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And The Forest Will Grow
Rich Mallery
Louis Christian either had tons of friends or an army of enemies who needed to see he was dead with their own eyes because the main room of the Johnson and Murphy Funeral Home was filled to capacity. There were so many teary eyes, it was nearly impossible to find an empty folding chair anywhere near tonight’s special guest. I arrived early, so luckily I was able to land some real estate towards the back of the room. Otherwise I’d have to hug one of the walls and be forced to make inane conversation with some boring stranger.
I couldn’t tell you if Louis Christian was young or old, if he was handsome or if he was a total train wreck. He could’ve been cardboard-thin or a bloated whale with high blood pressure and lungs covered in tar. I couldn’t tell you what celebrity he resembled and I had no idea whether or not he sported a full head of hair. He could’ve been the guy at the deli who always screwed up my order for all I knew.
Not that I cared anyway. I couldn’t see the coffin from my seat and I had zero desire to wait on the line that wrapped around the room to check out the display. Louis Christian, I came, but chances are I wasn’t going to pay my last respects tonight. Or at least to pretend to pay my last respects.
I had been to hundreds of wakes and it was always the same. Whether it was businessmen in designer suits cocking off against each other, or the black sheep sitting alone in thrift store polyester who couldn’t wait to rush home and jerk off thinking about his older sister, I’ve seen it all. Whether it was the widow faking tears to be the star of the show, or the gold-digging, trophy wife pretending that she wasn’t fucking the estate attorney, trust me, I’d been there and done that.
I’d seen hundreds of corpses, hundreds of faces caked with powder, their cheeks flushed up with rose blush, hundreds of conservative-blue dresses, hundreds of families fighting over who was going to front the bill to tack more reward points onto their credit card. I’d been a member of a hundred different audiences, every one of them prison-full of insecure jerkoffs shoving their perfectly pressed suits and their hundred dollar hairdos in everyone’s face; relatives who couldn’t remember each other’s names forcing the same fake hugs; everyone smiling and sighing at the designated times; pretending to listen to the same speech by the same priest about how the deceased “was a kind man,” or “a loving husband” or “a caring father.” The only thing more overpowering than the flowers and aftershave was the stink of dishonesty.
I’d mourned for overweight insurance salesmen who choked on pizza crust. I’d mourned for prom kings who drunk drove their sports cars off of overpasses. The fireman who burnt to a crisp trying to pull a four year old out of a burning crack den. He was last week. The teacher who caught a stray bullet trying to break up a gang-fight in the cafeteria. That was two Mondays ago. Did you read that story in the paper about single father of three who was crushed by a forklift? I saw him sent off one month ago tonight.
I’d mourned for grandmas with bodies hollowed out from cancer. I’d mourned for small business owners, doctors, charity workers and dog walkers. I’d mourned for hundreds of decent, honest people, who worked hard their whole lives. The type of people that had armies of loved ones lining up to say goodbye. Death will always be the ultimate popularity contest.
Saturday night? I’d love to, but I have Dave Anderson’s wake.
Of course not everyone lived the life of sainthood purity. I’d mourned for martyrs, but I’d also worked wakes for people who had more than a few undesirable jobs on their resumes. The Johnson and Murphy Funeral Home was a business and didn’t discriminate. Some of the guests of honor were child molesters or date rapists. Some were men who beat their wives and they still packed the house. Who the corpse was in life didn’t matter, what mattered was who was paying for the after-dinner. Whether you were a saint or a sinner, once you were in the box, you were nothing more than a cheap Thanksgiving centerpiece. You were a penciled in box on someone’s day planner.
I leaned back and rested my hands in my lap. The metal folding chair squeaked and dug uncomfortably into my back every time I switched positions. Next to me a middle-aged couple argued over who was going to pick up the dry-cleaning tomorrow. They were talking through their teeth. They couldn’t be more blatantly miserable.
The air conditioner only blasted for ten minutes at a time. When it wasn’t on, the air quickly turned stale and if you were sitting in the back, away from the flowers and perfumed-bathed corpse, you would literally choke on the stench of deodorant. It was torture, but if you wanted to remain inconspicuous and didn’t want to draw attention, you had to sit as far away from the main attraction as possible.
I rubbed away the thin line of sweat on my forehead with my sleeve and scanned the room till I found my mark.
Jonathan was standing against the back wall punching numbers into his cell phone. He shifted his weight on his back foot and shoved his hands into his pleated dress pants. The cuffs over his polished Italian shoes were both folded in perfectly proportioned rectangles. His watch rattled on his wrist as he adjusted the knot of his tie. His discomfort was so obvious he might as well have it pinned to the sleeve of his starched shirt.
His eyes wandered the room for a distraction until they met mine. I arched my eyebrows and smiled. He smiled back and nervously jangled the keys in his sports jacket pocket. I motioned to the empty seat next to me and he clumsily sat down. He stunk like a locker room, the scent of ball sweat and old socks.
“It’s such a shame,” I started, “Dying so young. My name’s Rich, by the way. I feel like such a stranger here. I never realized how many people Louis touched.”
“You shouldn’t feel like a stranger. It’s mostly family here. I’m Jonathan.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jonathan” I said, shaking his clammy hand. “How do you know the deceased?”
“He’s my second cousin. Well, he was anyway.”
“My condolences for your loss.”
“No need. I barely knew him. I’m here for family obligations. You know how it is. Miss one wake or christening and you’re on the shit list.”
“So this whole room is your family?”
“Basically. There are a few people I’ve never seen before, but I’ll be having Christmas dinner with most of this crowd next month.”
“What’s that like? Having such a large family?”
“It has its perks. Like if I ever need something like a mechanic or a lawyer, chances are I’m related to one. It’s comforting to know you’re always taken care of.”
“You’re so lucky. I never had much of a family.”
“You’re not related to Louis at all? I was going to say I don’t recall seeing you at any of our fun family functions.”
“Nope. Not related. I know Louis from work.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Louis. He could’ve been a heart surgeon for all I know. What do you do? A heart surgeon’s assistant?”
“Unfortunately not,” I laughed. “I’d have a much more expensive suit. No, my job doesn’t save lives, but it’s still rather exciting. I work with people.”
“Like customer service?”
“Something like that.”
“You don’t seem like one of those types who sits in a cubicle all day, wearing a headset.”
“I’m glad you think so. I always picture an over-weight bored housewife from the Midwest with a number-one Mom coffee mug on her desk having those types of jobs.”
“And a bunch of photos of her ugly family taped to the corner of her monitor.”
“Exactly.”
“I work in the stock market,” he said. He stroked his chin and tried to appear like he wasn’t trying to impress me, like he was only making innocent conversation and not trying to get in my pants.
“That’s interesting,” I said, playing along.
“Not really.”
“I know. I was lying.”
Ten minutes later, Jonathan was on his knees, giving me sloppy head in the men’s room stall. I tugged ferociously at his Manhattan-salon haircut. I threw my head back and moaned, anything to sell the performance. If I caught him glancing up, I immediately rolled my eyes ecstatically.
His teeth grazed the side of my cock as he bobbed. He was devoid of any sort of rhythm and I had to shove down on the top of his head to direct him. I closed my eyes and thought about car crashes and gang rapes, nine-inch black dildos, electric shock treatments- anything to get me through this amateur blowjob.
I counted to five hundred and then decided it was time for the finale. I tapped him on the shoulder and he looked up at me, panting and out of breath. He let go of my piece and I finished over the toilet bowl. I’d done this so many times I could probably snap my fingers and make myself come. Without any lust, sex was really nothing more than getting from point A to point B.
Jonathan stood and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He fisted a handful of his pants and grunted a celebratory grunt. His face shined with that smirk a four year old wears when he shits himself.
“That was intense,” he huffed.
We stepped out of the stall and he rinsed under the faucet. I adjusted my collar in the mirror and tucked in my shirt. Jonathan swirled a mouthful and spit it down the drain. He pulled a plastic comb from his back pocket and fixed the part on the left side of his head.
“I usually don’t do this,” he confessed, “I hope you don’t get the wrong idea about me. I’m not gay if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I wasn’t and I honestly don’t care.”
“I mean it. I’m not gay.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not either. This had nothing to do with sexual orientation.”
“Cool, as long as we’re clear on that.”
“Crystal.”
“This was just one of those things.” Jonathan squirted gel into his hands and molded his hair back into place. A checkerboard of acne covered his forehead. He covered it with uneven bangs. “A spur of the moment occurrence. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Nothing at all.”
“I’ve slept with tons of chicks. All tens. You wouldn’t believe the trim I’ve ran through.”
“Since we’re confiding in each other, can I tell you something?”
“I guess.” Jonathan shrugged. His reflection rolled his eyes. “Wait,” he spit, his tone filling abruptly with hostility. “If you tell me you have an STD, I’m going to smash your face in.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“That’s a relief. I almost lost it there.”
“No, I should be clean. You don’t have too worry about that. What I wanted to tell you is that I lied to you. I’ve never worked with Louis Christian.”
“What?”
“I’ve never met the guy. I couldn’t even pick him out of a lineup.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“How much?” I asked his reflection.
“What do you mean, ‘How much?’ This was fun, but now you’re starting to get a little creepy.”
“I’m serious. How much?”
“You’re gonna pay me?” he laughed, “I’m flattered. I know I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
“No, you’re misunderstanding. I mean how much was that worth to you?”
“O.k. Now you’re totally weirding me out. Are you sick in the head or something?”
“Sick? Sick would be blowing a stranger in a funeral home men’s room while my entire family’s mourning a few feet away. But that’s my opinion. Maybe you have a different definition about what’s sick.”
“I think I should leave.”
“I disagree.”
I stood firmly in his way and blocked the doorway. Jonathan nervously laughed and tried to pass. I grabbed the elbows of his sports coat and forced him against the countertop. He squirmed and I shoved my knee below his crotch, holding him in place. He was more solid than me and much stronger, but I had an advantage. I was the predator and I didn’t give a fuck.
“In the future you probably should choose your partners more carefully,” I warned. “Now since you refuse to negotiate a fair price, I’m going to ask nicely, please hand over your wallet.”
“You’re mugging me?”
“No, I’m not a thief. I’m a salesman and this is a simple transaction. You’re buying something from me. You’re buying my silence. You’re going to give me whatever money you have, and I’m going to keep my mouth shut about our little liaison in here.”
“Yeah, right. Who are you going to tell?”
“Everyone out there. Your hysterical Aunt Shelia. Your favorite Uncle Tony. Mommy and daddy and all your little nieces and nephews. They’re all going to find out that you’re a depraved cocksucker who sucked dick at his second cousin’s funeral.”
“They’ll never believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter. Once I plant the seed, you’d be amazed how quick the forest will grow. In ten minutes that room will be wild with redwoods. I’ll turn this place into the fucking Amazon.”
“I dare you. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m going to fall for this.”
“You don’t have to trust me. In fact, trust is what threw you into this mess in the first place. You don’t have to trust me, but you do have to listen. Think about the situation for a minute. Think about it real clearly. But make up your mind fast. My patience is thinner than an AIDS patient.”
“Fuck you.”
“That will cost extra.” I loosened my grip and touched the corner of his eye. I traced the forming tear in a line down his cheek. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back out there to pay my last respects to the departed. Your wallet, please.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“A joke? Damn, you figured it out. Smile, you’re on candid fucking camera. Now you should probably stop wasting time. The longer we stay in here, the easier it will be to spread my story. Do you think mom and dad are wondering where you are yet? How long till they send out a search party? If you think they’re not out there wondering where you are and checking your family gathering time card you’re more naîve than I thought.”
Jonathan started to cry. If it was an attempt to win my sympathy, to tug on my heartstrings, he was out of luck. We’d already come this far. Jesus Christ himself wouldn’t be able to change my mind.
A pit viper doesn’t care if you help the homeless. It doesn’t care if you call your mother on her birthday. It doesn’t care if you volunteer to build hospitals in Africa or if you read to cripples. You could be the Queen of fucking England, if you enter its lair, you’re gonna get bit.
I held out my hand. I could see his brain working, punching numbers, and gauging the odds. His face flush with fear, he finally realized he was in the presence of a monster, something that he never crossed paths with during his sheltered life. I could hear the piss trickling down his pant’s leg.
“Would you rather I take it from you?”
I grabbed the collar of his dress shirt and pulled, snapping the top two buttons. They rattled on the floor by our feet. He looked one last time in my eyes and saw something that would haunt him the rest of his life. Not sure what that something was, but it was enough. Jonathan pulled out his wallet and emptied it into my palm.
Three hundred and forty-seven dollars and a gram of blow. Not bad for a Tuesday night.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” I said. “Since you have such a large family, I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
In the main room, the crowd was starting to thin, but it didn’t matter. If I wanted to take my turn standing in front of the coffin, pretending to pray or say some rehearsed kind words; I would only have to wait behind a handful of people. But I didn’t. Next door, in the smaller, but no less full room, people were lining up to pay their last respects to George Reynolds, a high school guidance counselor. The crowd would be mostly teachers and principals, and would hopefully include a few who didn’t have tenure yet and couldn’t handle a career scandal.
I stepped into the room and searched for my next mark.
