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Flawed cadaver

Greg G. Zaino

    Bobby was fond of beer and Irish whiskey; courted it with enthusiasm, and puffed cigarettes by the handful. We shared years of the drink and laughter. The thing in the box, my old amigo’s carcass, was sleeping, speechless. My friend, stilled as silence- was used up at his own sendoff.
    They said it was him; the flawed cadaver in the box; my old friend from childhood on, but it wasn’t. The substitute didn’t utter a single, “fuck- shit, or asshole.” But blasphemy by no means his thing. No, Bobby was Irish catholic, respected the cloth- never took god, the father’s name in vain. I was amused with his stance on drawing the line with when it came to religion. We didn’t share any common ground on matters involving schizophrenic creators, so we two agreed to not spoke about it.
    The dead do not speak- not in words. Bobby had something to tell everybody, but I doubt any were listening. There was no need to query about Bobby’s end. It was hard enough bearing the weight of his death. It was irritating the fuck out of me to hear folks whisper on about inevitability and of course, his choice of employing the use of nylon rope.
    The queer sat up front- lip quivering, weeping, eyes leaking. His anguish seemed genuine enough- dabbing at runaway tears with tissue. I’m standing there mystified, watching the drama unfold. Listening to Bobby’s bereaved family members, the same ones who had disowned him 11 years prior, I felt like running from the chapel. Hearing all the counterfeit sorrow and boasts of past affection for the dear, decaying departed, just pissed me the fuck off. I wanted to throw up.
    The greeters at the door to the chapel were ever ready, so helpful- fright night butlers, solemnity, their mask. I witnessed a theatrical performance with ghastly actors playing morbid parts in a play of death, all the while passing out scented Kleenex and nifty little bookmarks made with the dead man’s obituary and sealed in plastic. Who were they kidding? Part time work for an easy buck is more like it. Their true aspirations lay elsewhere.
    The mortician was pale like death and had a nasal sound to his voice. He was a gruesome looking creature and I speculated whether he ever screwed a corpse. His skin had a waxy sheen to it- made him look like a dope sick junkie with hepatitis. He was in the service of death incorporated and looked the part.
    The queer dropped to his knees beside the casket and vibrated. Bobby looked ten years younger without his beard, long oily hair, and open pores on his nose. Make-up did wonders. Best I’d seen him in years, never saw the man in a suit and tie. Borrowed, I assumed. The gay’s head swiveled side to side in disbelief, given to hugging as he shook hands with the few that approached him, me included. If that was Bobby’s choice, so be it. I had no gripe.
    The tears I saw around me were questionable. I was surprised to see more than a dozen left behinds attending and became sickened by their grave manner. Perhaps money was involved. I saw folks nodding and pointing to the gay. Bobby’s ex wife, no longer the combatant, also watched him with something like suspicion. Uncomfortable and sitting close to one another, Bobby’s three girls locked teenage hands, dissolved into one another and kept silent. For the last time, the dead man’s progeny stared at their father. An unpleasant truth being revealed that wouldn’t hit them for some time to come. In the pew in back of me, was hushed talk and suspicion about my dead friend’s odd behavior these past months. I heard one voice whisper about a certain immune system deficiency.

    The priest who presided over the whole affair involving my flawed amigo, waved over the audience, and but for occasional sniffling, silence fell over the room. The Robe thanked everyone for attending the get-together and proceeded to carry on about fellowship and what a fine father Bobby was. The language was as rancid as old diner grease. Bobby was a prick to most everyone.
    Funerals suck. I said my early goodbyes to those that mattered, didn’t want to go to the drinking party that would follow. I needed to get the fuck out there before I lost my cool, have a smoke, and grab a beer. To our old familiar haunt, an obscure, smoky little bar in the west end, we went.
    Just me and Bobby- like old times.

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