...dimaggio

I asked you once, do you know how much I love you?

You said, why don't you tell me.

I could feel the heat of our bodies and synchronized breath. I looked into your eyes and remembered.

Back in '98, I had just broken up with some girl. I can barely remember her name now, anyway she cheated on me and I found out. I was heartsick for months, you know, she was the one and all.

My dad went to a cemetery to see his mom's grave and I was in a maudlin mood so I went with him.

I heard weeping. Heart rendering sobs of grief. Pain and love. Longing. Mumbled, I miss you's and I love you's over and over.

I look down the long aisle of tombstones and see a man bent over, wracked with grief. One of his hands was clutched around his heart, the other tracing the etched name of the tombstone.

My dad felt uncomfortable being by that much emotion and signaled me to go. As we passed near the man I was able to see the dates.

June 1, 1926 - August 5, 1962. Thirty-six years ago, he still weeps.

That is how much I love you.

Interior Design

Entered as part of a writing contest on The Public Query Slushpile

It took four years and a brutal divorce to get to this point. I got sick of blaming her. She is not done blaming me. I need to open the windows and get some air in here before I pass out from the paint fumes. My head throbs.

The phone is ringing. Five will get you twenty that it's the realtor. I keep moving back the sell date. Little fixer projects keep compounding. Cabinets need hung, tile needs grouted, rooms need a fresh coat of paint.

Especially this room.

I've finished everything I could think of, all installations are plumb and ablaze with new paint. The house looks better than when we bought it.

All except this one room.

I remember that day we got the house. Janice was so happy and her head was dizzy with excitement of what it would look like after a few years of hard work. It was OURS. I looked at it more with apprehension, I'm an office drone, hard work is as alien to me as an intake manifold gasket. I smiled and carried our daughter inside. Maybe we would make this work.

Little Izzy picked out her bedroom and said, "I want a princess room!" My little girl got everything she wanted. I spoiled her but she deserved it.

I got every single can of Pink Pastel Princess paint I could get my hands on and covered that upstairs room. Pink ceiling fan, pink trim, pink light switches. Izzy loved it.

And now I sit on an empty industrial size bucket of Alabaster White, alone in an empty room, in an empty house.

I've bought every different shade of white available and sat watching it dry. Eggshell, Off White, Bride White, Cream, and every combination I could gather. The realtor said the only way to sell a house is to paint all the rooms neutral. If the prospective couple had a boy they wouldn't be able to picture him in this pink room.

So I've been trying to cover and erase the memory of my daughter's wishes. But every time that white coat dries, the pink can be seen. It refuses to be let go.

I scraped the walls with sandpaper, and the pink shows.

I laid seven coats, and the pink shows.

I put up white wallpaper, and it fell to the ground.

Four years I've tried to whitewash this room and for four years I've seen that paint dry to a bleeding pink. My wife told me I was abandoning my daughter.

My daughter was the greatest gift I've ever received, and I could never abandon her or let her go.

The phone rings again.

The pink fades in on the wall.

If I can't cover the pink, how am I ever to cover the bloodstain near the floor?

The Gift

Posted on ficly.com

As usual we are running late for, well any kind of occasion, but tonight for my birthday dinner. I’ve been dressed in my tux for a half an hour or more while you’ve been in the bathroom doing whatever it is female’s do.

This scene replays so often that I don’t even glance at my watch or give a shit anymore. I just put the TV on ESPN.

The door opens and you stand there looking at me…

A vision of angels greets me. After all these years, little moments crystallize in my mind of how fucking beautiful you are.

I swoon with pride, lust, and love.

I reach for that special spot on your hip, that place where my body melts into you.

“Baby,” you say, “we’re already late…”

“It’s my fucking birthday.”

We fall into the bed together, breathing each other.

We make love looking into each other’s eyes, slowly, I relish the feeling.

I love this woman.

She orgasms with me, we are in sync.

She looks me in the eyes, “Happy 90th baby.”

Flames and Regrets

Ficly.com

Within minutes our home would be gone.

We were evacuated days ago; the flames were close

We scrambled out the door with everything else we could fit in the cars.

Something is still missing. I ducked under the dividing tape to get back to the house.

I fan the flashlight over our wedding photos, eyes puffy from joy.

I pass a picture of me as a child waiting for a baseball to land in my glove, thrown from my father who just like the picture, was always just out of the frame.

What else is there?

I go to the bedroom as I see the flames reach our neighbors house. I rummage around in a drawer.

Too late…

I rush out of the house.

My wife, on our second date made me write a letter to my father forgiving him and asking for an apology.

I never mailed it, much to my wife’s disappointment.

The fire consumes the house.

I drive to my mother in law’s house, on the way I mail the letter. I didn’t fill out the return address, he died in 1998.

I call my wife, “I love you and you were right.”

Life Resumed

Ficly.com

After 35 long years, it had finally happened.

She sits at the table like every other morning. The newspaper was read, the coupons clipped. The coffee was gone, another pot was brewing.

Thirty-five years of being tethered to a wheelchair and hospice bed.

Half a dozen times she reached for the phone to call the nursing home. She always had to call to make sure they got him out of the bed otherwise he’d lay all day and get bedsores.

She looks through the mail. A mountain of sympathy cards and final bills from insurances. A large manila envelope held a death certificate.

Her grandson left a brochure for a cruise…

With the Caribbean at his bag, he laughed that great big roar of joy, “Baby, I’m the King of the Ocean, ain’t no place on the water we won’t see.”

The next week he was diagnosed and her life stopped.

Now it can start again, the future was hers.

Seventy-five years old.

She pores another cup of coffee and reaches for the phone…

How to Lift a Curse

Another ficly.com original

I am cursed, have been since I was a boy.

My dad said it was because he fucked a gypsy in Peoria.

Every time I fell in love with a girl, they moved away.

Every rock star I loved, dead at 27.

Even the food I love will suddenly stop being sold at grocery stores .

Literally, I am a dead end for dreams of fulfillment. If you want to go somewhere in life, don’t let me know about it.

My dad knows all about my curse. Used to beat me every night. He told me it was my fault Twilight Zone got canceled. To hear him, I’m to blame for everything from the cancellation of Star Trek to the Kennedy assassination, both of them.

My penance has been four broken clavicles, a detached retina, internal bleeding, and a few anal fissures.

But,I’ve decided my revenge, every thing I love and idolize dies.

Dad you are my hero…
I want to be just like you…
Everything you do is right…

It’s been ten years of worship.

My wife has a restraining order against me and my son is in traction.

The Continuing Adventures of Mordecai the Forever

originally posted on ficly.com

He is alert now. More then ever before.

He can feel the heat rising in the air, taste the fear.

He smells urine, sweat, and regret.

He senses the change in the atmosphere, the residual ozone of his brothers cut down by the last group of stragglers. The food chain is made of barbed wire sometimes.

They had cornered the family in an old church. Mordecai could smell the dry rot and termites. Dust of prayers never finished, the Lord had been gone a long time.

One by one his nest had braved the doors only to be spurned and burned by the family holding a cross.

“Back demon! The power of our God will smite you!”

With a confident stride he walks towards the church door. When he is aroused by blood, Mordecai becomes silent and arrogant.

“Demon! You will not harm us! Die like your foul brothers!”

A man puts the cross in Mordecai’s face. They expect fire, they receive a chuckle.

One by one Mordecai feeds. The last survivor clings to the cross, “Why didn’t the cross stop you?”

“I’m Jewish.”

Customer Service

Another ficly.com original. Ficly.com the most fun you can have with your pants on. At work

It never gets easier.

This fucking job…

A punch clock on the soul. Start and finish, minute and hour. Ever closer to death.

I exist in definitions I’ve never found to be true.

For eight-ten hours a day, I become labels and employee handbook regulations. I walk through a door and become someone I am not.

The beauty part is that it all starts over again tomorrow.

I have dreams and aspirations. But not from 9.00 AM to 5.00 PM. Those hours I’m a drone.

Minute and hour.

For what? I don’t even fucking know anymore. You come to my house it looks like a goddamn Ikea catalog.

I hate my fucking nightstand.

I have nothing to show for myself outside of this time frame of work. Everyday I turn myself off for 8 hours so that I can enjoy the other 16.

My house bores me to tears.

So, I tell you this not to be depressing, but to tell you, don’t take it personal.

It’s a paycheck.

Now close your eyes.

You won’t feel a thing.

That’s a good girl.

Don’t flinch…

21,537 People With My Name

Ficly.com allows for sequels and prequels to any story. I was bored and added to my first piece, 51,324 People With My Name

I have a purpose now.

A direction.

I’ve never been more ashamed. I’ve never been happier.

For all my wandering and all my searching for a clue, I have found one thing to be true.

Killing makes my back hurt.

I take a Darvoset every morning and Oxycondine every night. My world is a fog. Last night I hurt my wrist when the crowbar hit a brick wall instead of the much softer middle school principal/pederast crying and dying in the alleyway.

I have a different appreciation of the words “Dead Weight” now.

The newspapers call me a pervert and a deviant. They can not see the message, the gift. I am a true American hero, I am fighting for individuality.

As of this date over 30,000 men have applied for a name change. For the first time in history no babies have been blessed with mediocrity.

And yet I still must work. I am not yet truly alone. A status of being I’ve been destined to.

“Hey buddy, you got a light?”

The guy I’ve been watching crosses the street.

“Hi, I’m James, what’s your name…”

The Last Twenty Four

Original Post of Ficly.com

She looks at me for the final time with no tears in her eyes. It’s the first time since we found out the news she’s been able to look at me.

Breathless and exhausted, we stare into each other souls.

There are no words anymore. Just breath, scent, and heart. This moment is the moment that I’ve been waiting for without realizing it.

Our lungs synchronize with the clock.

Tick.

Tock.

Another couple of seconds burn off. It’s getting darker now.

It’s getting cold.

We spent a furious day in bed. The sex was urgent, insistent. She pulled me into her with more power than her 110 pound should ever produce. The fabled mom strength where she would be able to pull a car off a child.

I walk to the balcony naked. Her hands never leave my body.

“Baby, it’s close to time.”

Tick.

Tock.

“I know Max. Any regrets?”

The sun begins to rise over the mountain. As the light hits my face, I feel warmth for the first time.

“Nah, today was the best day ever.”

We turn to each other.

I succumb.

Tiles in the Ceiling

Classy Porn Challenge on ficly.com.

92

Blink

93

Yawn

94

Sigh

95

He moves into my vision with that sad, slack-jawed, Droopy McCool look in his eye. He smiles at me like a three year old who went potty like a big boy or a dog that killed yet another gopher and deposited it all self congratulatory on my back porch.

He gets up and moves away, laughingly high fiving the other guys.

The camera guy yawns.

The director snorts another line.

Darla comes in over my left shoulder with a towel and bag of ice. One for the mess and one for the swelling. She’s a chubby girl, not a performer, just some sister or cousin or failed film school reject looking for a foot into the bigs. She reassures me, “You’re doing so good…Only thirty more.”

She can’t look me in the eye.

I stretch my legs. Extend my back a little.

I motion to the next guy.

“I’m your biggest fan.” His breath smells like whiskey.

Action

He makes the bed rock. I stare at the ceiling, his shoulder blurs my vision every other second.

96

Yawn

97

Sigh

98

Blink

99

Blink

100

Called to the Principal's Office

Another post at ficly.com. Entry into "A Touch of Madness" Challenge

Ah, Clint come in please. You can shut the door.

Now you may or may not know why I called you in here. I must inform you that your actions today will influence my decision whether or not to call your parents and tell them why you are wasting their well earned $55,000 a year on this institution.

Your teachers and roommates have lodged several complaints. We at Chapley Hall are future captains of industry, men of power and action.

We are not, and I quote:

Gilligan’s brother
Half bird
A mutant with the ability to catch on fire by eating sunflower seeds
We are not sunflower seeds

Am I getting through to you?

We men of Chapley do not also:

Have the ability to fly after eating beans
We do not have secret Mongolian Kings as father’s

We are not fanciful.

Mr. Clint, all that you have done at this institution is create fancy and fantastical. I hereby am placing you on probation until you appear to have remorse for all the above and painting the words, “Captain Hamburger” on all your uniforms.

Like You Need Another Hole in Your Head

Originally posted on ficly.com

You know, I didn’t mean it.

I mean I don’t even really like this job.

It’s just one of those things you fall into. Who wants to be a long shore man? Or a grip for porno movies. I, I mean grip as in, you know, a stage hand, not “grip a cock” or “grip some titties.” Anyway, some of these gigs man, they just exist to catch star eyed disappointments.

A catchall for misfits.

I used to be a detective. No shit. Catch the bad guys and all that jazz. It was fun.

It was hell.

But, you can’t always win if you’re a good guy. Fuck, sometimes you can’t stay a good guy.

Dies are tossed, coins are flipped. Sometimes you’re the winner and sometimes you’re the fucked.

It’s just odds. Sooner or later, someone like you is going to think it’s a good idea to get something for nothing and run. Then I got to get my fat ass off the couch and find you.

It’s just nature man. The circle of life. You get born, you get pussy, you get greedy, you get shot.

Not like I got to tell you that right?

One Born Every Minute

Another flash posted on ficly.com

I like to whistle. Something about little diddies made up of my breath helps to calm me when I’m sad. Invisible music.

I am sad today, and I’ve been sad for the last few days. I’ve lost my puppy, Mr. Scraptastic.

He’s fond of trashcans and sewer lines. He’ll run for miles after a ball and sleeps inches from and within my heart.

I whistle “How Much is that Doggy in the Window.”

---

I see some guy dressed in clashing dacyron looking in a trashcan across the street. God damn he is ugly.

“Hey we about ready to go?”

“Yeah Gritz, let’s go.”

“So we gots ourselves a target?”

“I think I just found one.”

“Who?”

“That faggy butterfly across the street…”

“What’s he doing? Is he fooking whistlin’?”

We cross the street. Gritz tightens his fingers around the grip of the bat. I shift my knife to my right hand.

---

I like to whistle. I wish somebody would come help me look for my puppy.

Here comes two guys now…

51,324 People With My Name

First post on short fiction site, ficly.com. Please click here to rate.

My name is, well it doesn’t really matter now does it? You wouldn’t care, it’s not particularly good name, just plain, unassuming. Pretty much just like me and my parents and my grandparents and on and on through time and generations. A whole family populated by wallflowers with social phobias.

We don’t leave footprints.

We do not matter.

Whether the Mayans’ calender holds true and we are obliterated in a couple years, or we all have to wait until Rapture, one thing is certain.

St. Peter won’t recognize anybody with my last name.

I was always told that I could be anyone I wanted to be, rich, fat, and famous. I just had to work hard. My blood is a composite of generations of non-athletic, scholars who are allergic to hammers.

I am an amalgamation of those who just get by.

I tried for years to get noticed. I was a failed class clown, failed jock.

The only thing I’ve been able to achieve was something five minutes ago. They’ll know my name now.

James Smith, the murderer.

Exercise://CC "Dramatic Irony" 1.23.2009

In which our hero, BA Boucher, finally gets his revenge on Canada, and fails

A girl and a guy are walking through a park, hand in hand. The stars are a-twinkling and love is in the air. What they don't see is the serial killer coming up behind them. These moments make you want to stand up in your chair and shout "Look out behind you!"

Write a scene using dramatic irony, both sides of a situation that no character can see fully. You want the reader to react, to scream "Nooooooooo!" at the computer screen. Make him/her groan, laugh, or hide their eyes. Try it out. - me
Sent by: Scars

"Ha"

"Ha what?"

"Look at the dictionary."

"What about it?"

"Do you know who the recently deceased is?"

"No."

"She's a pop singer, Atlantis something."

"...And?"

"She was killed by that dictionary falling on her head."

"Again, what's with drawing it out."

"She's famous for this song where she said stuff like, 'rain on your wedding day' and 'free ride when your already late'"

"Oh, yeah I think I know that song, something about ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife?"

"Yeah, the name of that song was 'Ironic.' Nothing in that song was ironic though."

"Well, yeah I guess so. More coincidence."

"So look at the dictionary, what page did it fall on?"


"iro·ny
Pronunciation:
\ˈī-rə-nē also ˈī(-ər-nē\
Function:
noun
Inflected Form(s):
plural iro·nies
Etymology:
Latin ironia, from Greek eirōnia, from eirōn dissembler
Date:
1502

1: a pretense of ignorance and of willingness to learn from another assumed in order to make the other's false conceptions conspicuous by adroit questioning —called also Socratic irony2 a: the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning b: a usually humorous or sardonic literary style or form characterized by irony c: an ironic expression or utterance3 a (1): incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result (2): an event or result marked by such incongruity b: incongruity between a situation developed in a drama and the accompanying words or actions that is understood by the audience but not by the characters in the play —called also dramatic irony tragic irony"

Writing://CC Exercise Death of Narrator 1.20.2009

In Which our Hero, BA Boucher, attempts to write about a guy who dies but still speaks. He fails...

Lazy Tuesday. Just a normal day, new president, old job. Here's an old exercise from the CC forums I did today:

Write a story as a narration but make the narrator himself die somehow and then continue the story creatively till a suitable end. Creatively I say because the narrator has died in the middle of story and now the story has to be narrated without a narrator. But how? Be creative!
Writer: Kenie

I saw a movie once.

I know big deal right? No this one was cool, it was like this insurance guy talking into a old school tape recorder. Only it wasn't like on cassette or anything, it was totally like the Flintstones. Anyshits, this guy is confessing all this ill shit he did with this chick.

Yeah that was cool.

So I'm most probably dead right now. Or going to be soon. I recorded a couple of files to play after this one. Those are the goodbye tapes. This is more like a commentary track on how it feels. Fuck man, it's just cold.

Cold and empty.

Look man, no need for me to bum you out even more. Let's just say that the end is fucking heavy dude.

Oh shit! I think they are here. I've got to go, remember play the tapes in order. Hey man, I lo...

**

Remember that time we tickle Patrick so hard he shit himself?

That was cool.

Hey this is Tape 1 side two and I've a confession to make. I made these tapes in advance and mailed them to you. Problem is I didn't have your address. So I made some calls. Gloria is not happy with you at all...

***

Welcome to tape 4.

Like I was saying. You need to watch who it is you are messing with. They know, dude, they know...

***

Tape 2 back in school.

So Gloria was telling me you turned me in....

***

Boop! Tape six

Not necessary to run. Before they come for me I'm going to tell them every...

***

Tape ten is in

You deserve everything you assho...

***

Tape one side one

I love you dad

That was kind of cool actually

Writing://CC Exercise Elf and Dwarf 1.19.2009

Wherein our hero, BA Boucher attempts to recreate the single lamest joke in the world and fails.
I don't get along with my father at all. In fact we haven't spoken in almost a decade. However, before the age of ten he was my best friend. Time has done what it can to erase most of the good memories but every so often. I remember vividly this really lame joke he told me at eight years old. I've co-opted the memory for the below exercise:

In 500 words or less, show us what happens when a party of fantasy cliches walks into a tavern only to learn that all Quests have been canceled due to the weather. Now what are they supposed to do while saving the world is put on hold?

Writer: Mercwriter

An Elf and a Dwarf walk into a bar.
You'd think the elf would've ducked.


Two nuns walk into a bar. You think the second one would've ducked. That bust my crap up as a kid.

Teaser://Going Through the Motions

A man witnesses a fatal car wreck.

Death is something he's used to lately as he is stuck in traffic riding shotgun in a hearse.

This is a man that wore flip flops to a funeral.

The funeral of his father...

Why? The Father wants to know...

A Short piece at 2400 words. First draft completed in 2006 and is currently up for review and rewrite

Writing:// Going Through the Motions 9.26.2006

Around 2006, I was going through some weird stuff. Depression, rage, drinking, you know the coping American style stuff. I was slowly sliding into the realization that I've become a bigger asshole than everyone else I despised. That sucked. To work through it I wrote a short piece trying to explain the behavior of my father while at the same time making myself the villain. I don't know if it worked as a short piece but I like it, except for the funeral part everything is pretty much true.

I reread this recently and think it deserves a better rewrite. So here is the first draft. Also posted for critiquing at Critique Circle.

Going Through the Motions by BA Boucher

The SUV had finally stopped its forward motion. The apex had been met and now it rocked back on its fulcrum, namely the passenger side of the frame. The driver’s body had come to rest seconds ago twenty feet away from the SUV and a hundred feet from the Volkswagen that had sent her Sunday afternoon to what most would consider a damnable affair. As for the VW Rabbit, it was a great deal smaller than it once was. The SUV and gone up and over the hood to points known but improbable twenty seconds ago. The young woman driving the people’s wagon head had broken through the windshield on impact but as the car rebounded from the crash, her body had intentions of traveling backward to her original seating; however the jagged windshield kept most of her face as a souvenir. The lady, a designation made from simple politeness not any personal knowledge, is most probably dead. They have surgeries to transplant faces now, but who wants to live inside another’s face, sounds rather like something from a bad Roger Corman movie or maybe with the second face she could run for political office. For the briefest instant a child’s arm could be seen flopping around the rear window of the SUV as it passed by, out of sight now but a definite consideration for ultimate telling of the tragedy on the evening news. Nothing sells better than mangled kids. The driver of the SUV ran a red light and sent her car airborne so she deserved what she got; the kid though makes the story depressing and the mother more saintly. Guess you can say that children are the ultimate redeemers. All evil in life is reduced by the acknowledgement of your progeny. At least on the 5.00 o’clock news desk.

I saw all of this in front of me. I’m riding shotgun in The Brother’s Danes mortuary vehicle. The left door is open and the bong bong of the “hey dumbass you left your key” chime has been slowly entering my conscious and causing dismay at the least. I missed the initial contact from the vehicles as I was fiddling around with the radio. Ten blocks of Tony Bennett’s crooning about leaving something in San Francisco was and is more than anybody should rightly stand. I had finally found a decent rock station but the only song on now is “Slow Ride.”

So now I’m sitting alone as my driver goes to play hero. Something about the American conscious demands distrust and hatred for police but due civic heroics when you happen to bumble into a crime or wreck, just so you have something to talk about to the bitch you’ve been living with ten years too long at the dinner table. Civil karmic pandering bullshit is what I call it but again here I sit baking in 1972 Chrysler bored out of my mind while something interesting seems to be happening to other people. I wonder if that lady who got thrown out of the car is bored. I’m sure she’s having a fun time as her bones and skin are incessantly telling her brain that things are not all right. I’m tempted to walk over there and tell her that was pretty extraordinary the way she was flying, graceful even, but that she seems to be distracted right now.

“Slow Ride” changes into some nameless but recognizable Journey song. The fact that the only other station coming in is Robert Tilden gives me the courage to swallow my loathing of Steve Perry. I wonder how the rest of the funeral procession is doing. The service was fast and uneventful as the guest of honor was pretty much persona non grata during his life. When the minister or pastor or father, whatever he was, I get the gentiles mixed up all the time, anyway when That Guy asked for people to walk forward to say nice things about Ol’ Johnny Stiff down there in the box there was a bit of uncomfortable coughs and a long drawn out process of everybody avoiding eye contact. Amazingly, my brother finally ascended to the podium. I couldn’t believe he’d actually shown up let alone lead us in a eulogy. He was wearing a suit and tie, black suit obviously; the tie however was the perfect match to the corpse. Odd.

The corpse, yep just him and me until the firefighters and cops and civic minded Samaritans get the fuck out of the way so I can get some dirt on this worm food and go home. From the amount I was drinking at the service I have all the signs of a rather epic shit coming on. I look back at the box through the gaudy Victorian curtains that were designed to give elegance to design of a car that hauled dead meat around. Be it sinner or saint we all seem to get some class on our last trip to the narrow house. It’s a serviceable coffin, I guess. Gold foil where needed and brass where it wasn’t. I almost laugh out loud when I remember the occupant was a devout Buddhist, even to the point of living in a monastery for the last decade or so. Did Buddha get a Catholic burial?

A crowd is gathering outside. Men and women with their young children in tow. If that kid played a video game with car wrecks and mangled bodies it is thrown out of the house but if its on the evening news or better yet in front of them where they can actually see the skin that was flayed off the bodies and smell what I assume to be the last shit that lady has ever taken, it’s character building. I’m glad this wagon has an air freshener because that lady landed close to this car and the air conditioning intake is going to start sucking that air in before too long.

Even though it’s hot day I’m starting to fill a chill. I turn the air off but it’s still there. It’s a chill that seeps into your bones and makes you feel guilty about things. Suddenly the driver’s door snaps shut. I look over and see nothing. Must be the wind from those helicopters that just showed up. Modern Day vultures that pick over carrion with their bulging lenses and market share demographics.

The radio is losing its feed as the final strains of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” fades out. The fucking radio starts picking up Tony Bennett again. I reach for the dial muttering, “Fucking shit, only aging hipster dig this crooner cunt.”

“Hey, leave this on it’s one of my favorites.”

You ever get the feeling that you’re not alone.

“Come on you used to like this when you were a kid.”

Now I’ve seen damage before, the wreck in front of me had enough carnage to last a lifetime. Yet someone or something was sitting next to me and I did all I could not to look over but the compulsion was too strong.

“He just has the saddest voice. I love it.”

“Uh...how did you get…”

“Here? The door was open.”

“No, I mean aren’t you dead?”

“Well I’ve had better days if that’s what you are asking.”

“Well really my question is, are you really here or have I finally gone as batshit crazy as the rest of my family.”

“Probably a little of both. sport. Some scene out there, huh? What do you think was the last thing going through that ladies mind when she flew out of the car?”

“The windshield. Don’t change the subject, what are you doing here, if you are really here?”

“I’d thought we’d talk a bit, I happen to have a lot of time on my hands lately and you aren’t going anywhere for awhile.”

“What the fuck would you and I have to talk about, other than the fact that you are the biggest prick I’ve ever known and I apparently am talking to myself in the first obvious sign that I drink too much.”

“Yeah we could talk about that. I was also thinking we could talk about why you came to the funeral if I’m such a big prick. Also why are you in the Hearse? And I’d like to know if it was your mother’s raising that prompted you to wear a t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops to a funeral.”

“Fuck you, the shirt’s black. I dressed appropriately for the amount of respect I have for you. Shit, I almost brought a keg and twenty friends to have one hell of a party.”

The Corpse snorts and looks away. He looks real enough; it’s not like the movies where they are sort of transparent. Now that I get a good look at him, he looks more like the last time I saw him at my college graduation twelve years ago. Before the bone cancer had eaten away most of his body. He wasn’t invited to that graduation, he just showed up. What a colossal ass, he didn’t even understand that he was unwanted. I did invite him to the titty bar that night with all my uncles, but he declined, stating some need to speak to Buddha or Allah or whatever the fuck he does.

I hate uncomfortable silences. It’s like the panic that sets in when the cable goes out and you face the prospect of having to speak to your significant other. Your mouth goes dry and your asshole starts to itch. Silently you scream in your head for anything to come back on just so you can avoid the trappings of conversation with someone you share your live with but you don’t really like.

“Uh…so, not that I give a shit or anything, but did you like the service?”

“Well, it was nice I suppose. I discovered real soon after I left that I didn’t really care how I was put in the ground.”

“So what do you care about now?”

“I suppose my only real concerns in life and death were my children.”

“You have a real funny fucking way of showing that.”

“Listen son, I tried to make contact with you for decades and you were the asshole that ignored me.”

“Fuck you old man, I told you it wasn’t me you had to apologize to. Do I actually have to remind you that you have another son? One that has grown into a better man than you have ever even known. That kid is a saint merely to spite you, you fucking bastard.”

“I never knew him; you can’t imagine the wall of shame I would have had to overcome to be able to even call…” He breaks off as the tears stream down his face. “At first it was easy, I had custody of you and the child I never knew lived with that bitch mother of his. Not calling was my petty way of sticking the knife in your mother. But when you left me to live with her….I needed you in my life son, it was so empty with you gone.”

“You caused this not me.”

“I know. Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot, although since I’m imaging all this I assume this is a rhetorical question.”

“Why do you assume this isn’t real?”

“You’ve never felt guilty about anything in your life, why the crocodile tears now?”

“That hurt. Why do you think your brother gave a eulogy?”

“I don’t know. You know this little theatrics with the ghost thing could’ve been done to him. Why don’t you go spook him for awhile and apologize to his face? Casper.”

“He can’t see me.”

“Why?”

“Because we can only appear those that love us. Apparently, your foul mouth belies your heart. Again why are you here in the hearse?”

“I wanted to make sure the mortuary put the right stiff in the ground. I need to make sure you truly are asshole deep in the earth.”

“Is that why your brother…”

“My brother is his own fucking man, he’s allowed to chart his own life. If he came it was probably to see you one last time and knowing that pussy, to forgive you.”

“Why would he forgive me and not you?”

“Because…”

“Because you still feel guilty about what you did to your grandparents.”

“Shut…the…fuck…up…you…fucking…ghost.” The rage builds in me and is finally released. I swing at the bearded jaw line of my father but it goes right through him and my knuckles bash against driver side window.

“Ow, fuck!”

“Feel better now? You know for all your anger against my freezing your brother out of my life you did a pretty good job of doing that to your grandparents. It must have hurt deeply to one day finally work up the will to apologize to them and find out they had been dead for over two years. It was shame that kept you away wasn’t it? Maybe you can understand a little of what I did now. Of course I was lucky enough not to outlive you or your brother.”

During the conversation the EMT’s and Firemen had shown up. They had already finished up picking up the bodies and removed the scrap iron that used to Detroit’s and Berlin’s finest. All parties involved were dead three ways from Sunday. Surprisingly, the VW driver was pregnant and had twins in the backseat. Well, at least they’ll be together. Modern mechanisms for covering up tragedy still amaze me.

My father’s last statement was met with silence. That cagey old bastard had gotten to me. He always had that knack. There is a firefighter in front of me with a shovel attempting to remove the Flying Lady’s skin graft from the asphalt. The sound was the gravelly raking of steel over rock ending in a wet thud as the flesh was peeled away, halfway cooked from the hot day.

“Well, champ looks like our time is up. I got to get back in that overpriced box before the driver comes back. You know I’m not looking for an apology, just a new perspective. That’s what all this is really, a certain perspective. Take care son.”

Suddenly I feel alone. More alone than I’ve ever felt in my life.

“Fuck you old man. Rot in hell.”

Tony Bennett swells, his voice rising for the climax.

I begin to cry.