Glad One: Starting Over is a %$#@&! (Val & Pals Book 2)

by Margaret Lashley

  “One hell of a day,” Wally and Jorge echoed in unison, then sighed like lovelorn losers. Though the two acted as a pair, they were actually as opposite as bookends. Wally was a fat, loud-mouthed, short-tempered, uber-freckled redneck. Jorge was a deep, dark mystery of quiet contemplation inhabiting the form of a lean, caramel-skinned Hispanic.

  The idea of associating with these remnants of men caused a marble-sized knot of panic to lodge just below my larynx. Light years from familiar territory, I imagined myself a kind of urban Jane Goodall studying a tragic subspecies of homo erectus. Homo rejectus, perhaps? But like a good anthropologist, I swallowed hard and got the marble down. After all, truth be told, I really didn’t have any place else to go or anything better to do.

  “We need a gaul-dang toast!” bellowed pig-bellied Wally, jerking up from his slump like he’d been stuck with a pin. I had to commend him. Wally was actually wearing a shirt today. No sleeves and a hole where his left nipple peeked out, but a bona fide shirt nonetheless.

  “Jes. A toast,” echoed thin, sad-faced Jorge, his eyes brightening at the prospect. Judging from the bulge in the pocket of his faded Hawaiian shirt, Jorge had brought along an amigo from the liquor store this morning. Pocket rocket. Oh boy.

  The men raised their scuffed brown coffee mugs in their right hands, then placed their left hands over their hearts. It appeared to be some well-worn ritual with them. Still numb with shock, I followed their lead. When everyone was in position, Jorge made two sharp clicks out of the side of his mouth. Apparently, that was the signal for us to raise our mugs toward the center of the table until they all clunked together.

  “Fuck you, Kiddo!” the men belted out over the dull clinking of plastic on plastic.

  I blinked back a bittersweet blush of memories as I watched the men take solemn, misty-eyed glances at each other like soldiers of some distant, yet never-to-be-forgotten war. I was familiar with the skirmish. Survival of the fittest. I was becoming a veteran of it myself. The sudden realization of my close camaraderie with them curdled my stomach and made me glance around the diner self-consciously. The dump was empty except for us, so I knew the dirty looks from the waitress in her ugly brown uniform were for our benefit alone.

  Mornings spent gulping down complementary Water Loo’s coffee refills looked to be the high point of the day for these guys. I hoped I wouldn’t suffer the same fate. With the toast to dearly departed Glad over, all three collapsed back into the booth like sacks of unwashed potatoes. They appeared to lose themselves in the thoughts that plague people with too much time on their hands. Booze? Sex? Regrets?

  As for me, I let my unemployed writer’s mind sink to a new low, just like my ass in that dilapidated booth. I amused myself by giving the guys a secret pet name – the three Stooges. After all, they really were stooges. And there really were three of them. Hell, one of them was even named Stu. I knew it was an easy joke. But hell. Sometimes fish in a barrel needed shooting.

  “So what are we going to do about Glad?” I tossed the question out to no one in particular.

  Goober looked up from his coffee cup. “Oh. We already held that meeting.”

  “Really? So what’s the plan?”

  “We all voted that you should take care of it,” said Goober. Then he smashed a cockroach on the table with his bare hand.

  Chapter Seven

  In Florida, people died in droves from the heat, old age, exhaustion and suicide. Bodies stacked up like cordwood in summer, and cold storage was prime real estate. I was hoping to put these facts to my advantage when I called the county morgue. At our Water Loo’s summit, the Stooges and I had agreed it would seem less creepy if a woman tried to claim Glad’s body. So I thought up a cover story and made the call.

  “Hello, I’m calling about the woman brought in yesterday,” I said, not knowing where to begin a conversation like this.

  “Which one?” asked a man’s deep, raspy voice.

  “An older lady. Silver-white, short hair?”

  “Lady, you just described half of Pinellas County.”

  “Oh. Ummm…”

  “You got a name, by chance?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes. Glad…uhh…Gladys.”

  The line was silent for five seconds. “You really gonna make me ask for the last name?”

  “Oh! Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t know her la…I mean…she came in as a Jane Doe. I’m her niece.” Shit! I almost blew it!

  “Okay, that narrows it down to six, maybe ten I got at the moment. Any identifying marks? Scars? Tattoos?” he asked wearily.

  “I don’t think so. Oh. Wait. She’s wearing a green bathing suit. Does that help?”

  “Aww, yeah. Tanned like a leather wallet? I know the one,” said Mr. Sensitivity.

  “What do I have to do to claim her body?”

  “Come in and fill out a form.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  I jumped in the Sprint and hit the gas. I was at the county morgue before the phone got cold.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” a man asked when I walked in the door.

  I recognized the voice. The guy on the phone was the clerk on duty. It made sense.

  “Hi. I think I was just talking to you about Gladys?”

  “Hmmm?” he asked, scratching his ear. He was younger than he’d sounded on the phone, and his eyes were the same piercing, ice-water blue that Glad’s had been.

  “Green bathing suit?” I prompted.

  “Oh yeah. Crocodile hide!” The man’s goatee and grin made him look devilish, but in all the right ways.

  I nodded and did my best to smile.

  “I just got off the phone with you, right?”

  “Right. I’m Gladys’s niece. I’m here to make arrangements for her remains.”

  “You got a picture ID for her? Driver’s license?”

  Crap! I faked going through the motions of searching my purse for them. “Oh no! I must have left them at home!”

  The devilishly cute guy eyed me, his face emotionless except for a slight uptick of the eyebrows. “Is this going to be delivery or to go?”

  “What?”

  “What do you plan to do with the body?” he asked, tapping a finger on the counter.

  “Oh. I want her sent to Grabb’s Funeral Home. For cremation,” I said.

  That seemed to satisfy something in him. He gave a quick nod, grabbed a form from a pile and handed it to me. “I’m going to need to see your driver’s license.”

  I handed it over.

  “Okay,” he said. “Look, I’ll do you a favor, since you’re sending her to Grabb’s. Just fill out the form with her vitals as best you can remember them. Just make sure your contact information is accurate. That way, if anybody comes asking questions, we’ll have you on file. I’m going to need to make a copy of your license.”

  I nodded. He photocopied my license along with the form. “Sorry about your loss,” he said as he slid my license back across the counter.

  “Thanks.”

  “No, really. Sorry about the morbid humor. It’s just that this job is incredibly desensitizing. You wouldn’t believe how many people never get picked up. I’m glad your aunt isn’t going off to unclaimed freight.” He slapped himself on the forehead. “Oops! Sorry again.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “My Aunt Glad always told me there is no situation you can’t find the humor in if you look hard enough. I think she would have found your comments a real hoot.”

  The thought of Glad cackling out a laugh made me feel better. I picked up my driver’s license and my copy of the form. I had substituted my own last name for Glad’s unknown one. Gladys Fremden, born the day she died. That was one irony I didn’t stop to savor.

  ***

  The mortician at Grabb’s was more than happy to take Glad and the money required for her cremation. I was grateful and relieved he did. I gave him Glad’s case number assigned by the morgue and he said he would take care of everything. He tried to guilt me int
o buying a fancy coffin, but I told him basically he couldn’t get caviar from a can of pinto beans. He sniffed and informed me she’d be ready for pick-up at the end of the week. I gave him my cell number and made an appointment for Friday morning.

  I drove back to my apartment and crept inside. Even though Glad had never visited me there, the place I called home seemed emptier somehow. I cracked open a Fosters I’d picked up on the way home and toasted my dearly departed friend. “Fuck you, Kiddo,” I said, then stared at the cellphone image of Glad in her lounger, shooting me her red-lipped, clown-faced smile. It was the only picture I had of her. When this picture is gone, will there be anything left of her at all? “Fuck me,” I whispered. Then I just let go of trying to be brave and strong. I broke down and let the pain wash over me, warm and wet and aching to my bones.

  ***

  Without my drinking buddy and confidant, I tried to return to my solo act. But in the wake of so much laughter, quiet contemplation had lost a great deal of its appeal. In fact, the next four days drifted along as empty and aimless as a paper bag on a windy desert street. Once or twice I thought about going to Sunset Beach, but I just couldn’t muster up the courage. One eternity and half a gallon of gin later, I woke up on the couch to discover it was Friday. Finally.

  I got myself presentable and drove to Caddy’s to get the donations from the Mr. Peanut container. The breakfast crowd was thin, so I took the opportunity to pull the bottom stopper out of Mr. Peanut and shake out his innards on the counter by the cash register. Norma, the tough, mannish lead waitress, helped me count out the dollar bills and change. Since Monday, the good people of Caddy’s had stuffed $547.36 into Mr. Peanut for Glad’s cremation/memorial fund.

  “Let me make that right for you,” Norma said matter-of-factly. I think she was afraid she’d break down if she said more. She opened the register and counted out $550.00 in twenties and a ten. She handed them to me and said, “Thanks. You’re a good egg.” She shot me a quick, tight-lipped smile and walked determinedly to the ladies room.

  I tucked the money in my purse and walked back to my car feeling as used up and unwanted as an empty tequila bottle. To keep my mind off Glad, I did mortician math. The bill for cremation in a cardboard container had come to $635.00. I was prepared to pony up the rest… eighty-five bucks. Ouch! Still, I felt more honored than burdened to cover the shortage, even though my bank account was shriveling faster than a spider on a hot stove. I pulled out of Caddy’s and drove through thick clouds of sunbaked memories all the way to Grabb’s Funeral Home.

  ***

  I don’t know why beige and chocolate brown seemed to be the favorite color palate of funeral homes. Grabb’s was no exception. I walked inside the unremarkable building and into an even less remarkable lobby. I was greeted by beige walls, a fake potted palm and a woman at a dark brown desk wearing a cream-colored dress. Maybe proprietors thought any use of color would set grieving people off. I guess nobody ever went ballistic over beige.

  “I’m here to pick up Gladys Fremden’s cremains,” I explained to the lady.

  “Cash or credit?” she asked, glancing up from her computer screen.

  The answer “cash” made her smile. Once the bills had traded hands, she disappeared behind a darker beige door. A minute later, the mortician, a thin, bald man dressed in a dark brown suit, appeared and shook my hand with the cold, five-fingered fish at the end of his arm.

  “Into what would you like to put the cremains?” he asked. “We have a biodegradable Ocean Scatter Tube for the value price of just $135.00.”

  A hundred and thirty five bucks for a cardboard toilet-roll tube? Unbelievable! I didn’t have the time or energy to argue. So I just said, “I’ve got my own container,” and made a quick run back to my car. Mr. Peanut to the rescue once again.

  I handed the piggybank to the mortician guy. To his credit, he didn’t even blink. He took Mr. Peanut through the dark-beige door and returned a few minutes later. He handed me a noticeably heavier Mr. Peanut and dismissed me with a simple, “Good day to you.”

  When I stepped outside the funeral home with Glad in my arms, I felt weirdly giddy, like she and I had just pulled off a robbery and were making a clean getaway together. I looked at the container and grinned. I knew Glad wouldn’t mind taking a ride in Mr. Peanut. But I thought that maybe Winky, Goober and Jorge would. So I put the piggybank and his stomach full of Glad on the seat next to me and took off in search of a drugstore to buy a nice, gold-foiled gift box. After all, I could say Glad was like a gift. As good as gold. I knew it was corny. But lots of simple folks liked corny. And, ironically, most rednecks didn’t even get corny.

  I spotted a drugstore on the corner of Gulf Boulevard and 107th and was in and out with the box in my hand in under five minutes. Even so, with the top down, I’d given the July sun plenty of time to turn the Sprint’s red pleather seats into molten lava. I was wearing a sundress, and as I slid into the bucket seat I felt my thighs start to sizzle.

  “Yow!” I was busy adding a few choice, four-letter words to my conversation with the car seat when something stopped me mid-curse. I realized the seat next to me was empty. Mr. Peanut was gone! I searched the floorboards. Nothing. I scrambled over the backseat for a look. Empty. Shit! Some asshole has heisted Glad’s cremains! Her memorial was in less than an hour and I had gone and lost Glad’s final fucking remains!

  “Fucking A!” I screamed into the parking lot.

  A fat woman stuffed into a pink polyester shirt and shorts walked by looking like a bipedal pig with a wig. She stared at me as if she’d just smelled a rat’s ass.

  “Maybe she did. Maybe she likes rat asses.”

  That voice inside my head was back. Was it Glad…or was it my lonely heart saying what I thought she would say? As I debated with myself, pig-woman hoisted her fat butt into a white minivan. She backed out of her parking space and shot me that look again.

  “Maybe she’s got a van full of rat asses. Sells ’em on eBay.”

  I wanted to snicker but I was in a bit of a jam. Okay, whoever you are, shut up! I don’t have time for this! Think of something, Val!

  I was about to panic when an idea hit me like a squirt of warm bird shit. I peeled out of the parking lot and made a beeline for the public parking lot at St. Pete Beach. I lurched Maggie into a space and cut the ignition. I grabbed the gold box, snatched a colander I use for sorting shells out of the trunk, and sprinted toward the barbeque grills. There were five grills in total, each about the size of a briefcase and soldered onto thick metal pipes about three feet tall. They were ugly but indestructible, and marred the beauty of public parks throughout Florida.

  After sieving through the ashes from four grills, I’d scraped together about two cups of whitish-grey powder. I had no idea how much cremains I should have, but the amount seemed kind of skimpy to me. The fifth grill was in use. A guy dressed in nothing but a blue banana hammock and ball cap was grilling chicken wings. What the hell. I decided to give it a try.

  “Hey, you got any ashes I can have? I use them to grow tomatoes.”

  “Nope, sorry,” he answered, flipping over some wings that looked as if they were on the verge of becoming cremains themselves.

  “Thanks anyway.” I turned and walked back to the car. I was about to crank the ignition when wing dude came running toward me. Not a pretty sight.

  “Hey lady, wait! I forgot!” he said, out of breath from a twenty-yard sprint. “I still have the bag of ashes I dumped when I cleaned the grill before I used it.” He tossed me a beige plastic grocery bag with what looked to be about another two cups of ashes inside. Score!

  “Thanks a bunch!”

  “No problem. Hope your tomatoes do good.”

  “Yeah. Thanks again. Enjoy your wings!”

  I dumped the ashes in the gold box and clapped on the lid, then glanced at my cellphone. Shit! The service was supposed to start in 15 minutes. I peeled out, dual glass packs rumbling as I headed south on Gulf Boulevard toward Sunset Bea
ch.

  ***

  The parking lot at Caddy’s was crammed, but the attendant knew I was coming and had left a space open for me. I was surprised at how many people were there for the memorial. Probably a good hundred. I handed the gold box of cremains off to Goober, who looked mighty relieved to see me.

  “That was cutting it close, Val,” he said. He nervously smoothed his moustache down with his thumb and index finger. Goober had dressed for the occasion in the uniform of a burnout – a wife-beater t-shirt and impossibly baggy grey shorts that hung low on his waist and covered his knees.

  “You have no idea.”

  “I was beginin’ to thank you run off with the money, Val,” Winky said sarcastically. He shoved me on the shoulder and shot me a dirty look.

  “Sorry to shake your confidence in me, Winky. I ran into some technical difficulties.” I was contemplating getting peeved when Jorge interrupted.

  “Val! Good to see you!” The poor Latin man looked even more relieved to see me than Goober. “I was getting worried. I don’t want to lose another friend.”

  Jorge smiled shyly and offered me his arm. Besides handshakes and haircuts, I hadn’t been touched by a male human being in the better part of a year. Taking Jorge’s arm felt weird, but a good kind of weird. It made me feel lighter somehow. We walked arm-in-arm down to the beach and joined the crowd. It was a few minutes before 5 p.m. and at least half the people there already had a good buzz going. Jorge offered me a slug from his pocket flask, but it was whiskey. I didn’t do whiskey. One of my low-life standards.

  The air cracked with the sound of someone tapping on a microphone. In the silence afterward, a familiar voice said, “Okay, ever-body, listen up.”

  Winky. He was going to lead the eulogy. I settled in. This ought to be good.

  “I wrote a pome ’bout Miss Glad,” Winky continued. He cleared his throat, then spoke slowly, with a scholarly hillbilly affectation. “I call it, I Miss Glad. It goes like this: