Aaron Gilbreath
After the Funeral
Trevor died driving into a tree. He was twenty-eight years old when
his
truck slid across rain-slick asphalt and wrapped around a date palm.
There wasn’t enough blood left in him for cops to discover the thirteen
beers he’d had with his friends over the course of the day.
Neil, Dan and Parry, and a handful of Trevor’s coworkers,
acquaintances
and cousins, filled Dan’s small backyard in Phoenix’s hellfire heat. In
memory of their best friend, the three men decided to feed and fill
everyone at the funeral with beer. A “welcome to heaven barbeque,”
Parry
called it. After the services, the pews emptied and mourners followed
the
guys to Dan’s house, everyone except Trevor’s parents and sister who,
despite an invitation, convened at the grandmother’s house in Tempe.
Neil changed into shorts, slid a ‘kiss the cook’ apron over his black
collared shirt and slapped ten burgers on the grill. With a shaved head
and arms tattooed in bright blue waves and orange Koi fish, he looked
like a California biker chef.
Mesquite smoke carried the smell of cooking beef through the backyard.
A
searing August breeze rustled the leaves, mixing with the throb of
dance-hall baselines. Boom ba-da-da-da, boom ba-da-da-da, slow and
prodding and blissfully hypnotic, like the strong hydroponic pulsing
through mourners’ heads. People laughed and mingled on the cool green
lawn, swapping stories from the shade of a mulberry tree. “Remember the
time Trevor ripped his shorts on the fence and ran home with his ass
hanging out?” “Remember the time Trevor peed in that bottle and told
you
it was Sprite?” Coworkers and cousins, people who would never have met
were it not for the funeral, passed beers to each other, patted each
others’ backs and exchanged phone numbers.
“Trev would’ve loved this,” Dan said, setting down his bottle to pull
up
his baggy skate shorts. “He would’ve sat right under that tree and
cracked everyone up.”
Neil pointed the spatula to the sky. “You know he’s burning a bowl
with
Saint Peter right now.”
Dan took the last hit of the joint, and as he tossed the roach in the
glowing coals, he saw Kelly, Trevor’s ex-girlfriend, step into the
yard.
Dressed in a black silk skirt and heals so sharp they punctured the
lawn,
she sauntered past the crowded card table and into the cloud of burger
smoke. “Where are Trevor’s parents?”
“Hello to you too,” Neil said, holding up a raw patty. “Want a
burger?”
Her eyes shoved his formalities back in his face, and Dan spoke before
Neil could say anything stupider. “They’re at Trevor’s grandma’s.
Here.”
He drew detailed directions on a napkin and offered a drink, hoping to
sooth her nerves. She had been at the funeral but sat in the back row.
When he went to greet her after the service, she was already in the
parking lot stepping into her car. It was the first time he’d seen her
in
two years.
She snatched the map and stared at Parry and Dan and Neil and their
guests. Everyone watched the agitated newcomer over their food, trying
to
act casual, waiting to see what she would do. “Glad to see you’re all
broken up about your friend,” Kelly told them. “I guess death’s just
another excuse for a party.”
“Sit down,” Neil said. “Have a beer. Maybe Trev will see and tell God
something nice about you.”
Some people laughed. Kelly perched her hands on her hips and glared at
the guys. “Look at you. Haven’t changed a bit.”
A spray of grease flared around Neil’s spatula as he slipped his beer
into his apron pocket. “Thanks.”
“Seriously,” she said, her cute button nose turning red as a stop
sign,
“what do you guys do when you’re not drinking anyway?” Neil felt
something drop in his chest, a feeling that, if he knew better, he
would
have identified as offended. For the first time in years, all three of
them had held the same jobs, without problems, for a twelve month
period.
Dan sold bathroom fixtures at Home Depot. Neil was a short order cook
at
a strip club. Parry was a mechanic. “Still making doughnuts?”
“No,” Parry said, “still kissing corporate ass?”
Kelly laughed, volleying back his insult. “At least you’re working. I
thought you’d be dead by now. Which one of you is next?”
“Oh screw you Kelly.” Parry slammed his bottle down. “You always were
a
bitter witch. Even before he dumped you.” Two years ago Trevor told
Kelly
their relationship “felt over.” Actually, if Dan remembered correctly,
he
said “felt as flat as a ten year old,” but Trevor was probably stoned.
Or
drunk. He was younger then. He was only twenty-six.
Kelly and Parry locked eyes like two kids playing chicken in their
parents’ cars. Dan studied her. With her painted nails and diamond
earrings she looked like some law office executive. And her hands had
the
smooth, taut pallor of a grown woman. “Nice outfit by the way,” Kelly
said. “You couldn’t have at least worn a normal pair of shoes?”
Dan threw up his hands. “Enough. This is a celebration of life,” he
told
her, “not a boxing match.” He pointed to Parry. “That goes for you
too.”
Kelly impaled a hamburger bun on her fingernail then tossed it on a
plate. “Well I hope you can live with yourself after what happened.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Parry said.
“No?” Spit flew from her glossy lips. “I know you boneheads didn’t
keep
him off the road. I know you didn’t take his fucking keys.” She stomped
so hard her left heal disappeared into the soil.
Partygoers stared. Beside them the air conditioning unit strained to
cool
the tiny house. Kelly stabbed another bun with a ferocious detachment.
“Anyway, I’ve got a card to give Trevor’s family.” She yanked her heal
from the soil. “Something you’d know nothing about. Good luck trying to
sleep at night.”
Parry laughed.
Neil yelled, “Enjoy your bun.”
And Dan waived. “Take care Kelly.”
When she and Trevor were together, Kelly hung out at Dan’s shabby,
one-bedroom house a lot. She came on weeknights, sometimes dressed in
her office clothes, sometimes carrying a leather purse filled with date
books and cell phones and keys to office file cabinets, and the five of
them drank beer, got stoned, and watched ball games and game shows.
Dan’s new house was the site of many raucous parties. People ran naked
through the nearby intersection. Drunks fell off skateboards, had sex
in
the bushes, passed out on neighbors’ lawns. Dan’s parties, like the
four
of them, acquired a respected reputation for fun and debauchery. So
wild
were they that, in their teens, they had a name for themselves: “The
Brother’s Cup,” after The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ song from before the
band started to suck.
Dan bought his tiny, Central Phoenix house with money his grandmother
willed him, and to commemorate the two year anniversary of his first
mortgage payment, he threw a party. The first steak hit the grill at
two
p.m., and after eleven hours of bong hits, whisky and beer, Trevor
crawled into his car. He was scheduled to work at seven the next
morning
and was fixated on the idea of sleeping in his own bed. Neil was passed
out in a patio chair. Dan had slipped inside to eat some pie from the
fridge, and when he realized Trevor had left, he asked if Parry had
snagged his keys. “Keys?” Parry laughed. “Please. He’s not gonna listen
to me.”
Though no one night stuck out in the mind, Kelly and the guys had had
some fun times. But after six months together, Trevor grew tired of the
constant nitpicking. “I don’t need a mom,” he used to say, “I need a
girlfriend.” She was always getting on his case. If he drank two beers
with lunch, Kelly would call him an alcoholic. If he went skating two
nights in a row instead of hanging out with her, she wouldn’t let him
sleep over. Once, when he decided to get a ring of flames tattooed
around
his wrists, she refused to talk to him for a week. “It’s enough
already,”
she said, pointing to his shoulders, forearms and calves. “You’re
starting to look like you rolled in wet newsprint.”
Once Dan watched them fight in his living room over Trevor’s pool
cleaning job. “Have you ever considered spending less time skating and
more time searching for real work?” she screamed. “Maybe doing
something
other than partying every night? Maybe then you’d be able to get up
early
enough to get a better job?”
Trevor just laughed and kicked up his legs. “You’re way too young to
be
this uptight.”
“And you’re too smart to be wasting so much time.” But he really
wasn’t.
The only thing Trev ever wanted to hear was laughter, friends’ voices,
skateboard wheels on concrete.
After the brake up, Trevor and the guys got back to living their old
life. They rode bikes off peoples’ roofs into pools. Skated half pipes
drunk. Raced longboards down steep winding hills. Last year Neil broke
his arm. Parry scraped the side of his face. And with Kelly out of the
picture, there were a lot more fun women passing in and out of the
house.
Young women, ones they met at bars. “You’re better off without her,”
Parry would say. “She was a nag,” echoed Neil. And Dan would say what
he
thought Trevor wanted to hear. “She needs to loosen up.”
Dan leaned back in his wicker chair, threw his legs up on the railing.
The air at nine o’clock was ninety-five degrees, the humidity thick as
enchilada sauce on his skin, but he never let it keep him from enjoying
the porch. Sweat soaked the back of his t-shirt and the crotch of his
shorts, the same clothes he had on yesterday, same as the day before.
Bright green leaves coated with crystals crackled beneath the flame. He
drew deeply and watched a plume of fragrant smoke curl from his mouth
and
swirl into the dim tin tint of the moon. Through the screen door played
a
slow-tempo jazz piano album, Red Garland, something his friends didn’t
know he had. His last girlfriend Sarah had gotten him into it. Far from
the usual punk, ska or rock he was used to, Dan was surprised how good
jazz was. He recently found himself doing nearly everything to it:
cleaning the house, showering, reading, lounging alone on the porch at
night. And tonight, even in the middle of Phoenix, what must have been
a
million stars speckled the night sky.
The days off work were nothing like his previous sick days. He
couldn’t
enjoy this time off. He was actually sick. Dan hadn’t talked to Parry
or
Neil since the barbeque and time was dragging by. Everyday he slept
until
ten, sat on the couch in his boxers, unshaven, his teeth unbrushed,
staring through the morning talk shows and midday soaps until afternoon
sitcoms came on, which he then stared though into night. He ordered
pizzas but only nibbled the crust. He tried to skate but lacked the
commitment to land any tricks. And no matter how much pot he smoked
during the day or beer he drank at night, all he thought about was
Trevor. About that final night. About all he’d done wrong.
Crickets chirped from the palms and oleander bushes. Three kids rode
by
on miniature BMXs. The THC crept through his head like a band of
thieving
raccoons, leaving his mind a ransacked trash can, fetid and littered
with
negative thoughts. He took another hit and coughed until it hurt, until
his eyes filled with moisture, then took another. He barely felt the
heated pipe in his hand.
He and his friends met in seventh grade. They were the only
skateboarders
in their newly built suburban school. Parry and Neil knew each other
because they lived on neighboring cul-de-sacs. Neil met Trevor when
they
came to school wearing the same Bad Brains shirt and started swapping
CDs. Soon after, Trevor met Dan in detention, and the tribe was born.
Years passed, they outgrew their BMXs, classmates left for college,
Phoenix turned their old neighborhood in what used to be the outskirts
into the inner city. The four of them hopscotched from retail jobs to
no
jobs to food service jobs back to retail. Neil once managed a skate
shop
but was relieved of his duties when he kept showing up late to work.
For
years Trevor and Neil shared an apartment where the four of them could
pass the scorching summers beside a pool and over cold beer. Then one
day
they looked up and they were twenty-eight. Only the decks they skated
were different. Only the TV shows they watched had changed.
Dan pressed his thumb into the bowl and scraped the warm, empty curve
clean. He sat out front because the backyard was too hard to look at.
Just last week Trevor was hanging from that big mulberry tree. He
always
climbed it, liked to sit in the high branches and smoke bowls, said up
there, enveloped in leaves, it felt like he was far outside the city.
He
used to set his beers where a branch met the trunk at an odd angle.
This
last time, last week, Trevor had wrapped his legs around a low branch
and, while hanging upside down, tried to hit baseballs that Dan pitched
him. “Possum baseball,” they called it. He never hit one.
Trevor would laugh if he knew a tree had killed him. At least that was
comforting to think.
Dan packed the bowl with another bud and smoked it down to a silken
smear
of ash. His lids squeezed into paper cut slits, pressing the world into
a
dark foggy line. He stared into space, lost in a confusion of rapid
fire
thoughts, a series of flashing colors, memories, images.
For a while Neil and Trevor had a keg in their apartment. Trevor got
the
idea to buy a cheap refrigerator, cut a hole in the door the size of a
tap, and lay a pony keg inside. “So there would always be beer on tap.”
Neil, Parry, Trevor and Dan pooled their money, Trevor found a big ugly
fridge at a thrift store the color of key lime pie, and dragged it into
their place on a dolly. They turned up the stereo, filled the apartment
with pot smoke, and when they finished sawing and calking and cursing
and
sweating, Parry drew an X on the food fridge and two X’s on the keg
fridge. “I christen you,” he said in a fake British accent, “Dos
Equis.”
It looked like evidence in the case against Jeffrey Dahmer.
Dan remembered the first time Kelly saw that fridge. Trevor took her
by
the hand and brought her into the kitchen. The spout dangled from the
door, the base of the tall, wooden, alehouse tap wrapped with three
sticky inches of duct tape. Trevor’s green eyes searched Kelly’s face
for
the slightest twitch of excitement. “I designed that,” he said, and
explained how he’d thought it up after seeing a commercial with a huge
ham shoved in a refrigerator, how he’d pulled the fridge from his truck
by himself, how the guys had spent hours taking measurements and sawing
holes. “Want to give it a test?” She rolled her eyes.
Dan had always felt sorry for Kelly. He knew from close observation
that
dating Trevor was a losing proposition. Aside from Kelly, Trev never
dated anyone longer than four months, which was about how long it took
his girlfriends to see that, as fun as he was, that’s all he was. Kelly
wanted depth, Dan told himself, wanted intelligence, someone who read,
who enjoyed staying home watching movies, listening to jazz, someone
who
could appreciate a picnic or quiet time spent soaking in a bath. Trevor
was not that type, but Dan understood his attraction.
Trev was a charmer. With a broad, contagious smile, he was always
laughing, sticking signs on peoples’ backs and putting chili powder in
their beer. And he could find something positive to say about anyone.
Some jerk homeowner would yell about the price of a pool cleaning and
order Trevor around, and Trevor would shrug it off. “He probably had a
bad day.” Rumor of a friend’s premature ejaculations would circulate
and
Trevor would counter-circulate that “the dude’s just in love.” People
liked that about him.
They also liked his physique. Five-eleven, two hundred pounds, with
brown
eyes, he was the big huggable bear type. Woman wanted to wrap their
arms
around him or nestle inside his big-oak limbs, even women who felt only
a
brotherly connection to him. Guys could not help but envy the dude’s
magnetism. Dan included.
Dan’s knees popped as he took his first shower in three days. Rumor
was
that Kelly worked at a dentist’s office, so Dan got the address and,
after a trip to the mall, paid her a visit.
Dressed in a tan skirt and crisp collared top, her thin hands filled
with
manila folders, she looked natural in the office.
“Dan?” She stared at him from across the counter. Her surprise
contained
none of the delight Dan had expected. “What are you…” Kelly glanced at
the lab technician beside her.
“I heard you worked here so I thought I’d stop by.” Dan slid his hands
in
his pockets. “How you doing? Holding up ok?”
“Yeah.” A gulp ran through her slim neck. “Fine. And you?” He stood
before her, framed by a column of midday sun, and shrugged. No baggy
skate shorts, no torn tee, at the mall Dan had purchased a pair of trim
dark jeans, leather Converse and a black collared shirt. The outfit was
nicer than what he’d worn to the funeral. “You look fancy.” She didn’t
know what to say. “D’you get a new job?”
“No, I took time off.” He stepped to the counter and studied the
office,
giving her time to take further inventory of his newly acquired style.
The pants itched and the shoes pinched his toes, but they imbued him
with
an odd, overwhelming confidence. “Nice office.”
“Thanks for shutting Parry up the other day.” She set down the
folders.
“I hope you know I’m not pissed at you. I went a little nuts but that
was, I don’t know, grief. Anger.” She avoided his eyes. “I just wish
Trevor wasn’t so stupid.”
“Me too.” He brushed aside a strand of hair that kept poking him in
the
eye and drew a breath from deep within his chest. “Listen. I wanted you
to know that, and since I’ve been an idiot for such a long time I’m
qualified to say this, if anyone’s upset about what you said at the
barbeque then they’re idiots because you were right.”
“I.” Her fingers fumbled through a stack of loose papers. “I don’t
know
what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Just promise me you won’t hold our mistakes
against
us for too long. Especially Parry’s.” He smiled. “He goofed up, but so
did Trevor. So did I.”
“And I did too,” Kelly said, “for not enjoying him as he was. For
judging
you. People do dumb stuff.” She noticed one of the lab technicians
listening from behind a rack of files, so Kelly jumped up and led Dan
back out onto the bright entryway. “Listen, I’m sure Neil and Parry
aren’t the most comforting souls to have around right now. But if you
need someone to talk to, about anything, call me.” She handed him a
business card and tried to smile, but the fatigue on Dan’s face kept
her
lips in a frown. He looked like a foreign tourist wandering aimlessly
in
a strange city. “But promise you’ll get out more, ok? Do something
exciting. Make some new friends.”
He stared at her confused, his face as crinkled as a Shar-Pei, and
suddenly realized how incredibly stoned he was. I promise, he said, or
at
least thought he said. Now he couldn’t tell; he made have just thought
it. Oh Christ, I’m going to freak out, he thought to himself. This must
be what it feels like before you freak out.
“I’m not saying forget about Trevor. Not at all.” She took his wrist
in
her soft, lotioned hand, leaving him standing before her, one arm out,
like a blind dog listening to the voice of its owner. “It’s just, it’s
a
big world out there. Sometimes things get small, you know?” She glanced
at her watch and let his limp hand return to his side. “Listen, I
should…” She saw in his arms what looked like a flinch, the desire for
and decision not to give her a hug. He clearly needed one, but instead
of
confusing him with the wrong impression, she swung open the big
mirrored
door. “Promise you’ll take care of yourself.”
He loaded a bowl on the drive home then tossed the whole pipe out the
window. What an idiot, he said to himself. Such a friggin’ dunce. Of
all
the things he wanted to tell her - how he had sent a card to Trevor’s
parents on Neil and Parry’s behalf, how ever since the funeral he was
thinking about moving, how he was going to look for a better job - he
told her none. All he had done was model his clothes.
Neil called to say that he and Parry were coming to pick Dan up.
Parry’s dented ’73 Chevy Malibu bounced passed the driveway into Dan’s
yard. He thought it was funny to actually park on the grass.
Hand-painted
in a red and blue checker whose order was marred by poorly executed
graffiti, Parry’s car was what he called “the art of the eyesore.” It
had
a folding lawn chair for a passenger seat, a hole in the floorboard
where
Parry could drop his weed if the cops pulled him over, and a bronzed
beer
bottle welded to the hole where the hood ornament used to be. Drivers
honked when they saw it coming. Neighbors averted their eyes.
Neil gave Dan a good once over as he moved the lawn chair aside.
“What’s
with the clothes?”
After visiting Kelly, Dan had laid on his couch, drifting in and out
of
sleep, wrinkling his new clothes, and hadn’t cared enough to change. “I
had a job interview.” There, he thought, let them get used to the idea.
“Where?” Neil tugged the new laces until the knot came undone. “At a
church?”
Dan moved his foot. “In your mom’s skirt,” he said. “There’s an
opening
there that needs to be filled.” He watched with surprise as Neil slid a
cigarette between his lips. “When’d you start smoking?”
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head to reach the flame, “I just bought a
pack
tonight.”
Parry popped the car in reverse and spun the tires on the curb. Deep
purple bags lined his eyes. Thick stubble darkened his cheeks. He
stared
straight ahead without uttering a word. After three blocks Dan
whispered
into Neil’s ear. “What’s up with him?”
“Who knows,” Neil said from the side of his mouth. “He’s in a bum
mood.
Just let him be.”
The Grunt ’N Moan was a poorly lit cinder block bar in a neighborhood
of
unkempt bungalows and unmowed lawns. They served only bottled Bud and
the
air smelled like armpits, but the pool table was free and always empty.
For years the four of them spent Tuesday and Wednesday nights at The
Grunt, nights Dan and Neil arranged to have off, shooting pool,
throwing
darts. The rest of the week they drank in the University district to
hit
on the college girls, though lately they just as often stayed home; it
was cheaper and easier, and at Dan’s house there was no chance of
getting
nailed by cops.
The heavy lacquered door creaked open, sucking fresh air into the
smoky
interior like a giant dying lung. The guys sat in the center of the
counter three stools down from a frail, dehydrated regular. That was
the
guy’s spot: right near the fridge, close to the bathroom, in full view
of
the TV. Whenever they came, the old guy was there. “Death-and-taxes”
Parry called him. As reliable as the rising sun.
Dan dangled his feet from the stool and looked around. He never
realized
how dim the place was before, never noticed there were no windows.
Everything, the hanging bulbs, the wooden counter, drinkers’ skin, was
colored a jaundice amber. Middle-aged men in work boots and jeans
spilled
like cracked eggs onto the counter. Others sat in booths, arms sprawled
across the back of their seats, smoking cigs to the filter. Everyone
stared at the TV. To think that Dan had celebrated his twenty-seventh
birthday here.
Neil lit a cigarette and stared at Parry, his eyes tracing the long
lines
of his friend’s face. “So you gonna talk or just sit like a retard all
night?”
Parry took the cigarette from Neil’s mouth, snapped it in half and put
the pieces in the ashtray.
“See?” Neil let out a thundering laugh. “Look at that. I knew you were
alive in there.”
They sat there for thirty minutes staring dumbly at a European soccer
game with no subtitles or sound. Parry guzzled beers as if stockpiling
for a global shortage. One after another he swilled them, arranging his
empties along the counter, speaking only to request a freshy.
While filling his pocket with free matchbooks, Neil squinted at Dan’s
beer. “You sick or something? You’ve been drinking that thing since we
got here.”
Parry looked over and burped. “That beer’s got to be warmer than
piss.”
“No,” Dan said, “it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m just not in the mood
really.”
He started to explain how depressed the pot and beer had made him over
the last few days, about how many hours he had wasted on his couch and
in
bed and on the porch, torturing himself with memories and impossible
wishes. But his friends weren’t listening. Neil called the bartender
over
and soon there was a new cold bottle sitting in front of Dan.
Overhead a fan swirled its soiled blades in a menacing lope, squeaking
with the pace of a punk band’s snare drum. It was the only sound in the
bar. “Are they ever going to get that fixed?” Parry said. He stared, as
if his desire alone was enough to make it quit. “Jesus H that’s
friggin’
annoying.”
Neil tossed a bunched napkin five feet into a trash bin behind the
counter. “Sunk.” He nudged his friends’ shoulders. “Hey. Trev’s family
cleaned out his apartment today and you know what his sister gave me?
The
bottle cap cup.” Trevor kept a forty-four ounce plastic cup on top of
his
TV so they could practice their free-throws with caps while they sat
around. Sprawling mounds of multi-colored metal piled behind the TV,
and
the guys used to laugh because Dan found it interesting to rummage
through the pile and see which countries were better represented. “As a
memorial I put it on my dresser,” Neil said. “No one’s allowed to shoot
into that cup anymore. We’re gonna start fresh, with a new cup.”
“Well.” Dan scratched his head. He tried to put on his most excited
face
but couldn’t muster anything more than a dimpled cheek. “Ok. Did she
give
you anything else?”
“Two skateboards and a shoebox filled with old trucks and bolts. She
figured Trev would’ve wanted us to have them.” He shrugged and glanced
at
the TV. “His grandma’s big time Christian and wants all his clothes and
furniture and stuff to go to Goodwill.”
Dan swirled his beer around. “You know, I actually called them to see
if
they wanted help cleaning, and you know that his mother told me?
‘Family
only.’” He picked at the label until it frayed and turned white and
separated from the bottle. “Made me feel like a real asshole.”
“Ah, don’t sweat it,” Parry mumbled. “You were the only one they every
liked anyway.” Dan looked confused. “What? It’s true. When we’d go over
as kids they were always asking you questions and fawning over you.”
Parry looked at Neil who gave a feeble nod of support. “They never
asked
what my parents did for a living or where I was born.”
Dan locked his eyes on the far wall. He couldn’t remember that far
back
into childhood. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Trevor’s
parents before the funeral - five years, maybe six. Parry stared into
his
beer with puffed cheeks. Whether Dan recalled or not, it was true
enough
to Parry.
At ten o’clock Neil pulled a thick joint from his pocket and smiled.
“Let’s burn one.”
Parry and Neil pushed back their stools, but Dan stayed seated. “I’m
laying off for a while.” His friends stared as if he had spoken in
binary
code. “It’s been messing with my head lately. Depressing me, so…”
“You quit?” Parry stared with his dark, swimming eyes. “When did this
happen?”
“I tried to tell you forty minutes ago,” Dan said, loud enough to make
the bartender turn. “Obviously you weren’t listening.”
Neil scratched his shaved head. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”
Dan laughed and turned back to the TV. He hadn’t turned down a joint
in
who knows how long. He smoked most every night, at home and or on the
drive home, had for years. But not tonight. He had vowed to himself
that
he was done, if not forever than at least until he felt better. “Go for
it. I’ll be right here.”
Parry and Neil slipped back into their stools minutes later reeking of
pot. No one spoke. Their heads tilted toward the TV. More news without
sound, sports without sound, but when a commercial came on featuring a
big pickup truck whipping around a slick mountain track, Parry slammed
down his beer and his head wagged. “Dude, I totally screwed up.” His
natural green eyes were riddled with tight red capillaries. “I can’t
believe it. I totally deserve to go to hell.” His body crumpled onto
the
counter, like a shirt whose hanger suddenly slipped out, and his head
fell onto his folded arms, disappearing into shadow. “Oh man. Jesus
Christ.”
Neil and Dan shot each other looks. Neil set down his beer, inched his
stool forward, then picked the bottle back up. Dan’s mouth opened. A
light beer breath came out. He placed an awkward hand on Parry’s back
and
struggled for the right words. “It’s alright,” was all he could say. He
looked at Neil who just shrugged. “We all dropped the ball. None of us
are in the clear.”
Sobs emerged from beneath the counter.
“Yeah man, how do you think I feel?” Neil leaned over so he could peer
under his friend’s arms and see his face. “People told me I was totally
passed out. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”
Parry sputtered. “At least your last memory of him isn’t him walking
to
his death.”
Dan moved his hand across Parry’s knotted shoulders. “It’s not just
you.
You hear me? I could’ve grabbed his keys, and I didn’t. For Christ sake
I
was eating pie. That’s what I gotta live with. Every time I see it I’ll
have to think about what I didn’t do.”
Neil glanced around the room to see how many people were witness to
this
display. He could hear sniffles over the drone of the squeaky fan. Dan
may not have cared who heard, but Neil did. “Come on.” Neil nudged
Parry’s shoulder so hard his whole body swayed. “Come on, sit up.” He
lifted Parry’s big tattooed neck into an upright position. Parry dabbed
his cheeks with his shirt sleeve. They let him sit there staring into
space until his eyes dried.
“Trev was a big boy,” Dan said. “He knew better. You can’t protect
everyone from their own stupidity.” He poured the rest of his beer into
Parry’s bottle. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Alright?”
Parry blinked. “Alright.”
Neil clinked his bottle against Parry and Dan’s. “Remember the good
things.”
Dan leaned so Parry could see his big forced smile. “Remember all the
fun
years.”
Parry wiped his nose dry. “You’re right.” He glanced around the room,
half shocked at his emotion, half afraid some of the regulars might
have
seen. “Listen.” Parry stood up with his hands cupped over his mouth. “A
round of shots for everyone. On me.” As the scattered patrons cheered,
he
whispered to the bartender, “Well please,” then called back out. “For
our
good friend Trevor who recently passed away.” He raised his half-empty
bottle. “Like a brother!”
Neil and Dan and two crusty loners echoed, “Like a brother!”
Death-and-taxes looked away from the TV long enough to study the
commotion. Parry sat back between his friends and smiled a sly,
relieved
smile. “Don’t tell anyone I cried.”
As strangers swallowed their free shots, Dan looked up at the same
stupid
soccer game, the same Spanish and Irish legs kicking the same sorry
ball.
“I’ve been thinking about moving lately. Leaving town.” After a moment,
when no one asked Where to? Dan added. “Somewhere like Huntington
Beach.
Maybe San Diego.”
“San Diego’s not as great as you think,” Parry said, his face sweaty
and
red from booze and emotion. “Remember that kid from high school, Phil?
The one with the cracked front tooth? His parents moved there and he
hated it.”
Dan laughed. “That’s one dude’s opinion,” he said. “And it depends
where
he lived.”
“I don’t know, somewhere inland.”
“Exactly. I’m not moving from one dry hellhole to another. I’d go for
the
ocean. The beach.” He sipped a glass of water the bartender had
brought.
Dan had lived in Phoenix all his life, twenty-eight years. The one
exception was the yurt he spent two weeks in in Colorado at sleep-away
camp when he was twelve. “Seriously, at its worst, San Diego can’t be
half as bad as Phoenix.” No one said anything. Parry gulped his beer.
Neil smoked his cigarette. Death-and-taxes got up to take a leak. “I’m
going to start looking for jobs this week.”
Outside, as Parry scraped the paint trying to push his key into the
lock,
Dan pushed him gently aside and grabbed the handle. “Let me do the
honors.”
From beneath a dark brow, Parry glared at Dan. Parry’s dilated pupils
floated like squirts of balsamic vinegar in a plate of olive oil, all
wild and erratic. When the keys fell in the dirt, Parry and Dan bumped
hands and hips reaching for them.
Parry snorted. “Watch out.”
Dan tried but failed to yank the keys from Parry’s hand. “You watch
out.”
But he wouldn’t, so Dan crushed Parry’s fingers together until he
yelped
and let go. “Now shut the hell up and get in the other side.”
Dan slid into the driver’s seat, and by the time the car left the lot,
Neil was in back snoring.
“You know,” Parry said, his natural excitement returning to his voice,
“I’ve never been a passenger in this wreck before.” He gripped the
folding chair’s scratched plastic handles and locked his eyes on Dan.
“It’s friggin’ uncomfortable.”
Dan laughed. “I could’ve told you that.”
Parry stared drunkenly though the insect-splattered windshield. Dents
held little pools of light in the car’s hood. Countless slits and chips
showed a dull primer gray beneath the red and blue. “What a piece of
shit,” he said, slurring the S. “But it is friggin’ beautiful.”
©2006 by Aaron Gilbreath
