Funerals & Tributaries - A Short

     

     There is a small tributary at the base of the Salinas River that runs through a quaint town of 885.  It is a town that collects the elderly and the senile like cheap trading cards.  Scattered throughout this town are fields of grapes that roll across the valley.  And above these fields are squawking crows that look down on the grapes with malicious intent.  They dive and they caw and they feed on those grapes like ravenous beasts.  

In the mornings, the fog lingers in the canyons like dying smoke.  And as the fog fades, the crest of the highest hill turns a magnificent shade of green, the blue sky surrounding the hilltop like a warm blanket.  Douglas Firs pepper the landscape, standing on end like a collection of stilts, their bark tattered and worn like cracks in a desert.  At the base of the Firs, a fine collection of moss waits, ready to consume them when death inevitably comes—as it comes for all in life’s winter months.

     

Perry Hughes had waited for some time, but wasn’t absolutely positive of the length.  With each passing minute he sank lower into his chair.  The town passed him by with lazy intentions and he ordered a second cup of coffee with a little nip of scotch.  The waitress gave him a second glance, but he did not return it; he was consumed by the potential of sweet smelling booze mixed with the bitter scent of Arabica beans.

     Perry had made the most of his trip to California, completing seven short stories and a handful of poems, the most he’d written in six months.  He had dined on some of the best food: truffled chicken with roasted new potatoes, Spanish sausage and Shishito peppers, butter poached sea bass and creamy girts.  The wine flowed nearly every night.  There were Malbecs, Tempranillos, Rhone Valleys, and Bourdouxs; some that hadn’t seen the light of day since 1966.  And then, of course, there were the California Wines.  Some of the best he’d had in his life.  There were wines from the Russian River Valley, Napa, San Luis Obispo, Pismo, Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, and Santa Maria.  The sound of a popping cork became a symphony to his senses.  The quick pop followed by a steady flow into a well rounded glass was pure bliss.  Everything had been a tremendous affair.  He’d accomplished everything he’d come to accomplish—except one thing.  

     And now that one thing was late.

     The waitress returned, casting a baleful glance his way, and set down the coffee.  He could smell the whisky’s perfume wafting up from the coffee, but he was quite sure her pour was barely an ounce.  Some people can be so touchy and so full of themselves that they suck all of the fun out of life.  It was 11:00 a.m.—not quite noon—but it was hardly dawn.  The day had not yet reached its potential, so one could argue it demanded whisky.  He took a sip before she could ask if he needed anything else and shot her a wry smile that was not returned.  She sauntered away and he watched her go. 

     He took another sip of “coffsky” and scanned the street.  Still, only old people.  He figured he’d finish his coffee and return to his room if the old chap didn’t show.  It was his intention to meet with him, sure, but the world was hardly insisting upon it.  Sometimes it’s right to do the world a favor, but good deeds will only go so far.

     The blue sky sizzled.  The grapes sucked in the final drops of the night’s moisture.  Things were ready to get hot.  He wrapped his hands around the cup of coffee and felt his fingers tingle.  

     He had ordered plate of soft boiled eggs, toast, and candied pancetta, but when the waitress came back he cancelled it.  She looked pleased at the prospect of his imminent departure and set down the check before he could reconsider.  She offered a slightly uppity “Hmph” (he had never been too offended by “hmphs.”  In fact, he found them quite endearing.  But he’d never give a character such as this waitress the satisfaction of his endearment) and disappeared back into the kitchen.  This time he didn’t watch her go.

     Perry downed the remnants of his “coffsky” as the last of the fog burned off.  He was gathering up his jacket, readying himself to go, when he saw the late guest hurrying up the street.  From far off he looked downright silly, almost cartoonish.  He had on a tattered brown suit that seemed a trifle too big.  The shoulders were worn and fraying, and he had tied his tie much too short.  He wore grey shoes that had no business being with a brown suit.  But the peculiar thing about the shoes was: they were perfectly polished.  The suit couldn’t have cost more than sixty or seventy dollars, but the shoes must have cost a fortune.  They were immaculate, glistening in the morning’s new light.  It probably took him three minutes to put on the suit, but he had spent an eternity lacing up those Wingtips.  His face was unshaven and covered in wrinkles.  Deep, purple crescents lined the undersides of his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.  His face seemed long and tired, not the fresh faced sophomore Perry had known some years earlier.  The man Perry saw hurrying up the street, across the tributary’s dilapidated (but somehow still functioning) bridge, looked magnificently sad.  He could never pity a man, it was never in his nature; but as his late guest neared, Perry Hughes got pretty goddamned close.

     The man in the brown suit waved and then nervously ran his other hand across his unkempt tie.  Perry didn’t bother to wave back.  Whisky could only do so much, and it didn’t feel like offering waves.  He saw the man wave again, as if he thought Perry hadn’t seen him.  But when Perry didn’t wave a second time, the man hung his head as if receiving some troubling news.

     When the man finally reached the table Perry could tell he was out of breath.  Sweat had broken out on his brow and upper lip.  He wiped it away with the sleeve of that disgusting suit and held out a trembling hand for him to shake.  He didn’t say anything, and Perry found that odd.  He just stood there, hand out, standing while he sat, waiting for Perry to do something.  He blinked at the man with perfect confusion, but then finally took his hand.  Whisky demanded handshakes; that was one of whisky’s deal breakers. 

     “‘Lo,” he barely said.

     “Hello,” said Perry.

     “Have you been waiting long?”

     “Yes.”

     “Quite long?”

     “Yes.”

     “I apologize for that,” the man said without much sincerity.  “I don’t know this area all that well and was confused as to which cafe you were referring to.”

     “You said it was the one just across the tributary, on Market Street.  The place that had the funny canopy over the tables outside.”  Perry motioned to the canopy above them.  He looked at the ratty thing without much interest and returned his gaze to the man.  “You are the one who lives here, correct?” he continued.  “It is not I, yes?”  Perry had malice in his words—malice he could not control—and it felt good not to control it.  He had waited long enough, fighting through two cups of lukewarm coffee and a drop’s worth of shitty scotch.  Perhaps if he’d not cancelled that plate of soft boiled eggs and pancetta things would have been different.  But who knows what different spaces tell?

     “Well, again, I’m terribly sorry,” he said, again without much conviction.  

     “New suit?” Perry asked, still taking pride in his newfound malice.

     The man looked down at it with those sad eyes and looked back at Perry with this terrible, drooping expression.  And then he sat down.  It was sudden and abrupt; the way a robot might sit if programmed correctly.  He ran a hand across the back of his neck and Perry heard the sleeve of that terrible suit brush across his hair.  He pointed at the jacket, close to one of the ripped pockets, and said, “This was Walter’s suit.”

     Perry stiffened, barely having time to react.  The man in the brown suit was staring at him with a fondness he would liked to have smacked right off his aging face.  His expression told a secret they both shared; a secret that was begging to be let out.

     Walter had been one of the lads they’d got along with quite well at University.  He was a “good ‘ol boy,” up for anything, and anything up for him.  He was a rouser, and an arrogant one at that.  The ladies loved him, but he had no idea why, and he never bothered to ask.  Hell, would you?  

     When a minx offers her snatch with a smile, it’s none too wise to question her motives, Perry thought.

     (God, how he hated being crass—even in his own mind)

     Anyway, Walter was a good bloke.  Full of himself, sure, but a true comrade, especially his closest friends.  

     But they had all fallen out of touch since Commencement and they didn’t see Walter again until his funeral nine years later.  Perry remembered him lying in that pristine mahogany box, his face pale and his cheeks rosy with blush.  His hands were folded across his chest and his mother had dressed him in one of the finest suits he had ever seen.  It was perfectly cut, rounded across his shoulders and lying flat against his chest.  The fabric (though he didn’t dare touch it) was of the highest quality, and his tie gave him this elegant, refined look—even in death.  It was nothing like the suit the man before him was wearing, and he angrily questioned his ridiculous response.  “That was not his suit!” Perry seemed to scream.  A few of the town’s old folk turned their way, and then, hastily, turned their attention back to their crosswords, Sudoku, Bridge, or whatever the hell it was old people did.  “You lie.”

     Perry thought the man in the brown suit might get angry, or protest even in the slightest.  But he delicately lowered his head and blinked with dumb emotion.  He looked like a dog being scolded by his owner.  A poorly dressed dog at that.

     The waitress returned.  When she picked up the check and saw Perry had not paid she stuck one hand on her hip and thrust the other out in a perfect display of “Hmph-ness.”  He could barely look at her.  He felt a wave of nausea.  If he looked at her he knew he would vomit.  “On second thought,” Perry said, “I will have that plate of pancetta, toast, and soft boiled eggs.”  But the thought of eating was horrendous.  It was just something to say; pointless words used to cope with the man in the brown suit.

     “You sure you don’t just want more whisky?”

     “Just bring me the fucking eggs!” he cried.

     The waitress stepped back, startled and miffed, and hurried off. It appeared an extra side of saliva would be accompanying his eggs on what was turning out to a most unpleasant morning.

     “Why do you have his suit?” Perry asked.

     “He gave it to him.”

     “I would assume as much,” he said.  “But why?”

     “I don’t know.”

     “When did he give it to you?”

     “Years back.”

     “How many years?”

     “I don’t know.”

     “Yes, you do.”

     “Truly, I don’t.”

     “And why the fuck are you wearing it?”  One could always blame outbursts on low blood sugar, lack of sleep, or fluctuating hormones, but this was pure, unadulterated emotion that boiled at the brim and leapt out of the pot.

     “I don’t know,” the man said.  “It seemed fitting, I guess.”

     “Why would it be fitting?”

     “I don’t know.”

     “Stop saying ‘I don’t know’ like some punished child.  You are not a child, are you?”

     The man in the brown suit stuttered nonsense.

     “Are you?”

     One of the couples with their Crosswords gave them a furtive glance before gathering up their coats and scurrying away.

     “Take it off,” Perry told him.

     “What?”

     “Take off that suit!”

     The man leaned back in his chair and offered him those sorrowful eyes again.

     “Stop looking at me like that.”

     “Like what?”

     “Like the way you’re fucking looking at me, you fucking cunt!” 

     (More crassness.  God, how he hated all the crassness!)

     “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I’m looking at you any particular way,” said the man in the brown suit.

     The waitress returned, this time with a large, brooding man whose biceps were the size of cinderblocks.  He had a very dark complexion, but Perry could still make out the acne scars along his cheeks.  The brooding man folded his arms and puffed his chest and said with a deep, booming voice,      “You botherin’ this young lady?”

     “What?”

     “You botherin’ this young lady?” he asked again, this time leaning so close Perry could smell the vagrant scent of old scrambled eggs and parboiled potatoes on his breath.

     “I just want my soft boiled eggs, with whole wheat toast, and candied pancetta.”  Perry’s voice was quivering.  “Is that too much to ask?”

     The brooding man glanced at the waitress.  She shrugged as if the whole thing was suddenly some big misunderstanding.

     “Jus’ keep your voice down, sir,” said the brooding man.

     “My voice is down,” he insisted.

     “Sir, you jus’ need to calm down.”

     Perry hadn’t taken his eyes off the man in the brown suit.  He was sitting there with that dumb fucking

     (More crassness!  Fuck!)

look on his face, almost mocking him with those sad eyes and ridiculous face.  

     “That’s Walter’s suit,” Perry said to no one in particular.

     “Huh?” the brooding man grunted.  “Who’s Walter?”  

     “He’s no one,” the man in the brown suit interjected.

     “No one?” Perry asked incredulously. 

     “Sir, I think you need to leave.”

     “I just want my eggs.”

     “Sir, don’t make me tell you again.”

     “And toast.”

     “Sir!”

     “And my fucking candied pancetta!”

     (Crass, crass, crass-fucking-crass!)

     The brooding man grabbed Perry by the arm and yanked him out of the chair.  If Perry hadn’t anticipated the move, his shoulder most certainly would have popped out of its socket.  He dug his nails into his forearm and he felt his muscle curl under the brooding man’s weight.  “All right, that’s enough!” he shouted at Perry.  “Beat it, pal!”

     Pal?  Was he no longer ‘sir?’  The world’s niceties were slipping away and they weren’t taking Perry with them.

     Perry looked back at the man in the brown suit, and do you know what he did?  Do you know what that pathetic son of a bitch, that no good audacious prick did?  He smiled at him.  He actually smiled at him!  And when he did, Perry saw that his teeth were cracked and yellow.  He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed them before.  They were the teeth of a transient, a bum.  They were teeth riddled with decay and plagued by evil.  He leered as the brooding man pulled Perry away.  It was terrible.  Oh, how it was terrible!

     Perry tore away from the brooding man and began to run.  It was an uncontrollable, manic sprint.   He was wild, chasing himself down the street, stealing only one glance back at the man in Walter’s brown suit.  And he was still smiling, almost laughing.  The waitress seemed to be laughing, too.  And—if it had been possible—it appeared the brooding man was laughing with them.  They were all laughing; quick, whirring laughs that hung in the air just as the morning fog had.  But these laughs weren’t eager to retreat; these laughs were timeless.

     Perry’s steps became delirious and pounding.  He felt the tremendous weight of death nipping at his soul, the way Jack Frost might nip at one’s nose.  It was subtle, but stinging.  The world seemed to be moving like one of those old silent films, fluttering by at sixteen frames per second. 

     The bridge came into view like something out of a dream, mythical, fabled.  He heard the tributary flowing under it, the water placid and unbearably calm.  His arms were flailing in front of his face like two pieces of limp spaghetti.  The pavement lost its noise and only the wind became apparent.  And then Perry’s body flew over the bridge’s railing and he saw his feet topple over his head.  He couldn’t tell if it was the world that was spinning or his own mind.

     The shallow water came into focus and he felt a chill run up his spine; a chill he hadn’t felt since that morning fog had lifted.  Perry crashed into the tributary’s water with an agonizing thud.  And, as he sank to the bottom, he could still hear the laughter, and still feel the leers.