Death and all it brings about

A young man deals with the death of his close friend, who passed away in Asia, throughout one day.

I think it’s a bad joke because I’ve been so accustomed to him being an idiot that I don’t put it past him to have just set this whole thing up. I make a phone call just in case even though I don’t believe it, realizing it won’t do any good as they’re all in the same position as I am. I tell the conspiracy theorist to call me right back as soon as he’s got some news and he says okay, so I wait. Despite being convinced it’s a joke, I get anxious, and not even twenty minutes passes by before I call back and the engineer asks me if I’m ready. My voice cracks instantly, before he even mutters a word I already know what’s happened.

- He’s dead, man.

He doesn’t even mention his name. We all knew who it would happen too if it ever came down to it, and it did. I’m crying, I don’t even know if I’ve ever cried so hard since I’ve hit puberty. I don’t think I have.

- Oh no! No!

I hang up and I put my head down in my pillow and I keep on crying. I’m almost choking on my own tears, my stomach starts to hurt and my mind goes blank. I eventually call my dad and tell him what happened and that I’ll be coming down tomorrow morning, he tells me not too, to go to class and to come this weekend but I tell him no, that I’ll be there tomorrow morning and I hang up. I keep on crying, and realizing that I didn’t even ask how it happened, I call back and ask. He says he’s not sure exactly, that he’s only talked to the black guy, who was in Thailand when it happened while the one who’s dead was in Laos, with his girlfriend. I tell him that I’ll be there tomorrow, and he says the same thing as my dad, don’t come, there’s no use, he’s dead, just come this weekend. I tell him that I need to be with them and he ends up agreeing, saying, yeah, it’ll do them some good if I’m here with them. We hang up and a few minutes later my dad calls back, telling me to forget about what he said and to come down tomorrow morning, which, makes me feel a bit better, as it’s one of the few instances in my life where I’ve seen my father be compassionate about anything.

I call the guitar player and tell to come over my place, that it’s urgent, and he asks me what’s wrong, I tell him what happened, and even though he doesn’t know the guy whose dead personally, he knows of him, through the multiple funny stories I’ve told him about. He comes over in less than two minutes, which is surprising, as he’s usually thirty minutes late whenever we’re supposed to meet up. He comes in and hugs me right away without saying a word, and I start crying loudly on his shoulder, mumbling that it hurts. We eventually let go and I lie down in bed, and keep on crying, with my hands over my face. He asks me what happened; I tell him I don’t know, just that he’s dead and that I’m going home tomorrow morning. We talk for a bit, but since it’s so late and he has class tomorrow morning, he asks me if it’s okay if he goes home, I laugh a tiny bit and tell him not to worry about it, and thank him for coming. He looks at me as if I’d pooped on the floor.

- What did you expect?

He strolls off, and I stop crying. But I smoke two cigarettes in a row and quickly buy a train ticket for tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock. I lie down in bed again, and I think about him. I don’t think about the good times, I’m not there yet, no, I think about his face, his dead face, in particular. I wonder what his face looks like without any life in it, especially for someone’s who’s had it in spades. I wonder if his body’s already at the morgue, who took care of it, how they handled it , what they said about him, if anything at all, I cringe at the thought of someone handling him like just another dead body, which he is, when you think about it, but damn.

I realize that I need to print my ticket and that I should try to get a little bit of sleep since I’ll be waking up early to go to the train station. I make my way to my school, which is about ten minutes away and make my way in, hopeful to find an open room with a printer in it, but I find myself out of luck and make my way back home, and get in bed, knowing I’m not going to sleep. I try to think about other things, like hockey, or clothes, or girls. I start listing every brand clothing that I own a piece of, and after doing that, I try to remember every skateboard I owned as a teenager. I don’t know how long it takes for me to fall asleep, but I end up waking up about thirty minutes before my alarm is set to ring. I see several missed calls in my phone, which is a painful reminder of what happened last night, and I choose to not call back anyone. I get up and take a shower, a long one, where I think about the one who’s dead’s family, in particular his father, who I’ve met a couple times a few years ago, but who’s face I can’t remember. I start to wonder about how he feels; knowing that the one who’s dead had a fairly bad relationship with him, mostly because he was the same as him.

I get out the shower, get dressed and back a small bag, about four days’ worth of clothes, my computer, cell phone charger and I’m out the door. I forget I haven’t printed out my ticket while I’m on the bus on the way to the train station and start cursing myself, hoping I can print one out at the train station. I get a call from my ex-girlfriend, who asks me how I am, and all the s**t that goes along with it. Then I start receiving a bunch of calls, people telling me to be strong, people asking me what happened, who I should curse out, but don’t, people asking me if I need anything and people telling me they’re sorry and they understand. I reply to them all the same way: I don’t know what happened and thank you for the call, it’s much appreciated. Which it really is, although it gets a bit annoying, especially when people go on about their own life and the people they’ve lost. Like, s**t, man, it’s like some people call to pour their heart out, instead of actually caring about how you feel and how you’re holding up. Although, the people who annoy me the most are people who say they understand and then talk about a grandparent’s death. I don’t mean any disrespect, but as close as you can be to a grandparent, they’re old. You expect them to go before you do, and as much as it hurts, I don’t believe it’s anywhere near as blindsiding as losing one of your best friends, because that’s what hurts about death, it’s the blindsiding aspect of it, when you’re not expecting it, when it’s a sucker punch.

Anyhow, I eventually arrive at the train station and quickly make my way to the information stand where I ask if they have any printers where I could print out my ticket. They tell me they don’t, which f*****g pisses me off, because why wouldn’t a train station have a printer where travelers could print out their tickets? Especially when most people make their reservations on the internet. I ask the lady if she knows anywhere near the station where I can print my ticket and she says she doesn’t, which makes me wonder why would such a useless hag would be hired. I say thanks anyways and make my way out the train station to try and find a printer in the twenty minutes I have left to catch my train, not wanting to wait the extra hour for the next one. I end up finding one thirty minutes later and make my way back to the train station, where I buy some breakfast, a sausage sandwich, of which I only eat half, and some orange juice. I call the engineer and tell him I missed the train and that I’ll be boarding next one. He sighs and asks at what time he needs to be at the station now. I tell him that for someone studying engineering, he’s a f*****g idiot in simple mathematics and then tell him at what time to be at the station.

The train eventually arrives and I sit all the way in the back with my sunglasses on. During the trip, which lasts about three hours, I alternate between crying, dozing off and answering annoying phone calls. I eventually arrive in town, where the engineer and conspiracy theorist are already waiting for me. None of us say anything, no greetings, no hugs, or even a sign that lets me know they’re aware I’m in the car. But I do swear, that for a split second, I saw the guy who’s dead sitting in the backseat next to me in the car, in this black hoodie he owned, with one hand on the front seat. This makes me wonder for a few seconds if there is something after death, and if I imagined him there, or if he really was, aware that it was his duty to be here with us right now when we need him the most.

I break the silence by asking where we’re headed and they tell me were going to the guy who’s dead’s brother’s apartment. I tell the engineer to stop at a gas station before we get there, and when we do, I get out, asking them if they want anything, to which the conspiracy theorist replies that he wants a coke. I go in, get his coke, four king cans of Carlsberg and a bottle of wine. I get back in the car and we arrive at the apartment two minutes later, where we call the nurse, asking him to open the door downstairs. We get in the building and wait for the elevator. It arrives and the nurse comes out. The conspiracy theorist and I each take turns in crying in his arms, while the engineer just hugs him quickly, telling him he’s sorry. The nurse replies.

- Hey man, you’re in this with all of us too. I don’t want to see anyone else besides you guys.

He doesn’t seem like he’s been crying, and when we go up to the 4^th floor, I ask him how he’s holding up.

- I don’t know how I’m doing. I knew when he’d left that there was a chance he’d f**k up and die out there, as did my mom. I wanna be with him, I wanna hold him…but, I…I...I just miss him.

We get in the apartment, where their grandmother greets us, who doesn’t speak English, so we just nod our head as a sign of respect, to which she smiles lightly, before going back to one of the bedrooms, to I assume, let us mourn between friends.

None of us take our sunglasses off. The nurse has bought a 24 pack of beer and each of us grabs one while walking towards the living room, where we sit in silence for a little while. We ask what happened to the nurse, who’s been keeping in contact with the black guy and the embassies, naturally. He tells us that no one is exactly sure yet, but lets us know how it all went down. We talk about it for a little while, give our, probably wrong, opinions of what could have happened for it to go down that way then all proceed to nicely call the guy who’s dead a f*****g idiot. We then laugh about all the times he’s been stupid, which was a shitload, which lightens the mood a bit. I put my finger over one of my nostrils and start imitating his voice, pretending to be him, telling us to stop bitching and crying and to get s**t-faced and laugh. The conspiracy theorist downs his beer very quickly, which is surprising, as he’d quit drinking for the past year, but none of us make the remark. The nurse starts rolling spliffs and we go on the balcony where I light myself a cigarette as does the engineer, while the conspiracy theorist and the nurse start smoking their joint.

The day keeps going, where more stories are told, each of us talking about funny moments we’ve had with the f****r, more beers are opened, each of us falling deeper and deeper in our own delirium, where I ask the engineer why he hasn’t cried yet.

- I don’t know…I feel horrible for not crying, but I just can’t, maybe I will later, I don’t know…I guess, maybe it hasn’t hit me yet, he’s been away for months…it’s not like I saw him yesterday or a couple of days I ago…I think I’m just expecting him to come back, right now, I’m more worried about you guys then I am about myself.

I salute him and keep drinking. By now, I realize that I’m absolutely, completely, s**t faced. I hold myself together and tell the boys I’m going out to buy a pack of smokes, trying not to look as drunk as I know I am. They seem to believe me and I head out, knowing exactly where to go to buy the smokes and concentrate hard to not lose my way and get run over by a car or lose my wallet or some s**t like that. I get to the mart and buy my cigarettes, wondering if the Asian guy realizes I’m obliterated. I leave and light myself a cigarette, which tastes f*****g amazing, making me happy to be alive, which then leads to a moment of guilt, feeling bad about the fact that I’ve found a couple of minutes to enjoy myself while my friend is dead. I get on the elevator and press the 6^th floor button and try to open the door, which they seem to have locked. I start knocking on the door and grandma opens the door but not completely. I say nothing and try to walk in but she starts closing the door on me, which surprises me so much, that I don’t say anything, but just try to drunkenly squeak my way in while she starts screaming for some guy named Gerard. I let go and she closes the door on my face. I stand there for a second, realizing that I’m on the 6^th floor, which is the floor my parents live on in their building. I try to head back to the elevator as quickly as I can, and I look back to make sure Gerard isn’t out there with a baseball bat. I turn around after pressing on the elevator button and see an old man standing in the doorway with no baseball bat and I raise my hand and clumsily apologize, hoping he won’t call the cops and I won’t get arrested on a day like this, in this state, which would probably make the guy who’s dead laugh.

I get back to the 4^th floor and walk into the apartment, which isn’t locked and tell the boys, who were wondering what the f**k was taking so long, what happened and they all laugh in a way that tells me I’ve been able to get their mind off the guy who’s dead for at least a small moment, which brings a smile on my face. Pizza’s on the table and I grab a slice while saying I’m not hungry and eat the thing like I just got done fasting for three days. I also eat some fries with gravy while telling the guys I’m full like I’m Orson Welles and Marlon Brando’s love child. After eating like a pig, I lie down on the ground, drunk, full and sad. I close my eyes and decide that passing out here probably isn’t the best idea. I get up and stumble towards the guy who’s dead bedroom and open his closet where I look at his clothes, including a Lacoste polo I’d let him borrow for a while, which he’d never given back because I’d never given him back a button-up he’d let me borrow. I look at his clothes and I think about him and I start tearing up without crying. I realize I’m too tired to cry, tell myself that I’ve probably cried all the tears I could for today, that I need to get some sleep, that if I feel the need too, new tears will appear tomorrow, or later, or in three days, or whenever the f**k I’ll wake up. I lie down on the bed; by the nightstand is this Arnold Schwarzenegger biography that he’d been reading before leaving for Asia, to try and live some new adventures, which came down to expanding his growing business, f*****g tourists and Asian chicks and getting fucked up. S**t, at least he went out the way he wanted too, which I think is karma rewarding for being true to himself even if he ruffled some feathers doing it. I salute him in my thoughts, before my eyes give away; I salute my friend for loving ice cream, Asian women and working out. I tell him that now that he’s there, to show them m**********r’s what’s good, to look em’ straight in the f*****g eyes and give em’ the baddest f*****g look he can and let em’ know they did themselves no favours by bringing him up there with them. Do it for the bad m***********s we are.