Thursday, March 03, 2005
a story i wrote...(long, so feel free to skip it)
(Disclaimer: I wanted to post something more substansive and feel like i have accomplished something. So here is a very short story called "The Funeral." It was written about a week ago for a class, but that is neither here not there.)
"The Funeral"
The son of a bitch in the little red sports car was fine. His car was fine. It had a few dings, but nothing major. He was standing by his car in a huff after he finished screaming at the officer for citing him for failure to maintain control of his car. As for me, I was shaking on a hill underneath a big fireman’s coat, looking at the remains of my car and trying to figure out how all this had happened.
Three witnesses stood around the officer, explaining in no uncertain terms how the man had cut each one off in traffic on his path towards me. Two of the three witnesses had pulled me out of the upside down car, later telling me they were sure they were pulling a corpse from the vehicle. The little red sports car had glanced off my left front tire, and this was just enough to roll the van a few times before it came to a rest smashed on an embankment. I don’t remember any of this, but one of the witnesses said the accident was fantastic. I wish I could have seen it, but my vantage point was somewhat akin to suddenly being dropped into a speeding roller coaster with no warning, and then coming to a sudden and rather jarring stop. Looking at the car, I was amazed. The roof had caved in over the back two benches, the windows were all smashed to hell, and anything that wasn’t welded to the body was gone. I kept the license plate, but the rest was recycled, hopefully into an urn or a casket. It would just be right that way.
Nothing seemed static. The flux behind my eyes ran over everything. I was 16. I’d had a driver’s license for about 3 months. My parents were going to be pissed. My car was dead. Curiously, I didn’t really consider my own health. I felt fine, shaken maybe, but not stirred, and I was cognizant of my surroundings. It was almost comical. Over my shoulder was a fire station, sitting on a hill overlooking the parkway. The lights shone down from tall poles, and my car lay at the edge of the circle of light. Upside down, the bent axel sent a wheel off at an odd angle. Maybe it’s trying to escape…
Before being interrupted on the way home from tennis practice, I’d been aiming to get home and shower, find a few friends with a few extra beers and the willingness to share and have a relaxing evening. I wasn’t sure what you were supposed to do after a car accident. The fireman took me back to the station; we watched an episode of Simpson’s and waited for my dad to pick me up. He arrived, looking worried, but seeing that I was OK gave me a hug and drove us home. I couldn’t really talk on the way home; I was still trying to understand what had happened. I couldn’t remember the accident, it was all hazy, and events were out of order or missing. It was frustrating, but I shook it off for a little while, figuring I’d just get on with things, minus one van of course.
Before I could work up any anger at the other guy, I had to figure out what had happened, if only to understand things a little bit more. After calming down my mother and smoking a cigarette with my brother out behind the house, I called a few friends and caught up with Mark, Jeff, Sally and Janey. I retold the story four more times, and got Janey to pick me up so we could all get together for some ceremonial healing deep in the woods. There was a spot we all used to hang out at, a place we’d meet if we happened to not be needed at school or work, kind of a hidden bend in a creek with a big boulder sitting off to one shaded bank. It was the perfect place to be, even at night. It could be cool some spring nights, but tonight was unseasonably warm, a first hint of summer riding the crest of the cool months. On the way there, Janey and I talked about what I wanted to do, and we gathered the supplies we’d need, as well as as much beer as we could locate and a few bottles of “Little Syd’s Vodka & Orange.” I’m not even sure they make that crap anymore, think two steps under Mad Dog 20/20. That bad.
At any rate, we had my license plate, a small shovel, two flashlights, the cooler, and a portable outdoor radio/CD player. Janey had a copy of “Hot Water” by Jimmy Buffett, and had already keyed up “King of Somewhere Hot.” The short walk to the creek was quiet, as we’d already learned a harsh lesson about neighborhood watch and their proclivity for law and order. Surprisingly enough, they didn’t see the humor in ten drunken teenagers throwing a late night party on a school night. That is another story entirely, and I am rambling.
Setting up by the bank of the creek, I took the shovel and began to carve a hole about two feet deep in the soft sand. It kept flooding. “Can nothing go easily tonight?” I muttered under my breath. Moving back a few feet, I managed to get good and deep into the dirt, and placed the rear plate in. Janey hit play on the CD player, and the opening steel drums began to flutter towards the rising African beat. Only the drums were audible in the evening air, and I looked around at the others, each sipping cheap wine or chugging beers, quizzical looks on the faces of Mark and Sally. ”OK y’all, shut the fuck up and let us lay it down. We have assembled at this spot to send the last remains of my van…”
Mark cut in. “It was a good van, man.”
“Thanks. Shut the fuck up Mark.” I smiled at him to let him know I was kidding, and he laughed back at me. “Gentleman and ladies of the creek, I would like to say that Mark is right. It was a good van. It was a van that, like many shitty American cars, died before its time. I would like to insert here that I think dickheads in little red sports cars should have their cars repossessed and made into beer cans, they would be less offensive to the rest of us. Can I hear an amen?”
“Amen” five voices agree. Thankfully, we don’t take ourselves too seriously, and I believed this little ceremony was going well. I knew even at the time that I wanted people laughing at my funeral, so I kept things light and mostly farcical. Maybe it’s just my way of dealing with the shit I can comprehend. Lord Buckley said “Humor is the absence of terror, and vice versa.” Looking across the hole, seeing my friends gathered for this little tribute to my dead van, I felt lucky to be alive. Feeling returned to my legs. Truth be told, I felt awake for the first time since the accident earlier. I was glad to be alive, and that is when my anger stared rising towards the other driver. This piece of shit, in such a hurry he cut off numerous people before creaming me, then telling the officer it was my fault.
The only thing that tempered my rising redness was that it was a nice evening, and like I said, the very reminder I needed from my friends was here, and not to be wasted. Empty cans and bottles were rapidly exchanged for new ones, and cigarettes started to disappear at an alarming rate. Buffett crooned on, though we exchanged “Hot Water” for “Living And Dying in ¾ Time.” As we drank, we exchanged accident stories. Each one was more explosive than the last, as drunken stories often get. At some point, we crossed the line into total crap, with Mark slurring out a story about the time he was driving a beat up 86 Grand Am, and got hit dead on by a runaway Lexus. Everyone stared at him, not believing a word of his story, until he looked up, as he lit a cigarette, and the flame outlined his wide eyes. “Yeah Drew, fuck your accident, I think I died in mine.” Bedlam and laughter everywhere. Louder shouts, “You asshole, too fucking funny.” And one of the girls chiming in “Yeah, but you shoulda seen the other guy!” More laughter, until all of a sudden, Mark grimaces and throws up into the creek. Maybe it’s time to wind down the night and head home. Maybe not, Mark seemed no worse for wear.
We gathered the remainder of our supplies and departed, the cooler lighter, the cigarette packs emptier, and the license plate three feet or so under the ground. Depositing it into the back of Janey’s car, we wandered back down a path in the woods to sober up a swing set that sat apart from the housing development. We might have been ok to get home, but no sense risking anything else tonight. Mostly, we just sat quietly scattered around the wooden monstrosity in the woods. It wasn’t foreboding, just reflective. Nothing major, more just another night. It was just another night, and I smiled inwardly and let the last of my buzz sort of settle in to that point where everything is all right, and nothing is out of place.
“Mark, how you doin? That was some professional work back there. A stranger might think you’ve had to do that before!” This got a few laughs, as this was not the first time events left Mark praying over his past.
“Just fine. We got anymore beer?” asked a suddenly revived Mark.
“Yeah, in the car, feel free.”
“Mmmm…that’s far. Can I bum a smoke?”
“Sure, if Sally feels like getting you one, I’m out.” Actually, I had two, but I wasn’t parting with my last two.
We sat in the park for the better part of an hour, relaxed, joking around, telling a few more stories, then decided to bag it and head home. I got in with Janey and Mark, Sally, and Jeff got into Jeff’s POS Camry. They took off, each one ready to pass out after what was certainly an interesting, if not advantageous, evening of funerals and triumphant returns.
“Drew, you going to class tomorrow?” asked Janey. “I got a paper due, but it ain’t done, so I was thinking of bailing and heading over to get lunch at China Buffet.”
“Hmm, now that is something I will carefully consider. I think I can use this accident to get out of a class or two, so why the hell not. I do love me some Chinese buffet.” At this point,, I was sober enough to want to pass out, but self righteous enough to justify anything as “owed to me.” Certainly, it is the last grasp of the alcohol, so it isn’t ever true, but it does feel good to say.
I got out at my house and staggered around the car to give Janey a hug before she left for home. I snuck in the back door of my house, crept into the basement and got a diet Pepsi from the minifridge. I slugged half of it and set it down on the floor. The wide comfortable couch looked almost entrancing, and as I flopped down, I turned the tv on low to relax in the warm blue glow. I stared at the ceiling and felt glad to be alive. I was almost ecstatic to be alive. All that mattered was that tomorrow, I would wake up. My neck might hurt, perhaps I would be hung over, and I might even have to go to school. But I would be alive. I passed out while Archie and Edith sang about the good old days, with a smile on my lips. I would wake up tomorrow.
"The Funeral"
The son of a bitch in the little red sports car was fine. His car was fine. It had a few dings, but nothing major. He was standing by his car in a huff after he finished screaming at the officer for citing him for failure to maintain control of his car. As for me, I was shaking on a hill underneath a big fireman’s coat, looking at the remains of my car and trying to figure out how all this had happened.
Three witnesses stood around the officer, explaining in no uncertain terms how the man had cut each one off in traffic on his path towards me. Two of the three witnesses had pulled me out of the upside down car, later telling me they were sure they were pulling a corpse from the vehicle. The little red sports car had glanced off my left front tire, and this was just enough to roll the van a few times before it came to a rest smashed on an embankment. I don’t remember any of this, but one of the witnesses said the accident was fantastic. I wish I could have seen it, but my vantage point was somewhat akin to suddenly being dropped into a speeding roller coaster with no warning, and then coming to a sudden and rather jarring stop. Looking at the car, I was amazed. The roof had caved in over the back two benches, the windows were all smashed to hell, and anything that wasn’t welded to the body was gone. I kept the license plate, but the rest was recycled, hopefully into an urn or a casket. It would just be right that way.
Nothing seemed static. The flux behind my eyes ran over everything. I was 16. I’d had a driver’s license for about 3 months. My parents were going to be pissed. My car was dead. Curiously, I didn’t really consider my own health. I felt fine, shaken maybe, but not stirred, and I was cognizant of my surroundings. It was almost comical. Over my shoulder was a fire station, sitting on a hill overlooking the parkway. The lights shone down from tall poles, and my car lay at the edge of the circle of light. Upside down, the bent axel sent a wheel off at an odd angle. Maybe it’s trying to escape…
Before being interrupted on the way home from tennis practice, I’d been aiming to get home and shower, find a few friends with a few extra beers and the willingness to share and have a relaxing evening. I wasn’t sure what you were supposed to do after a car accident. The fireman took me back to the station; we watched an episode of Simpson’s and waited for my dad to pick me up. He arrived, looking worried, but seeing that I was OK gave me a hug and drove us home. I couldn’t really talk on the way home; I was still trying to understand what had happened. I couldn’t remember the accident, it was all hazy, and events were out of order or missing. It was frustrating, but I shook it off for a little while, figuring I’d just get on with things, minus one van of course.
Before I could work up any anger at the other guy, I had to figure out what had happened, if only to understand things a little bit more. After calming down my mother and smoking a cigarette with my brother out behind the house, I called a few friends and caught up with Mark, Jeff, Sally and Janey. I retold the story four more times, and got Janey to pick me up so we could all get together for some ceremonial healing deep in the woods. There was a spot we all used to hang out at, a place we’d meet if we happened to not be needed at school or work, kind of a hidden bend in a creek with a big boulder sitting off to one shaded bank. It was the perfect place to be, even at night. It could be cool some spring nights, but tonight was unseasonably warm, a first hint of summer riding the crest of the cool months. On the way there, Janey and I talked about what I wanted to do, and we gathered the supplies we’d need, as well as as much beer as we could locate and a few bottles of “Little Syd’s Vodka & Orange.” I’m not even sure they make that crap anymore, think two steps under Mad Dog 20/20. That bad.
At any rate, we had my license plate, a small shovel, two flashlights, the cooler, and a portable outdoor radio/CD player. Janey had a copy of “Hot Water” by Jimmy Buffett, and had already keyed up “King of Somewhere Hot.” The short walk to the creek was quiet, as we’d already learned a harsh lesson about neighborhood watch and their proclivity for law and order. Surprisingly enough, they didn’t see the humor in ten drunken teenagers throwing a late night party on a school night. That is another story entirely, and I am rambling.
Setting up by the bank of the creek, I took the shovel and began to carve a hole about two feet deep in the soft sand. It kept flooding. “Can nothing go easily tonight?” I muttered under my breath. Moving back a few feet, I managed to get good and deep into the dirt, and placed the rear plate in. Janey hit play on the CD player, and the opening steel drums began to flutter towards the rising African beat. Only the drums were audible in the evening air, and I looked around at the others, each sipping cheap wine or chugging beers, quizzical looks on the faces of Mark and Sally. ”OK y’all, shut the fuck up and let us lay it down. We have assembled at this spot to send the last remains of my van…”
Mark cut in. “It was a good van, man.”
“Thanks. Shut the fuck up Mark.” I smiled at him to let him know I was kidding, and he laughed back at me. “Gentleman and ladies of the creek, I would like to say that Mark is right. It was a good van. It was a van that, like many shitty American cars, died before its time. I would like to insert here that I think dickheads in little red sports cars should have their cars repossessed and made into beer cans, they would be less offensive to the rest of us. Can I hear an amen?”
“Amen” five voices agree. Thankfully, we don’t take ourselves too seriously, and I believed this little ceremony was going well. I knew even at the time that I wanted people laughing at my funeral, so I kept things light and mostly farcical. Maybe it’s just my way of dealing with the shit I can comprehend. Lord Buckley said “Humor is the absence of terror, and vice versa.” Looking across the hole, seeing my friends gathered for this little tribute to my dead van, I felt lucky to be alive. Feeling returned to my legs. Truth be told, I felt awake for the first time since the accident earlier. I was glad to be alive, and that is when my anger stared rising towards the other driver. This piece of shit, in such a hurry he cut off numerous people before creaming me, then telling the officer it was my fault.
The only thing that tempered my rising redness was that it was a nice evening, and like I said, the very reminder I needed from my friends was here, and not to be wasted. Empty cans and bottles were rapidly exchanged for new ones, and cigarettes started to disappear at an alarming rate. Buffett crooned on, though we exchanged “Hot Water” for “Living And Dying in ¾ Time.” As we drank, we exchanged accident stories. Each one was more explosive than the last, as drunken stories often get. At some point, we crossed the line into total crap, with Mark slurring out a story about the time he was driving a beat up 86 Grand Am, and got hit dead on by a runaway Lexus. Everyone stared at him, not believing a word of his story, until he looked up, as he lit a cigarette, and the flame outlined his wide eyes. “Yeah Drew, fuck your accident, I think I died in mine.” Bedlam and laughter everywhere. Louder shouts, “You asshole, too fucking funny.” And one of the girls chiming in “Yeah, but you shoulda seen the other guy!” More laughter, until all of a sudden, Mark grimaces and throws up into the creek. Maybe it’s time to wind down the night and head home. Maybe not, Mark seemed no worse for wear.
We gathered the remainder of our supplies and departed, the cooler lighter, the cigarette packs emptier, and the license plate three feet or so under the ground. Depositing it into the back of Janey’s car, we wandered back down a path in the woods to sober up a swing set that sat apart from the housing development. We might have been ok to get home, but no sense risking anything else tonight. Mostly, we just sat quietly scattered around the wooden monstrosity in the woods. It wasn’t foreboding, just reflective. Nothing major, more just another night. It was just another night, and I smiled inwardly and let the last of my buzz sort of settle in to that point where everything is all right, and nothing is out of place.
“Mark, how you doin? That was some professional work back there. A stranger might think you’ve had to do that before!” This got a few laughs, as this was not the first time events left Mark praying over his past.
“Just fine. We got anymore beer?” asked a suddenly revived Mark.
“Yeah, in the car, feel free.”
“Mmmm…that’s far. Can I bum a smoke?”
“Sure, if Sally feels like getting you one, I’m out.” Actually, I had two, but I wasn’t parting with my last two.
We sat in the park for the better part of an hour, relaxed, joking around, telling a few more stories, then decided to bag it and head home. I got in with Janey and Mark, Sally, and Jeff got into Jeff’s POS Camry. They took off, each one ready to pass out after what was certainly an interesting, if not advantageous, evening of funerals and triumphant returns.
“Drew, you going to class tomorrow?” asked Janey. “I got a paper due, but it ain’t done, so I was thinking of bailing and heading over to get lunch at China Buffet.”
“Hmm, now that is something I will carefully consider. I think I can use this accident to get out of a class or two, so why the hell not. I do love me some Chinese buffet.” At this point,, I was sober enough to want to pass out, but self righteous enough to justify anything as “owed to me.” Certainly, it is the last grasp of the alcohol, so it isn’t ever true, but it does feel good to say.
I got out at my house and staggered around the car to give Janey a hug before she left for home. I snuck in the back door of my house, crept into the basement and got a diet Pepsi from the minifridge. I slugged half of it and set it down on the floor. The wide comfortable couch looked almost entrancing, and as I flopped down, I turned the tv on low to relax in the warm blue glow. I stared at the ceiling and felt glad to be alive. I was almost ecstatic to be alive. All that mattered was that tomorrow, I would wake up. My neck might hurt, perhaps I would be hung over, and I might even have to go to school. But I would be alive. I passed out while Archie and Edith sang about the good old days, with a smile on my lips. I would wake up tomorrow.
