Always Ask About Borrowing Something

Always Ask About Borrowing Something

 

We knew that Dad passed away when the plane crashed into the oil refinery. 

It was bad.  News anchors put on their sad face and echoed the same conclusions: Vaporized.  Unidentified.  True number of fatalities will remain unknown.  Then they segued into viral stories about senior citizens starting a rap career or vegetables that looked like movie stars.   

We had a memorial service.  There was a casket and we all put personal items inside of it as a tribute.  Mom put in his Boston Red Sox cap, his best suit (“I want him to look good when we meet again.”), and a photograph of the two of them when they went to prom together.  My brother and I put in books he read to us at night, some pictures we drew, and about a half dozen compact discs that we remembered him listening to.  One of those was Cosmo's Factory by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Years later, when I had a family of my own, I got a call from my brother.

"Listen, the police just called me,” he said, his voice low and pressed to the phone.  “Someone looted dad's coffin."

"What?  You’re kidding.  Who the hell would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know.  People are insane.”

“Have you told mom yet?”

“No.”

“Don't tell mom.”

Shortly after I hung up the phone, a car tore into my driveway.  From the driver’s seat emerged someone who looked suspiciously like an older and bearded version of my father, wearing a dusty 3-piece suit and a Boston Red Sox cap.

He marched up to the front porch with the Cosmo’s Factory cd in his hand.  I opened the door, and before I could say anything, he put it in my face and yelled at me.

 “That rule about touching my stuff?  Still in effect!”