by Jenn Cooksey
Still sitting in the line of cars waiting to turn, I stare across the street to the high school and the three-ring circus the media has turned Holden’s funeral into. Shaking my head and simultaneously pitching my dead smoke out the window, I click off the radio in disgust, hoping to God that was the last time I’ll have to hear the same recycled information. I mean why do news stations refurbish their stories like that? Why can’t they just say, “Yeah, we don’t have anything new to tell you, but in case you missed it, we’ll do an in a nutshell recap for you… A college kid died. That’s it. And oh yeah, his school is remembering him at such and such time, and his only living family and close friends would like to bury him in peace, so just back your shit up and don’t bug ‘em, m’kay?”
Really, if only…
Sighing, I try once more to tell myself that it would be the epitome of a dick move to bail out on attending what was supposed to be an intimate gathering of family and friends who actually knew Holden. And you know, you’d think that would be easy, but actually, I’m having a really hard time coming up with something to convince myself of doing anything other than finding the nearest TV camera and telling everyone watching at home to go fuck themselves for turning into scavengers and feeding off of Mr. and Mrs. St. James and the devastating loss of their only child like they’re fucking carrion. Honestly, this whole funeral thing has spiraled completely out of control and I know for a fact that if he had a choice, Holden wouldn’t want to be here either. Actually, I bet he’d be doing goddamned summersaults in his grave by now if he hadn’t been cremated.
His urn along with a few pictures showcasing who he was—a son, friend, athlete…stuff like that—was originally going to be the focus and at the center of his memorial service, with a handful of those of us who wanted to share memories, stories, and anecdotes about him. Then the mayor of our precious, little town and the principal of the high school got involved. They started out by encouraging Holden’s parents to move the location of the service from the small church where they were hit or miss service attendees to the high school where there’d be air conditioning and, of course, adequate seating. They seem to think that the community who supposedly loved and supported Holden most of his life is entitled to show his parents—his only real remaining family—support by coming out in faceless droves to say their goodbyes with the rest of us. I don’t know if because Holden’s parents were from Europe and he only met his grandparents and a small handful of cousins on his mom’s side once when he was a really little kid that contributed to that thinking; however it’s not like Holden was an orphan or someone living in a community that holds dear and exemplifies the motto “it takes a village to raise a child” for Christ’s sake.
Orders and donations for those big, gaudy flower arrangements were asked to be made, even though Holden hated the idea of spending money on flowers and despite the fact that his dad is allergic to most everything that blooms. One of our friends from high school had been a summer intern at a radio station after we graduated and Holden’s parents thought it would be nice and would lift that particular burden from them if he handled the music for the service, which he was honored by and wholeheartedly agreed to do when Holden’s dad showed up at Jake’s house with tears in his eyes and personally asked him for the favor. When Jake and his brother were at the school however, checking out what kind of equipment and power cords they’d need, they were told that the high school’s music director had already chosen the songs to be played and he also had the choir and band rehearsing those songs. Never mind the fact that Holden wasn’t friends with a single person in band when we were in high school in the first place, and he was never a fan of our alma mater’s fight song either, which I guess is on the program for today’s scheduled and outrageously micro-managed outpouring of support for the St. James family.
Then it was suggested that a coffin be present. A fucking empty coffin…
Evidently a secretary at one of the elementary schools had informed a local pastor that a lot of small children had started asking their teachers questions about cremation and they were starting to compare it to being burned at the stake. I guess there were some kids also asking if the people who work at crematoriums make s’mores with a dead person’s body and if there’ll be any at Holden’s funeral. So, the coffin will be there in an effort to keep at bay any possible unpleasant visual images of Holden’s body burning and any kids from making awkward or inappropriate snack requests. And I sort of get it, but come on. I know I’m not a child psychologist or expert, but even I know good parenting isn’t using a coffin to mollify the kids who are confused or afraid of cremation; talking to them is, you know?!
That was where I decided to draw a line. When the captain of this year’s varsity football team approached me last minute yesterday about being a pallbearer, I flat out refused to personally take part in this borderline offensive spectacle. I mean first of all, the guy is a douche and Holden was seriously disappointed that our coach named him Holden’s replacement after we graduated. Second, the douche told me the captains of all the boy’s varsity sports were already signed up to be pallbearers, but he was supposed to extend the opportunity to certain alumni so that no one would feel left out or have hurt feelings for not even having been asked. Basically, the people running the show were practicing a very small ounce of CYA.
I blow out a breath and decide to just suck it up when the light turns green and cars start moving forward again. Just as I’m about to clear the intersection though, I see Holden’s parents trying to make it from their reserved spot in the parking lot to the football field. They’re practically being molested by cameras and news people shoving microphones in their faces. Then I get a text from Jake asking where I am and informing me that I’m about to miss out on witnessing the craptastic in person. It’s accompanied by a short video of the varsity cheerleaders—minus Erica—in full cheer uniform, climbing on each other as they take their positions in a human pyramid while the band plays an off-key rendition of Elton John’s “Candle In The Wind,” making this probably the only time in my life someone would catch me saying that I should’ve listened to my dad and gone fishing with him instead.
Fuck. This. Shit.
I finally pull into the jam-packed parking lot but instead of combing the aisles looking for an open spot, I decide to do a burnout, making sure I flip off the news cameras that turn my way when the sound of my tires screeching and the sight of smoke from them laying down rubber takes some of the attention away from the harassed service attendees who’re only trying to get past them without having their faces and tears filmed for tonight’s broadcast of the six o’clock news. About forty-five seconds later when I’m tearing ass out of the parking lot, I get two more texts. One from Jake with only one word: Classy. And another from Brett telling me that our old auto-shop teacher, Mr. Dryden, clapped and is still smiling.
I feel like pounding my fist against my heart, making the peace sign, kissing my fingers and then raising them to the sky while declaring, “For you, bro. Peace out.” Because seriously, that shit was probably the only thing at his funeral that Holden would’ve actually enjoyed, or hell, even approved of.
I find out my public and disrespectful statement of disapproval was respected and approved of by more than just my dead best friend when my doorbell rings later that afternoon, and friend after friend, after acquaintance after friend shows up for some kind of post-can you fucking believe what an incredible travesty that was-let’s remember our buddy and say goodbye the right way-party that I was unaware my antics had invited everyone to. I mean I was just planning on sitting at home and drinking alone, but by seven o’clock, it seemed like more than half my graduating class was at my house and it was accompanied by a portion of the graduating class from the year before and this year’s as well. Regardless of the class they were representing, they were all friends of Holden’s at some point in his life and they were all disturbed by his sendoff; all of them wishing they’d had the balls to either do something
like I had or to just simply get up and walk out of the stands.
With the passing of about four hours or so, and several cases of beer and assorted bottles of wine and booze drank, things start to turn a little rowdy, making it less like a sendoff party with people coming together over the common ground of having lost a friend, and more like an after Prom keg party with idiots shot-gunning beers and picking fights over stupid shit like whether or not someone hit on someone else’s girlfriend back in tenth grade. I look at the mess that’s being made and begin predicting what my dad’s reaction would be if he were to come home right now. Starting to get irked about that and having to clean up after everyone and the evidence of their so-called mourning, I take to asking the most sober people to get the most drunk and disorderly out of my house by directing them towards the front door and saying lame things like, “Last call was three bottles of beer ago,” and, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” That girl I was standing next to in the food court when the news of Holden’s death was first announced has been following me around all night like a lost puppy, although with her and Jake’s help, the crowd begins to dwindle considerably and although I know my work isn’t done, I start to chill a little. But then, my doorbell rings…and all Hell breaks loose.
Tightly holding onto the cigarette between my lips and grabbing the bottle of beer someone opens right before they put it to their mouth, I turn to answer the door with the intention of hurling the guy who apparently doesn’t know what last call means right through it. I barely get the door open, though, and don’t even have time to digest the fact that Erica is standing on my doorstep with a big cardboard box in her arms and angry tears dripping down her face before she dumps the box on my feet and then ferociously slaps me right across the face.
“I heard what was going on tonight, but I didn’t wanna believe it! I mean what is wrong with you?! You were supposed to be his best friend, Cole! His parents saved a seat for you with us and you don’t even have the decency to show your face at his funeral?!” she screams at me, “You can’t be bothered to make time to see him when he’s in town, or get him from the airport, or to even go to his funeral, but you can throw a fucking party just so you can get wasted?! You didn’t deserve him!”
She slaps me again and then snatching the bottle from my hand, she throws it against the wall behind me. The bottle shatters and its contents run down the wall to pool on the tile floor while she continues ranting at me about how I didn’t deserve having Holden in my life, how I was a shitty best friend, and how she hates me as she pounds her fists against my chest, her tears practically pouring from her eyes to trickle down her cheeks like two rivers of heartbreak coursing parallel to one another. Feeling every hit she lands and tear she sheds in my gut and heart, I reach for her but she pulls away, shaking her head and trying to fight me off. In her attempt to keep hitting villainous me without being pulled into any kind of embrace, though, she slips on the broken beer bottle and then trips on the cardboard box, which has her hitting the ground hard, the thud of her landing being more of a thwap thanks to the puddle of Coors Light her skirted ass lands in.
With my cheek still on fire I stand here, shaking my head and staring down at the fucking disaster of a girl who has never been anything other than the Norman Rockwell image of feminine perfection. My eyes then find the cigarette she’d knocked out of my mouth sizzling itself out in beer next to her. My first cigarette came from a pack that belonged to her grandfather. It was way back when he still smoked and didn’t even know cancer would eventually kill him that Erica caught me stealing it. She never ratted me out; however from the second I lit that sucker up in front of her, she’s been at me to quit. Even though she for once didn’t bring it up, I seriously considered it the night he died and I got her mascara on my shirt. All it took was her squeezing the breath out of my lungs when she hugged me and cried while thanking me for leaving work and coming over so late so that she and her grandma wouldn’t be alone while they waited for the coroner to show up. I still regret not being there for them at his funeral. I woke up with some unidentifiable rash that I thought could’ve been contagious so I decided to not risk it. It turned out to be less than nothing.
Jesus, I suck. I can’t believe I missed a great man’s funeral and the last opportunity I would have to see Holden just because I didn’t know the difference between what measles look like and a random reaction to a stupid bar of cheap soap.
I blink the memory away and then, I start to get really pissed off. Pissed off at my dad, myself, Holden…the world. I’m pissed at everyone and everything except Erica. Erica I’m heartbroken for. She shouldn’t have to be here; she’s already had so much loss in her life and she doesn’t deserve having to deal with something like true love lost to death, and she definitely doesn’t deserve to be sprawled and sobbing in a disgraceful heap on my beer-soaked entryway while people stand around and either gawk or quietly snicker at her.
Feeling my knuckles tighten in the fists my hands have become, my eyes start looking for something or someone to punch, because this anger welling up inside of me is like a living thing and I can’t seem to shake what it’s wanting from me. Just then, Erica’s friend from that fateful day brushes against me as she moves to gingerly kneel down in front of her and in a loud voice—the volume of which isn’t warranted with maybe only a dozen or so people left in the house, all of whom became dead quiet once Erica’s hand connected with my face—she starts quizzing Erica about her coherency. She’s acting like Erica isn’t allowed to ever fall apart, not even under extraordinary circumstances, which means Erica must have literally lost her fucking mind or something to show up here and do and say the things she has.
“Erica, honey? Can you hear me? It’s me, Destiny. Do you recognize me? Sweetie, do you know where you are?”
That’s it! I’ve had it! I have literally fucking had it!!
“Alright, listen up! Party’s fuckin’ over, got it?! Everyone get the fuck outta my house!” I holler and crouch down in front of Erica, trying to gain some control of myself and unclench my fists. I look at Erica and her tears still falling. When I feel a hand begin rubbing my back a little too familiarly for the moment and my liking, and a head fall to rest against my shoulder, I remember Destiny still kneeling next me and I snap, “You too. I got this.”
“Oh, no, I should stay here tonight and help you with h—” Destiny tries interjecting.
“No, seriously. I got this and I want some alone time with my girl tonight,” I reiterate, but really, I just don’t want this Destiny chick pawing at me anymore, let alone making herself at home in my house, and she sure as shit isn’t sleeping here.
Besides, Erica showed up here for a reason and I think I’m safe in guessing it was because she needs to be a train wreck with someone who won’t try to fix her or tell her that everything will be okay and that she’ll eventually find another guy who’ll love her just as much if not more than Holden did, even though that’s probably the truth. And the reason I think I’m safe in knowing why she came here is because even though we’ve never technically been BFFs, she and I have history.
We basically grew up together. I spent most of my early childhood, school breaks, and summer vacations at her house being babysat by her grandma while my dad was at work. I didn’t really mind not being at a boy’s house, though. Her grandma liked to bake so their house always smelled like fresh bread or cookies, and plus, Erica was cool for a girl. She’d always ditch her Barbies to play with my little, plastic army men with me, and if she was awake when I showed up at her house bright and early with bed-head and morning breath, Erica always looked happy to see me, never once making a disgusted face after hugging me good morning and being simultaneously blasted with what I can only assume were fumes that smelled similar to gasoline coming from my mouth. My dad and Erica’s grandparents never harassed me about my slovenly appearance either because they knew it was all I could do at that age to just drag my sleepy butt out of bed at five in the mo
rning and exchange my warm pajamas for a pair of Tough Skins and a t-shirt. Although after being fed a well-rounded breakfast that often included things like biscuits and gravy made from scratch, I was always bustled off to the bathroom with Erica to comb out the tangles in my hair and clean my chompers with the toothbrush her grandma kept for me.
Erica’s also been there to see me cry about my dad when I was still young enough for his dictatorship to produce my tears, and she’s heard me bitch and gripe about him I don’t even know how many times since the tears stopped falling. And of course, let’s not forget the two and a half years she’s spent dating my best friend and making him happy. So while we might’ve grown apart, and we really don’t hang out in the same circles anymore since Holden and I graduated, leaving alone the fact that she and I were never exactly the kind of friends who share as they happen news reports of every minute detail of our lives with one another, we are still good, reliable friends to each other when it matters. She knows she can fall apart on me and actually do some ugly, yet necessary grieving that can only be done with reckless abandon; something that if it were me, I probably wouldn’t feel comfortable doing in front of most everyone else. Essentially, she knows I can be her safety net if she needs me to be.
Destiny stands up to leave and I stop measuring the distance of how far back Erica and I go just in time to catch what suspiciously appears to be a look of jealousy flash across the lost puppy’s face when her eyes go to my childhood buddy. I swallow hard, digesting my anger as much as humanly possible and try to not grind my teeth together too audibly. Looking back to Erica, though, I let out a breath, feeling even more sure about her reasons for being here and acting out the way she had.
She’s slumped against the wall with one leg sort of bent underneath her and the other jutting out to the side, her black skirt shoved as far up her thighs as the fit will allow it to go with only one seam ripped a couple of inches; and the sight that produces knowledge of the fact that her dark gray nylons are really only thigh-highs held up by lace garters would be sexy as fuck…that is if the hose themselves weren’t torn and running, but they are and they’re also revealing a small scratch on her knee and a red welt rising just above it. Her hair is hanging in a sloppy and knotted up ponytail with thick strands wet from a mixture of hops, barley, and tears sticking to her face, the carnage a result of when the demure bun I’m guessing she wore to Holden’s funeral was destroyed in her outraged attack of me. Her makeup has gone from subtly highlighting her ocean blue eyes and delicate bone structure to giving her facial features an overall appearance of devastation as streaks of black mascara and navy blue eyeliner continue to follow the tracks her tears have taken, reminding me of tire tread marring the glistening asphalt of a racecourse; the only visible evidence left of a high speed war that was waged, fought, and lost…one that ended with the car and driver both being utterly demolished.
