A Box

a fictional funeral

 

There were too many flowers. Of course Alanis would have found the irony of the situation hilarious. I would have thought that a bottle of Jack, a lemon meringue pie, and a poster from Ghost Rider would have been more appropriate. Though I had to admit, the sight of those softly scented, superfluous bouquets holding silent vigil around his casket was mildly ridiculous. The cards which adorned them all carried their deepest sympathies, and perhaps a silently written memo that Alan hadn’t been important enough for them to come in person. Well I suppose that would explain why they thought a floral showcase would be a fitting testament to my best friend.

                The irony above all of this was of course that these thoughtless and ephemeral tokens of sympathy were not for the benefit of the deceased, but rather those who actually showed up to mourn. Because it’s not like Alanis deserved any sympathy on the fact that he died, of course. Having your blood painted across the pavement like a bad Pollock by a drunk driver certainly doesn’t make one deserving of sympathy, especially of the floral variety.

                Then there is of course the fact that the funeral was closed casket. Again more for the sake of the guests than the dead, Alanis would have wanted to be displayed in death just as much as he had been in life. He certainly would be the center of attention if they had propped his mutilated form up in a chair at the front of the room, like he was directing the service.  As it stood the wooden box that currently captured the spot of Alanis’s would be throne was bare and sparsely ornamented. It was subtle and serene in a way that had completely eluded Alanis in his life, or more accurately that he had ever sought to escape.

 

***

 

“And now for the Tokyo Drift!,” Alanis screamed with his head out the window while he punched the accelerator. Riding shotgun in his white Celica (or Leia as he preferred to call it), I scrambled to find something to hold onto as the parking lot blurred past in the twilight. The corner which we were set to drift around rushed toward us and Alanis threw her into a steep left turn and jerked the emergency break upwards. With the sunroof open, and all the windows open it was an exhilarating ride, or at least it would have been had it not ended with our friend Matt meekly whispering something along the lines of watch out while Alanis’s Leia wrapped herself around a short yellow pole, which jutted abruptly out of the pavement. Matt had of course chosen this day to steal my seatbelt, and I slammed painfully against the dashboard.

 

At least will still got to go to the movie afterwards, though I couldn’t tell you what the title was. That pole though, that had been bright yellow, sitting in front of a Little Caesars, and just below the windshield. It’s still tilted to this day; now that’s a testament. Better than flowers in any case.

 

***

 

                The other mourners started to file in, the “non-family and friends” group, better known as the miscellaneous-acquaintances-who-just-need-a-good-cry section. I had been included in the initial “family” group; I guess I should feel honored, though I guess after spending nearly every day of the summer and every weekend with a guy, those sorts of things starting being taken for granted.  His mom stocked cream soda at their house even though I was the only one who liked it. It wasn’t about honor, it was fact; he was my brother as sure as if we’d shared the same blood. Though that formality of honor, like all the others, was just another of the endless inaccuracies in this supposed ceremony of remembrance.

                Scanning the room I glimpsed the typical small groups chatting quietly together, the inevitable consoling hand on the shoulder, and a few stragglers sitting stragglers sitting alone near the sides of the room, looking completely at a loss for how the act. Among the latter group I spied Matt across the room, sulking under the shade of a couple plastic ferns. He glanced up and looked at me with a deadened look in his eyes, the spear of his despair punctured my chest, but I turned away quickly. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him slump back down and stare at the floor.

                The guests finally began settling into the rows of metal folding chairs, which were just uncomfortable enough to remind the occupant they’re supposed to be in mourning. The service was led by Alanis’s mother, a fiercely devout Christian woman, who could make you feel small enough that her five foot two frame seemed to tower above you if you so much as whispered the word evolution. Not that this had ever stopped Alanis or I from occasionally egging her on into a fiery tirade, which I would inevitably bear the brunt of as Alanis seamlessly changed sides mid debate. I’m not sure if he ever believed strongly in anything, though that never once weakened his ferocity in an argument. He had this way of making someone feel they were wrong, even if both Alanis and they knew the opposite was true. Alanis could have probably convinced the mourners that he hadn’t died, but he wasn’t given a voice at this funeral.

                Alanis’s mother’s eulogy was surprisingly candid in comparison the formal and predictable motions which all others in attendance seemed to be practicing. Like Alanis would have given a damn if they had come in suits or not, he once filmed himself dancing at work in nylons and Spiderman boxers and posted online. His mother though, she was at least honest about the ridiculous nature of the whole charade. She willingly acknowledged that Alanis had not been a saint by any means, and she celebrated the fact that he had been incredibly unique in nearly every regard, even if this hadn’t adhered strictly to proper or even legal guidelines.

I could feel her words start to slowly lift my spirits as memories of our escapades trickled back into my mind. The night we rode an office chair down a hill, the pitifully small raft we made which floated only due to a thick sheet of ice on the pond, the nights spent on the roof of our elementary school, each moment burgeoning upward through my chest, I almost grinned. Just before I let it slip, a move which might have proved fatal among these determined grievers, his mother sideswiped us with a drunken slide into the topic of Alanis’s death. Metal screaming, breaks pounding, the bubble of mirth which had such little time within me burst upon the thousand glass shards of his mother’s words. Her honesty and devastating lamentation of her son’s death scorched a single thought onto my mind. I had been there that night, not five days before, the last person to watch him laugh.

 

***

 

                “Ben, you’re being ridiculous, get out of there,” Alanis scolded me as he walked down my driveway. I did feel rather silly straddling his car door, half in and half out, but I wasn’t about to let him leave. “Alright, I won’t ditch my car and steal a new one for the trip, I promise. Now get out,” he said a bit more forcefully this time. But I didn’t budge, I was never sure what I could believe from Alanis, I’m not even sure he knew if he was telling the truth half the time, either way I wasn’t about to let my best friend go on a spur of the moment tour of the country with no intention of returning. Not when he had decided this following a big argument earlier that day, not when I saw the bottle of Jack and the bag of weed in the back seat, and definitely not when he used the same excuse he’d used to justify everything from smoking, to robbing gas stations, to considering suicide; that he needed the experience for writing. No, this time I wouldn’t give in, I would stay just where I was no matter how uncomfortable his car door was.

                I wasn’t exactly sure why I was bothering to stall him, I knew I couldn’t stay there forever, I guess I was just trying to buy time to convince him to stay. At that, I had been failing miserably for the past two hours. I had tried everything I could think of, but nothing could overcome his assertion that there was nothing here for him in Oshkosh, and no one would care if he left anyways. I battered away at his argument citing all of his friends, his parents, my parents, my cat, and as a last ditch effort myself, which I knew would be the least effectual. If felt as if I was back trying to convince him not to kill himself, feeling just as hopeless as I had then. I knew in the end, it was me; I had to be the one to convince him. If he had felt that I cared enough, he wouldn’t be considering leaving at all.  

                After hours of me in and out of the car, arguing and negotiating, talking with both my parents and our friend Matt, I still had gotten nowhere. As the sky faded to twilight, I looked him straight in those cocky brown eyes, and I gave up. I said my goodbyes, stepped aside and watched silently as his taillights faded into the darkness, and I was left alone on the curb, knowing in my heart he had wanted me to convince him, to be the friend he felt he had lost years before, and just for one bright moment to be friend he deserved. I could only stare silently into the deep blackness, where all hope of redemption had been lost well before a drunk driver hours later sideswiped his Celica, sending his life out into the night with a screaming symphony of steel and regret.

 

***

 

                The service ended and the pack of mourners, miscalleous aquantiences and family alike, slowed shuffled toward the exits, releasing some final sobs and handing out a few more “hand-on-shoulder” variety consolments. At least they took the flowers with them, banishing the illusion that they had been there for the dead. They even took the “deepest sympathy” cards and with them the silent memos of apathy for the departed.

                As Matt and his mother followed the last of them out into the bright sunlight, I found myself alone amidst a sea of empty chairs, staring at a subtle and discrete box concealing the man who had been spontaneous, energetic, hilarious, and possibly insane. A man so unsubtle that the irony of the set up threatened to make that uninteresting, uncaring box burst into flame. A man who had lived his life exactly how he wanted to with flagrant disregard for all authority or consequence.  

                And yet the box still remained, nothing burst into flame, and there wasn’t a whisper of laughter in the room. There was just him, that horrible crate, and me: who had been his friend, his brother, and his only regret.

                 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Joanna Maharis]

This piece is mesmerizing and captivating. It reminds me of velvet mixed with paints and colors of beautiful images capturing vivid scenes of the death and all that the story entails. I love this piece very much and I thoroughly enjoyed reading. Some beautiful work here. Some very nice details with a beautifully woven plot.

[Legion]

Those missed moments sure can cause a life time of regret. Well done.