
These bullies and their ilk
Get what they want
One-hundred percent
Of the time.
And I weep for the future
Of not just America
But the world.
For in seeing what I know
Is coming of age
I know of our
Downward Destiny.
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Saturday, August 27, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
On The Subject Of Funerals, Part 3: Going Down.
It took a minute or two for my breathing to slow down enough to talk. By that time, we were already on the highway, doing 70 miles per hour in a 45 zone. In retrospect, I'm amazed we weren't pulled over.
I thought of the situation back at the graveyard. Was everyone okay? I know Lilly and Vincent were dead, but did anyone else survive the onslaught? I felt immeasurably sick to my stomach, and I think this time it had nothing to do with being concussed. My guilty conscience at running away from the massacre was tugging at me, telling me in no uncertain terms...
"We have to go back..." I started, but Jim cut me off before I could start to explain.
"Like hell. Did you see that? She tore Vincent's fucking head off!"
"And it's still in the bed of the truck, yes I know!" I contested hotly, "But the fact of the matter is we need to stop that... that... whatever that's doing it! We need to make sure everyone else is okay! And we need to get a policeman or a SWAT team or something!"
"And why exactly would we have to go back there for that?" He countered. He was already on his third cigarette since leaving the cemetary. I couldn't smoke, my hands were shaking too badly.
"I don't know, I just... I just know it. We have to go back, baby," I added calmly. The shaking had spread from my hands to the rest of my body by the time I had finished talking, and it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing up again out of fear. Still, I have a pretty good sense of right and wrong, and I knew, in this instance, that I was right.
Jim was quiet for a minute, concentrating on maintaining his hellish speed, until he finally slowed down and pulled off to the side of the highway right in front of a grocery store.
"Are you sure, baby?" He asked in an ominous tone, staring at me with a face that registered both fear and anxiety. “I want you to think really hard about this, and tell me it’s the right thing to do.”
Lilly and Vincent dead. Mrs. Carol back from the dead, killing en masse. A whole funeral’s worth of possible casualties. Run away. For fuck’s sake, tell him to step on it and never turn back around again. Tell him to grab his stuff and we’ll move to Samoa or Fiji or somewhere! Just don’t say...
"Yes," I replied with certainty.
Idiot.
"Then we'll need supplies. You mind if we make a stop by my place?" he asked.
"Ummm... What?"
"I am not going anywhere near that thing without packing something, and I'd feel a lot better if you were packing too, baby. I've got a few guns my dad left me in his will with the ammo for 'em and a machete in the garage. Which one you want?" he added quickly with a glance in my direction.
I paused, the prospect of using a weapon turning over in my mind. I’ve never fired a gun before, but I was pretty sure I could at least point it in the right direction if needed. But a machete? I knew how to handle a big knife well (being raised by a professional chef will do that to you), and even though I was scared shitless about having to use it, I preferred the devil I know.
I turned to Jim, still shaking so much I was practically vibrating with fear, and said, “Machete.”
He nodded curtly, pulled back into the travel lane, and floored it to his house. Ten minutes later we got there.
He took the shortcut in, squealing around corners and barely missing the cars parked along the side of the road. He even gave his elderly neighbour down the street quite a turn, almost running her over and causing her to curse at us in a choked voice as we sped past. The last I saw of her was a middle finger in the rear-view mirror.
Jim was already unbuckled by the time we got in his driveway, and he dashed off without saying a single word to me. I hastily hit his garage door opener a split-second later, and waited patiently for the archaic machine to spring to life and let me inside. In the meantime, I looked around Jim’s yard; he had spent an awful lot of time out here, planting shrubs and meticulously edging and trimming his yard. The man lived for working outside, and it certainly showed.
At last the garage door went up enough for me to enter, and I did so rapidly, keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the afore-mentioned machete. I spied books (many of which were so peeled and faded from years outdoors that you couldn’t tell what they were from the cover), old issues of home improvement magazines, tools and machines, and at last, a tactical machete sitting on a shelf above the washer. It was high up, but one of the boxes of faded books proved to be all the stepladder I needed to fetch it down.
As I felt the cool plastic handle in my hand, I heard an extremely loud noise that sounded like two pieces of wood being slapped together. And at that exact moment, what little colour I had left in my face drained. I know that sound. Oh please dear God don’t let it be what I think it is. My feet started to move me without my consent, running through the door in the back of the garage into the living room.
Nothing there.
I tried the living room (“Jim?”), the kitchen (“Baby, where are you?”), the dining room (“BABY?!”), the guest bedroom (“JIM?!”), and the hall bathroom (“ANSWER ME, GOD DAMN IT!”), and found nothing out of sorts.
It was when I took my first step in to the master bedroom that I knew what happened. The master bathroom light was on. He never left the lights on, and was meticulous about that fact. A sense of cold dread swept over me as I stole in to his bedroom, creeping past the bed that we shared, past the dresser I picked out, and past the closet full of the clothes that still smelled like him. Creeping to the door to the bathroom. I peeked my head around the corner and almost collapsed on the spot.
Jim was in the bathtub with the clear curtain liner drawn. You could still see the fragments of his skull sliding down the tile behind it.
I fled from the room as fast as I could, blindly running in to things along the way, until I managed to make it to the living room. I finally collapsed on to the couch and drew myself up in to a ball as the tears started.
****** ****** ****** ****** ****** ******
Day faded to night as I lay there on the couch. In my head I was recounting the times Jim and I had jostled with each other for the mirror in the bathroom, the times we would make dinner for one another (I did most of the cooking, but the man was a genius when it came to grilling and steaks), even the times we were making love. And that’s what it all boiled down to: I loved him. I had been vehemently opposed to telling him before, but I did. And now I couldn’t.
I don’t know how much later it was that I got myself off of the couch. I slowly approached the master bedroom again, taking care to look for anything out of place. Nothing was wrong in the room itself, aside from an open shoebox on his bed still housing one of the guns and two boxes of ammunition. I turned away from it and went to the closet. And as I closed it, I felt my guts wrench even more. Too painful, too soon.
Also, too necessary.
I moved on to the bathroom and braced myself.
The bathtub was the same as I left it, with Jim’s corpse huddled in the corner opposite the tap and surrounded by the curtain liner (presumably so as not to have left a mess behind himself). I looked around the bathroom for any sign, anything he might have left me to tell me why. I needed closure, almost craved it at this point. As I turned around, I found what I was looking for: a hastily scribbled note sitting on the counter by the sink. I picked it up and read:
“Thomas,
I didn’t do this to hurt you, baby. I did this because I can’t deal with this shit. I can’t deal with dead people walking, and I can’t bring myself to kill someone. Take the guns and run away, baby. Go. Save yourself. I’m saving me.
I love you. Have since the moment I met you, and will forever in heaven.
-Jim Hollister”
I set the tear-stained note back down where I found it and slid to the floor, my back braced against the sink cabinet. I hated myself right now, more than I ever have or thought I ever would. I killed Jim, I thought. I pushed him in to going back to the graveyard, and he couldn’t cope. Jim was my life, he was everything I’ve lived for since the divorce and the coming out to my parents, and this is how I repay him? I’m not worthy of his love.
Despondant, pissed off, confused, and miserable, I lifted myself from the floor. Misery and fury coursed through my veins, and (at least in my mind’s eye) I heard the most peculiar sound...
Snap.
I strode to the shower, threw open the curtain, and picked up the gun from the bottom where it had fallen out of Jim’s hand. After wiping the gun off with a hand towel, I closed the curtain for the last time, grabbed the box off the bed, and made my way back through the house, closing doors and turning off lights as I went. By the time I got to the garage door (shoving the machete in my pants as I got there), It was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
The truck turned over obligingly as I cranked it. I pulled out the driveway, put the truck in drive, and sped off to meet my death.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
On The Subject Of Funerals, Part 2: Waking Up.
The sound of Jim's worried voice hit my ears before consciousness fully returned.
"Thomas?! Baby, are you okay? Please wake up...." It sounded like he was extremely worried. My eyes opened a fraction to see Jim knelt down besides my prone body, a handful of tears rolling down his cheeks and worry evident on his face. I opened my mouth in an effort to reassure him that I was okay, but all I managed was a drawn out grunt. That seemed to be enough for Jim.
"Thomas, oh my fuckin' god! I was so worried..." he trailed off. "What happened? Are you okay?" He added hurriedly. I groaned again in response. That seemed to be my thing lately.
Jim went to pick me up in his arms, but a new voice entered, stage right, and said "Don't move him yet, I want to check him out first and make sure he's okay to get up."
I rolled my head to the source of the new voice, and saw one of the younger pallbearers that I didn't want to know kneel down next to me and promptly pull a penlight from inside his jacket. Apparently there was a doctor in the house. I closed my eyes and chuckled at my own joke, then slowly made the effort to open my eyes fully and investigate the world around me.
There was a circle of people surrounding Jim, the doctor and I, most with worried faces. Those that weren't seemed amused by the situation, and although I felt my anger flare a bit, I took it in stride externally. Never let them see you sweat, as the old expression went. I looked around and saw Lilly, Vincent, Mrs. Carol, the other pallbearers, the minister, and a few others looking down... at...
I double-took, and indeed there she was, in all her glory, wearing the purple dress she wore to Vincent's wedding 2 years ago and looking like hell. Her eyes were sunken in from their normal position, and she was definately more pale than I had ever seen her in life. But still, she was there, with a look on her face that I couldn't quite pinpoint. I pointed a finger at her and began to stammer, but Jim cut me off before I could scream or manage anything coherent.
"What are you pointing at?" He asked in a fairly hushed voice, following the line of my finger until he saw what I was pointing to.
The moment I saw Mrs. Carol reflected in his brown eyes, I saw something that will haunt me until the end of my days: Jim, the man that's not scared of a single thing in this world, my rock in a sea of turmoil, went as white as a ghost. He too started staring and stammering at Mrs. Carol, finally managing to mutter the word, "How?" several times in succession.
The pair of us making what was evidently a scene had started to cause a bit of an uproar in the crowd around us. Those nearest us, the doctor included, looked around wildly, trying to identify what the source of the problem was. Lilly was the first after Jim and I to catch on. Her face scanned the crowd like everyone else, shock and concern plastered across her thin face, until she spotted her mother.
Her face lit up as soon as she comprehended what she saw. Lilly then squealed loudly, tears pouring down her alabaster cheeks, and ran to her mother in a manner reminiscient of a small child who had lost their parent (which, I reflected, she had). She threw her arms around Mrs. Carol haphazardly and hugged her rather tightly as one might have expected.
Mrs. Carol seemed to not notice Lilly at all at first, still facing me with that disconcerting look that almost seemed like... Was that hunger? Or anger? Or longing? I shook my head violently, inducing a wave of dizziness and nausea as I did so.
The dizziness went away after a moment, but the nausea didn't. I hurriedly threw my head to the side just in time to vomit on the ground between me and Vincent, whom jumped back out of reflex and bumped into the woman behind him. The woman, in turn, hit Vincent around the head with her suitcase of a purse and cursed vehemently at him in mangled spanglish, prompting a brief apology from him and a whithering look at me.
The nausea passed after another moment, but the fear and paranoia of another wave stuck with me. I held my head to the side while enduring the acrid stench of my own sick, letting the aftershock wave roll over me before I attempted to sit upright and figure out what in the hell was going on. My head spun from the fumes, and I felt another lurch come up from stomach as the smell fully hit me. Mercifully it didn't come.
Jim had partly diverted his attention from Mrs. Carol to me, crouching over me in a half-way defensive position while rubbing my neck slowly to help ward off another bout of vomiting. He was still staring at the recently deceased with a wary face; like me, he obviously didn't trust what he saw in the situation. Something wasn't right, and he wanted to make sure I was safe and taken care of before anything else. My protector.
I looked up and realized that Mrs. Carol had finally noticed Lilly, and had embraced her back. She was even crying as she buried her face into the curve of Lilly's neck. Upon later contemplation, I even think it was morbidly artful the way both of their tears mingled with the outpouring of blood coming from the area where Mrs. Carol's face met Lilly's flesh.
Lilly gasped and tried to pull away. Mrs. Carol wouldn't let her.
Lilly's struggles were causing her more pain, as Mrs. Carol still had her teeth embedded deep in Lilly's neck. She was chewing and gnawing like an old man who had only recently remembered how to eat and was determined to be sated. Lilly audibly cried out, sobbing at first, then screaming at the top of her lungs. A piercing sound.
Most people nearby whom had formed around me and Jim had by now excitedly turned to Lilly and her mother, expecting to see a tearful reunion. Instead, they stood transfixed by the grotesquery before them, not sure of what was going on, most being too cautious to approach or intervene.
"HELP ME!!!" Lilly cried out at the top of her lungs, but the sound was wet, as though being forced through a glass of milk. "PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME GOD DAMMIT!!!"
Vincent was the first to step in, running around Jim and I and trying to forcibly seperate the two before being thrown backward single-handedly (!) by Mrs. Carol. Lilly's screams had at this point fully devolved in to gurgles as more and more of her neck and throat were devoured. Jim hurriedly stood up, grabbing me by my shoulders and forcing me to my feet.
"We have to get out of here," he said in a low, urgent voice that only I could hear. "Can you walk, baby?"
"Yeah, I think so," I replied, still not taking my eyes off the slaughter, and took one tentative step in the direction of Jim's truck. Thankfully I found my weight supported me, and took another, all the while being supported by Jim and his farmer's strength.
We made our way to the truck slowly, winding around the onlookers in our path with the pretense of needing to get me to the hospital. It didn't take long, and as soon as we climbed inside the cabin, I pulled out my phone and dialed the three numbers we all know by heart while Jim lit two cigarettes and handed me one.
"911, please state your emergency," came the bored voice on the other end of the line.
"Yeah, my name's Thomas Black and I'm at the Requiem Gardens Cemetary in Metairie, and I'd like to report what I think is a murder!" I blurted out rather quickly.
"Hold on, sir, you think it's a murder?" came the operator in a voice that suggested she couldn't care less if World War Three had broken out here today, just so long as she got her paycheck.
"Uh..." I trailed, "Yeah. I know this is going to sound wierd but please follow me. My ex-mother-in-law, whom we had just had a funeral for, got out of her coffin and is eating my ex-wife's neck while everyone is standing around and staring.... That's murder, right?" I added almost childishly. On second thought, yeah, I really didn't think this out.
I pulled a drag on the cigarette Jim had handed me while I sat through a thoroughly stunned silence on the other end of the phone. Eventually I heard the telltale clicking of a keyboard being worked furiously, followed by the sound of multiple people in the background snickering.
At this point, my temper started to flare a bit, and I added, "You do believe me right?" in a serious tone.
More snickering. And finally, my anger broke.
"Listen here, you stupid fucking bitch," I started, causing Jim to look my way with a mixture of awe and solemnity, "I just witnessed my ex-wife have her neck turned into fucking kibble by a dead fucking woman and all you're gonna do is call your stupid-ass dumb-fucking coworkers and laugh at me like I'm some crazy fucking transient making a god damn crank call?!"
"Whoa, baby," Jim said out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes still scanning the graveyard in front of him in case the carnage spilled our way.
The laughter at the other end of the phone stopped almost as soon as the last syllable left my mouth. Apparently I had been put on speakerphone without my knowledge or previous consent. Before I could press that advantage, though, a new voice entered my phone.
"Sir, I don't like that tone you're taking with my operator, and I would appreciate it if you'd apologise to her right now or hang up the phone and take your damned fib elsewhere," came a deep voice that I presumed to be the supervisor. I opted for the latter choice.
"What are we gonna do, Jim?" I asked after roughly shoving the phone in my pocket, "Do you want to stay here and try to stop her or do you wanna bail and try and find an actual policeman to..."
BANG.
"What the fuck?" I half-screamed. Jim cautiously craned his head around to see the bed of the truck, where the sound had eminated from. Almost instantly he shot back around, put the keys in the ignition, and tried like hell to crank the engine up with the celerity of the gods.
"What was that?" I asked, afraid to turn around.
"........."
"Baby...?"
"Vincent's head."
"Thomas?! Baby, are you okay? Please wake up...." It sounded like he was extremely worried. My eyes opened a fraction to see Jim knelt down besides my prone body, a handful of tears rolling down his cheeks and worry evident on his face. I opened my mouth in an effort to reassure him that I was okay, but all I managed was a drawn out grunt. That seemed to be enough for Jim.
"Thomas, oh my fuckin' god! I was so worried..." he trailed off. "What happened? Are you okay?" He added hurriedly. I groaned again in response. That seemed to be my thing lately.
Jim went to pick me up in his arms, but a new voice entered, stage right, and said "Don't move him yet, I want to check him out first and make sure he's okay to get up."
I rolled my head to the source of the new voice, and saw one of the younger pallbearers that I didn't want to know kneel down next to me and promptly pull a penlight from inside his jacket. Apparently there was a doctor in the house. I closed my eyes and chuckled at my own joke, then slowly made the effort to open my eyes fully and investigate the world around me.
There was a circle of people surrounding Jim, the doctor and I, most with worried faces. Those that weren't seemed amused by the situation, and although I felt my anger flare a bit, I took it in stride externally. Never let them see you sweat, as the old expression went. I looked around and saw Lilly, Vincent, Mrs. Carol, the other pallbearers, the minister, and a few others looking down... at...
I double-took, and indeed there she was, in all her glory, wearing the purple dress she wore to Vincent's wedding 2 years ago and looking like hell. Her eyes were sunken in from their normal position, and she was definately more pale than I had ever seen her in life. But still, she was there, with a look on her face that I couldn't quite pinpoint. I pointed a finger at her and began to stammer, but Jim cut me off before I could scream or manage anything coherent.
"What are you pointing at?" He asked in a fairly hushed voice, following the line of my finger until he saw what I was pointing to.
The moment I saw Mrs. Carol reflected in his brown eyes, I saw something that will haunt me until the end of my days: Jim, the man that's not scared of a single thing in this world, my rock in a sea of turmoil, went as white as a ghost. He too started staring and stammering at Mrs. Carol, finally managing to mutter the word, "How?" several times in succession.
The pair of us making what was evidently a scene had started to cause a bit of an uproar in the crowd around us. Those nearest us, the doctor included, looked around wildly, trying to identify what the source of the problem was. Lilly was the first after Jim and I to catch on. Her face scanned the crowd like everyone else, shock and concern plastered across her thin face, until she spotted her mother.
Her face lit up as soon as she comprehended what she saw. Lilly then squealed loudly, tears pouring down her alabaster cheeks, and ran to her mother in a manner reminiscient of a small child who had lost their parent (which, I reflected, she had). She threw her arms around Mrs. Carol haphazardly and hugged her rather tightly as one might have expected.
Mrs. Carol seemed to not notice Lilly at all at first, still facing me with that disconcerting look that almost seemed like... Was that hunger? Or anger? Or longing? I shook my head violently, inducing a wave of dizziness and nausea as I did so.
The dizziness went away after a moment, but the nausea didn't. I hurriedly threw my head to the side just in time to vomit on the ground between me and Vincent, whom jumped back out of reflex and bumped into the woman behind him. The woman, in turn, hit Vincent around the head with her suitcase of a purse and cursed vehemently at him in mangled spanglish, prompting a brief apology from him and a whithering look at me.
The nausea passed after another moment, but the fear and paranoia of another wave stuck with me. I held my head to the side while enduring the acrid stench of my own sick, letting the aftershock wave roll over me before I attempted to sit upright and figure out what in the hell was going on. My head spun from the fumes, and I felt another lurch come up from stomach as the smell fully hit me. Mercifully it didn't come.
Jim had partly diverted his attention from Mrs. Carol to me, crouching over me in a half-way defensive position while rubbing my neck slowly to help ward off another bout of vomiting. He was still staring at the recently deceased with a wary face; like me, he obviously didn't trust what he saw in the situation. Something wasn't right, and he wanted to make sure I was safe and taken care of before anything else. My protector.
I looked up and realized that Mrs. Carol had finally noticed Lilly, and had embraced her back. She was even crying as she buried her face into the curve of Lilly's neck. Upon later contemplation, I even think it was morbidly artful the way both of their tears mingled with the outpouring of blood coming from the area where Mrs. Carol's face met Lilly's flesh.
Lilly gasped and tried to pull away. Mrs. Carol wouldn't let her.
Lilly's struggles were causing her more pain, as Mrs. Carol still had her teeth embedded deep in Lilly's neck. She was chewing and gnawing like an old man who had only recently remembered how to eat and was determined to be sated. Lilly audibly cried out, sobbing at first, then screaming at the top of her lungs. A piercing sound.
Most people nearby whom had formed around me and Jim had by now excitedly turned to Lilly and her mother, expecting to see a tearful reunion. Instead, they stood transfixed by the grotesquery before them, not sure of what was going on, most being too cautious to approach or intervene.
"HELP ME!!!" Lilly cried out at the top of her lungs, but the sound was wet, as though being forced through a glass of milk. "PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME GOD DAMMIT!!!"
Vincent was the first to step in, running around Jim and I and trying to forcibly seperate the two before being thrown backward single-handedly (!) by Mrs. Carol. Lilly's screams had at this point fully devolved in to gurgles as more and more of her neck and throat were devoured. Jim hurriedly stood up, grabbing me by my shoulders and forcing me to my feet.
"We have to get out of here," he said in a low, urgent voice that only I could hear. "Can you walk, baby?"
"Yeah, I think so," I replied, still not taking my eyes off the slaughter, and took one tentative step in the direction of Jim's truck. Thankfully I found my weight supported me, and took another, all the while being supported by Jim and his farmer's strength.
We made our way to the truck slowly, winding around the onlookers in our path with the pretense of needing to get me to the hospital. It didn't take long, and as soon as we climbed inside the cabin, I pulled out my phone and dialed the three numbers we all know by heart while Jim lit two cigarettes and handed me one.
"911, please state your emergency," came the bored voice on the other end of the line.
"Yeah, my name's Thomas Black and I'm at the Requiem Gardens Cemetary in Metairie, and I'd like to report what I think is a murder!" I blurted out rather quickly.
"Hold on, sir, you think it's a murder?" came the operator in a voice that suggested she couldn't care less if World War Three had broken out here today, just so long as she got her paycheck.
"Uh..." I trailed, "Yeah. I know this is going to sound wierd but please follow me. My ex-mother-in-law, whom we had just had a funeral for, got out of her coffin and is eating my ex-wife's neck while everyone is standing around and staring.... That's murder, right?" I added almost childishly. On second thought, yeah, I really didn't think this out.
I pulled a drag on the cigarette Jim had handed me while I sat through a thoroughly stunned silence on the other end of the phone. Eventually I heard the telltale clicking of a keyboard being worked furiously, followed by the sound of multiple people in the background snickering.
At this point, my temper started to flare a bit, and I added, "You do believe me right?" in a serious tone.
More snickering. And finally, my anger broke.
"Listen here, you stupid fucking bitch," I started, causing Jim to look my way with a mixture of awe and solemnity, "I just witnessed my ex-wife have her neck turned into fucking kibble by a dead fucking woman and all you're gonna do is call your stupid-ass dumb-fucking coworkers and laugh at me like I'm some crazy fucking transient making a god damn crank call?!"
"Whoa, baby," Jim said out of the corner of his mouth, his eyes still scanning the graveyard in front of him in case the carnage spilled our way.
The laughter at the other end of the phone stopped almost as soon as the last syllable left my mouth. Apparently I had been put on speakerphone without my knowledge or previous consent. Before I could press that advantage, though, a new voice entered my phone.
"Sir, I don't like that tone you're taking with my operator, and I would appreciate it if you'd apologise to her right now or hang up the phone and take your damned fib elsewhere," came a deep voice that I presumed to be the supervisor. I opted for the latter choice.
"What are we gonna do, Jim?" I asked after roughly shoving the phone in my pocket, "Do you want to stay here and try to stop her or do you wanna bail and try and find an actual policeman to..."
BANG.
"What the fuck?" I half-screamed. Jim cautiously craned his head around to see the bed of the truck, where the sound had eminated from. Almost instantly he shot back around, put the keys in the ignition, and tried like hell to crank the engine up with the celerity of the gods.
"What was that?" I asked, afraid to turn around.
"........."
"Baby...?"
"Vincent's head."
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
On The Subject Of Funerals, Part 1: It Begins.
God, I hate this.
It took me three years to get over her..... The scent of her over-priced perfume, the feel of her hand on mine.... And yet, the moment she calls saying she needs a huge favor from me, I come running to her side like a little boy to a brand-new action figure. I'm pathetic.
I know how I got suckered in to doing this, too. I was always her mom's favorite amongst her collection of ex-son-in-laws, and when she died, that instantly put a target on my chest. Pallbearer. The word still sends a shiver down my spine. I don't deal with death well, and carrying around a corpse equates to my idea of torture.
But, it's not as bad as it could be. The woman weighed next to nothing, and the coffee at the wake wasn't half bad, all things considered. Not being able to smoke had me on edge though, and I daydreamed in my pew during the eulogy of a cigarette to go with the cup of Community Coffee in my hand. Thankfully the minister didn't notice.
Dammit. I hate this.
The ride from the funeral home to the gravesite was long, arduous, and most of all, stressful as hell. I took the ride with my boyfriend Jim (personal epiphanies came after the divorce and in retrospect explained everything), probably the only person in this god-forsaken place that could get me to relax semi-decently. He had a hint or two as to where my stress could go.
"Baby, seriously. Chill the fuck out for a minute."
"No."
"Two seconds at least. Please?"
"Not bloody likely. You know I hate this shit," I replied, fidgeting in my seat. Jim turned to look at me with a hint of exasperation evident on his face.
"Yeah, I do. Hence the asking you to chill out. It's just a corpse! She's dead," Jim stated with finality.
"What's your point?" I asked, agitated. If there's one thing Jim was a master at, it was beating around the bush. "Spit it the fuck out."
Jim spared me a side glance from the road. "I'll tell you what my point is. You're acting like a god damned two year old about this. What's so fuckin' scary about a god damned corpse, I ask you?"
"Leave it alone, bay," I sighed. He wouldn't understand. It wasn't just the corpse, although that was a big part of it. It was the smell of the funeral home, the lavender and almond scent of old death and graveyards. The creepy old trees that shade everything in sight. The finality of death, knowing I'll never get to talk to Mrs. Carol again.
"Oooorrrrr," Jim added, drawing out the word the way a child might, "Is it the fact... Hold on..."
I turned in time to see Jim pull out a pack of Pall-Mall Lights, shake one from the pack into his lips, replace the pack, and light it with his free hand. He was from "The Great State of Texas" and not only was he damn proud of it, it showed. If I'd have tried to pull that stunt, the cabin of his 80's Ford Pickup would've been littered in Cigs.
On that thought, I pulled my own pack of Camels out from my jacket, drew one out slowly, and lit it, letting the nicotine take control of me for the first time in over an hour or so. It felt good, holding that cigarette with the numb buzz from too little smoke taking over my hand. It helped steady me for the upcoming ordeal.
"Or," Jim said, picking up where he left off, "Is it the fact that you just don't wanna see Lilly again? I know she fucked you over pretty badly, and now she's calling you up as if you're reliable? I'd've told her something real quick, me."
"I don't know, bay," I replied after taking a few drags. "I guess it just has to do with the stillness of it. She looks so alive, and yet...." I let myself trail away as I grabbed another drag. Jim looked my way from behind the wheel and shrugged. I was avoiding talking about Lilly. Thankfully, he got the hint.
"Whatever, I just think you're being stupid about it."
"Says the redneck in the bigwig suit," I teased him. I tried for some humour, but even as the last word left my mouth, I realized my tone was off. Too serious for a joke. Luckily, he took it in stride.
"Yep. Three hundred dollar bigwig suit, and don't you forget it, baby. I bought this thing especially for today and if you think I'm gonna let it go to waste after this, you've got another thing coming."
I turned to face him better from my seat. His features were dark from long days working in the sun, with laugh lines stretching across his thin face. His receding hairline was becoming more prominant as the years went by, and the normally sun-bleached hair was now flecked with grey. Too old for thirty-five.
"And what the hell do you plan on using it for after this? Plan on attending my funeral soon?" I laughed. The thought of my own mortality hadn't come to me before this, but now that it had, I couldn't help but laugh at the thought of my friends and family mourning the loss of me.
"What's so funny?" Jim asked, seeing me shake from mirth.
"I just hadn't thought of my own funeral before.... I don't think anyone would come, save for you, baby," I choked out. "Hell, my own dog wouldn't even miss me. As Robin Williams once said, he'd just lick my corpse for the salt!"
"Don't say that. You know full well that there'd be more people there than you could count," Jim said with sadness in his eyes.
"Whatever, bay," I said with indifference.
The cigarette was about done, so I took one final drag, savoring the flavor, then rolled down my window and threw my butt out onto the side of the highway. I watched the orange sparks fly from impact and realized, with a jolt, that we had to be near our destination.
"Shouldn't we be about there by now?" I asked. We were turning onto a small paved road off of the highway, flanked by wrought-iron gates that were topped with spikes and intricately crafted Fleur-De-Lis. It was a gothic sight, and yet.... I had to admire the craftmanship evident. I loved living in New Orleans.
Jim followed the line of cars in front of him, which lead him into a small and cramped Parking lot. He pulled in, put the truck in park, and turned to look at me.
"Weee're heeeere," he said, in an imitation of that creepy kid from Poltergeist. I let a small laugh escape my lips, then turned and set my face in a grim mask reflective of the fear bubbling up inside of me.
No sooner had I gotten out of the car then I was set upon by the funeral coordinator, a rail-thin man in a suit much too peppy to be for proper mourning and much too well-fitted to be off the rack. Smug bastard, I thought to myself as he took me by the upper arm and dragged me to the back of the hearst. There, he arranged me and the other Pallbearers (consisting of Lilly's younger brother Vincent and four men I had never met before and didn't particularly care to get to know now) in two rows of three each, barked out some instructions hastily, then stepped back and arranged himself in the manner of a man in deep mourning. Good actor.
We proceeded forward with the casket, walking the clumsy stumble of the pallbearer chain-gang, eventually managing to make our way to the hole in the ground tastelessly covered in bright green felt. We set Mrs. Carol down on the raised altar behind the hole and shambled back to our significant others. I gave Jim's hand a squeeze and turned to face the minister as he began the graveside service.
And just as the minister opened his mouth came the first disturbance.
Mrs. Carol's casket moved.
Not in an eerie, floating, telekinetic way, either, but it... well, there's no other way to say it but it jumped. As if something inside it were alive and wanted to get out. It wasn't overt, and I'm not even sure anybody else noticed, but I did, and it was enough to send me in to a small panic attack. Luckily, Jim noticed it starting and managed to pull me to the back of the crowd before I got deeper in to it.
"Are you okay?" he asked, still squeezing my hand with his and holding me by the shoulder with the other. His eyes were filled with concern and compassion. There was a reason I loved him.
"I just saw..." I trailed off. I couldn't even bring myself to say what I saw. Hell, I couldn't even look him in the eye; mine were still attached to Mrs. Carol's casket. My mouth kept doing the fish thing, opening and closing automatically without making a single coherent sound. "I... I... I..."
"Remember what I said in the truck? You need to calm down, baby. It's all okay."
He pulled me to him, kissing me lightly on the forehead, and then came the second disturbance.
For lack of a better phrase, Mrs. Carol, in all of her polite southern manner, knocked on her coffin lid. It was a slow sound, not reaching my ears for a few seconds and not reaching my comprehension for a few more after that. And the moment it did, I promptly fainted.
It took me three years to get over her..... The scent of her over-priced perfume, the feel of her hand on mine.... And yet, the moment she calls saying she needs a huge favor from me, I come running to her side like a little boy to a brand-new action figure. I'm pathetic.
I know how I got suckered in to doing this, too. I was always her mom's favorite amongst her collection of ex-son-in-laws, and when she died, that instantly put a target on my chest. Pallbearer. The word still sends a shiver down my spine. I don't deal with death well, and carrying around a corpse equates to my idea of torture.
But, it's not as bad as it could be. The woman weighed next to nothing, and the coffee at the wake wasn't half bad, all things considered. Not being able to smoke had me on edge though, and I daydreamed in my pew during the eulogy of a cigarette to go with the cup of Community Coffee in my hand. Thankfully the minister didn't notice.
Dammit. I hate this.
The ride from the funeral home to the gravesite was long, arduous, and most of all, stressful as hell. I took the ride with my boyfriend Jim (personal epiphanies came after the divorce and in retrospect explained everything), probably the only person in this god-forsaken place that could get me to relax semi-decently. He had a hint or two as to where my stress could go.
"Baby, seriously. Chill the fuck out for a minute."
"No."
"Two seconds at least. Please?"
"Not bloody likely. You know I hate this shit," I replied, fidgeting in my seat. Jim turned to look at me with a hint of exasperation evident on his face.
"Yeah, I do. Hence the asking you to chill out. It's just a corpse! She's dead," Jim stated with finality.
"What's your point?" I asked, agitated. If there's one thing Jim was a master at, it was beating around the bush. "Spit it the fuck out."
Jim spared me a side glance from the road. "I'll tell you what my point is. You're acting like a god damned two year old about this. What's so fuckin' scary about a god damned corpse, I ask you?"
"Leave it alone, bay," I sighed. He wouldn't understand. It wasn't just the corpse, although that was a big part of it. It was the smell of the funeral home, the lavender and almond scent of old death and graveyards. The creepy old trees that shade everything in sight. The finality of death, knowing I'll never get to talk to Mrs. Carol again.
"Oooorrrrr," Jim added, drawing out the word the way a child might, "Is it the fact... Hold on..."
I turned in time to see Jim pull out a pack of Pall-Mall Lights, shake one from the pack into his lips, replace the pack, and light it with his free hand. He was from "The Great State of Texas" and not only was he damn proud of it, it showed. If I'd have tried to pull that stunt, the cabin of his 80's Ford Pickup would've been littered in Cigs.
On that thought, I pulled my own pack of Camels out from my jacket, drew one out slowly, and lit it, letting the nicotine take control of me for the first time in over an hour or so. It felt good, holding that cigarette with the numb buzz from too little smoke taking over my hand. It helped steady me for the upcoming ordeal.
"Or," Jim said, picking up where he left off, "Is it the fact that you just don't wanna see Lilly again? I know she fucked you over pretty badly, and now she's calling you up as if you're reliable? I'd've told her something real quick, me."
"I don't know, bay," I replied after taking a few drags. "I guess it just has to do with the stillness of it. She looks so alive, and yet...." I let myself trail away as I grabbed another drag. Jim looked my way from behind the wheel and shrugged. I was avoiding talking about Lilly. Thankfully, he got the hint.
"Whatever, I just think you're being stupid about it."
"Says the redneck in the bigwig suit," I teased him. I tried for some humour, but even as the last word left my mouth, I realized my tone was off. Too serious for a joke. Luckily, he took it in stride.
"Yep. Three hundred dollar bigwig suit, and don't you forget it, baby. I bought this thing especially for today and if you think I'm gonna let it go to waste after this, you've got another thing coming."
I turned to face him better from my seat. His features were dark from long days working in the sun, with laugh lines stretching across his thin face. His receding hairline was becoming more prominant as the years went by, and the normally sun-bleached hair was now flecked with grey. Too old for thirty-five.
"And what the hell do you plan on using it for after this? Plan on attending my funeral soon?" I laughed. The thought of my own mortality hadn't come to me before this, but now that it had, I couldn't help but laugh at the thought of my friends and family mourning the loss of me.
"What's so funny?" Jim asked, seeing me shake from mirth.
"I just hadn't thought of my own funeral before.... I don't think anyone would come, save for you, baby," I choked out. "Hell, my own dog wouldn't even miss me. As Robin Williams once said, he'd just lick my corpse for the salt!"
"Don't say that. You know full well that there'd be more people there than you could count," Jim said with sadness in his eyes.
"Whatever, bay," I said with indifference.
The cigarette was about done, so I took one final drag, savoring the flavor, then rolled down my window and threw my butt out onto the side of the highway. I watched the orange sparks fly from impact and realized, with a jolt, that we had to be near our destination.
"Shouldn't we be about there by now?" I asked. We were turning onto a small paved road off of the highway, flanked by wrought-iron gates that were topped with spikes and intricately crafted Fleur-De-Lis. It was a gothic sight, and yet.... I had to admire the craftmanship evident. I loved living in New Orleans.
Jim followed the line of cars in front of him, which lead him into a small and cramped Parking lot. He pulled in, put the truck in park, and turned to look at me.
"Weee're heeeere," he said, in an imitation of that creepy kid from Poltergeist. I let a small laugh escape my lips, then turned and set my face in a grim mask reflective of the fear bubbling up inside of me.
No sooner had I gotten out of the car then I was set upon by the funeral coordinator, a rail-thin man in a suit much too peppy to be for proper mourning and much too well-fitted to be off the rack. Smug bastard, I thought to myself as he took me by the upper arm and dragged me to the back of the hearst. There, he arranged me and the other Pallbearers (consisting of Lilly's younger brother Vincent and four men I had never met before and didn't particularly care to get to know now) in two rows of three each, barked out some instructions hastily, then stepped back and arranged himself in the manner of a man in deep mourning. Good actor.
We proceeded forward with the casket, walking the clumsy stumble of the pallbearer chain-gang, eventually managing to make our way to the hole in the ground tastelessly covered in bright green felt. We set Mrs. Carol down on the raised altar behind the hole and shambled back to our significant others. I gave Jim's hand a squeeze and turned to face the minister as he began the graveside service.
And just as the minister opened his mouth came the first disturbance.
Mrs. Carol's casket moved.
Not in an eerie, floating, telekinetic way, either, but it... well, there's no other way to say it but it jumped. As if something inside it were alive and wanted to get out. It wasn't overt, and I'm not even sure anybody else noticed, but I did, and it was enough to send me in to a small panic attack. Luckily, Jim noticed it starting and managed to pull me to the back of the crowd before I got deeper in to it.
"Are you okay?" he asked, still squeezing my hand with his and holding me by the shoulder with the other. His eyes were filled with concern and compassion. There was a reason I loved him.
"I just saw..." I trailed off. I couldn't even bring myself to say what I saw. Hell, I couldn't even look him in the eye; mine were still attached to Mrs. Carol's casket. My mouth kept doing the fish thing, opening and closing automatically without making a single coherent sound. "I... I... I..."
"Remember what I said in the truck? You need to calm down, baby. It's all okay."
He pulled me to him, kissing me lightly on the forehead, and then came the second disturbance.
For lack of a better phrase, Mrs. Carol, in all of her polite southern manner, knocked on her coffin lid. It was a slow sound, not reaching my ears for a few seconds and not reaching my comprehension for a few more after that. And the moment it did, I promptly fainted.
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