I wrote this story sometime during senior year of high school. I usually wrote or drew during math and science classes, and slept during history. I also had five study halls senior year. It was a good year. Actually, it was a pretty miserable year, but I digress.
I think it was sophomore year when I started writing short stories. Actually, I know it was that year, since I remember writing so frequently in Mr. Wilson’s class and letting my friend Jay read the stories. He probably doesn’t remember this, but I always appreciated his eagerness to read my writing—that he actually wanted and volunteered to read something I wrote. I started writing random stories for my friends, who wanted to be characters. Mostly for my friend Allie, who I was essentially in love with at the time. Lord of the Rings parodies, and sci-fi before I knew what sci-fi was, as well as other pieces I forget by now. Really bad poetry; my poetry likely hasn’t improved since then. People told me I should be a writer back then. I didn’t really listen, said I was just writing for fun. I guess I should have started listening back then.
Anyway, the story below: just a precursor to it. My idea of humor is often something that pushes the envelop, that offends and shocks at least one person. I think the best humor is generally offensive and absurd, otherwise it’s boring humor, which isn’t humor at all. There are, of course, exceptions. Many of them. Anyway, I’ve edited the story drastically since its first incarnation, many many years ago. For some reason I chose to include myself and my friend Jordan as I as characters. That said, my character does not represent my own thoughts and actions. I thought I should make that clear.
Funeral Parlor Love
Jordan and I are sitting in our place, enjoying some flat colas and bag of ranch chips we stole from the dollar store. A dollar for chips that taste like solidified ranch dressing? You know, the stuff that crusts around the salad dressing lids, sickly-yellow and expelling a bittersweet odor. No, we have better things to waste our money on. We just don’t know what any of those things are, so, like usual, we sit on his flannel couch, watching the television. Videogames are all played out. So are movies we’ve seen too many times. That leaves the television, and colas. Stale colas.
Listening to the rhythmic dripping beside me, I turn to see one of the colas lying on its side, spilling its murky brown contents onto the foldout table. Fascinated with what could only be classified as science, I watch the puddle enlarge until it begins dripping off the table and onto the cat sleeping below. It isn’t our cat; the scraggy black thing just wandered into our apartment one day and never left. An agreeable cat as far as cats go. I often call it Fred—a good name for a cat. Fred doesn’t seem to mind the cola slowly soaking him, yet I reach out my arm anyway in a vain attempt to straighten the can. Exerting myself, I lean over the couch cushion. Still exerting. The table is simply too far, a journey of epic proportions. Sighing, I solve the problem by bringing my attention back to the television.
X-Files is on, the one where Mulder discovers his sister was abducted by aliens, or maybe his sister was an alien, or perhaps Mulder, an alien himself, abducted his sister—not an alien but the potential is there—only so he could convince himself that aliens, other than himself, of course, existed somewhere in the inestimable boundaries of his own self-delusional universe. And space. Or maybe it’s the face-eating zombie episode.
Looking up from the newspaper, Jordan asks, “Do you think we can find something to do in this here newspaper? I’ve seen this episode five times already. And I hate vampires.” It’s his own fault for leaving the DVD player on repeat.
“That’s a newspaper,” I reveal to him. “There’s only news in it. That’s why they call it newspaper. Not a hey there’s something to do in this paper, paper.”
“Well, there’s a boat show today at four. At the harbor.”
“You hate boats. You can’t even swim. You’ve nearly drowned five times. Besides, I rather not look at boats I can’t afford. I’ll just be tempted to steal one.” That never leads anywhere good.
“That might be true,” Jordan admits. “Oh! There’s a petting zoo opening today! I love petting things.” The paper shoved in my face, I stare into the frightened, helpless eyes of a cow. “And it has goats! Goats, Mike, goats!”
“You hate goats. Didn’t one kill your uncle?”
“I rather not talk about that. An evil goat,” Jordan whispers, throwing the page onto the stained floor crowded by empty cola cans and other treasures. “Well, Lionel Richie is singing in concert today. Just an hour drive away. I can get my suede pants out of the closet and be ready to party.”
“Please,” I say as if offended, rolling my eyes. “I’ll take Michael Bolton any day. When he hits those high notes in Heart of Stone, my heart just melts like I’ve fallen in love all over again.”
“Yah, and Lionel Richie is black and I’m a racist.”
I turn my head slowly, gaping at Jordan. Although he is indeed a racist, his readiness to admit it still shocks me. He was, in fact, a faithful member of a certain white supremacy organization until he was exiled for stealing their sheets. I, for one, am not a racist. I don’t even like sheets.
“We need to do something,” I say, wishing I could be like Fred the Cat and sleep in a puddle of cola on the carpet. He has it all, the good life. “The X-Files is almost over, and I lack the energy to get the remote and start it over again.” I point to the remote; it sits a daunting four feet away, mocking me with its round buttons and blinking red light, its sleek chrome exterior and suggestive vibrations. The remote thinks it’s so cool. I’ll show it! I’ll show them all!
I throw a shoe at the remote, miss horribly and knock over another open cola, which proceeds to spill onto Fred, who still refuses to move. My dad always told me I throw like a pussy. “I think Fred is dead,” I murmur to myself. The corpse will begin to rot in a week, and this time I’ll refuse to move it onto the porch, for the garbage man.
“I found something!” Jordan squeals with delight; he does that when he’s excited. “There’s a funeral today! Tabitha O’Dell’s funeral! I don’t know who that is, but let’s go. I haven’t been to a funeral in years.”
“Now that’s a good idea. Great food. Air conditioning. Mourning ladies to take advantage of. You know, offer them some solace. With my penis, if you know what I mean.”
“Ohhh!” Jordan says. “Hell yah! I’ll give them solace right up their asses!”
“No, Jordan. End your fascinating with anal penetration. It really creeps me out. I’m beginning to have trouble sleeping at night.”
“Let’s go!” he shouts with true excitement. “Time to make this funeral a party.”
At that moment our window fan dies, falls out of the window, and shatters on the sidewalk two stories below, still not waking Fred the Dead Cat. It is a sign from God, just like poor Tabitha’s death. We need to go to that funeral.
--
I floor the gas pedal while Jordan plays his Game Boy DS; I think he’s playing Mega Man 12, or Final Fantasy Tactics 6, or some Pokemon meets Disney hybrid, where plump and furry yellow redheaded mermaids shoot electric clams out of their eyes. A cloudless day outside, a very nice day for driving, but even better for a funeral. I read somewhere that women are more willing to have funeral-sex on a sunny day.
“You know,” Jordan suddenly says. “I was thinking. Really thinking.”
“Really, is that so?”
“Oh man. I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
“Old dead people dressed up pretty with makeup and suits, lying in their caskets, looking up at the world. They’re attractive in a way, alluring and mysterious. Enigmatic”
“You were beginning to sound like a poet until you went necro on me. Dead people are attractive in no way or form. They’re dead, Jordan. Dead.”
“Of course they’re dead, but in a certain way, they’re attractive. And alive. There’s nothing wrong with it admitting it. I mean, if I saw some dead guy without a head or something, just lying there all bloody, I wouldn’t find him very attractive. That, and I’m not gay. But you know how dead people get all dressed up for funerals? They look kind of cute, like they’re waiting for a date.”
I nod and sip my cola.
--
We arrive at the funeral fashionably late, almost as fashionable as our blue and silver stripped tuxedos. Added to the fact that we’re at a funeral, we’re basically destined for a quick fuck in a coat closet, or something like that. Despite Jordan’s myriad of flaws, he has a knack for finding ladies at funerals. This knack functions nowhere else. Everywhere else, even when offering handfuls of cash to prostitutes, he fails miserably. He once accidentally cut a prostitute’s jugular with a hundred dollar bill. I won’t go into the specifics. Just don’t go digging in my backyard.
“Wow, this place is full of old people,” Jordan says as we strut through the foyer. “And they’re crying, too. Must be sad. Wow.”
“It’s a funeral,” I remind him. “But forget about them. Where’s the food? This better not be one of those New Age funerals with receptions afterwards. I want food now. Preferably mini sandwiches.”
We penetrate further into the funeral, pushing through mobs of elderly folk, fighting through swarms of canes, walkers, electrical wheelchairs and prosthetic legs. The truly blessed. Sitting in a chair that moves for you all day, boy they’re blessed. If only I had the cash to buy a wheelchair. Old people receive all the benefits while us young souls are forced to move for ourselves, wasting our precious energy on menial tasks.
In the process of finding hordes of food spread across tables, I may have pushed over one or two elderly women, but it’s in the name of hunger. I can’t blame them, of course, but getting in the way of a hungry man must be a sin of some kind. While devouring my fourth mini-sandwich, I ask Jesus to smite those who blocked my path to the holy food tables.
“Please Lord Jesus,” I say, “Send down your fireballs from the Heavens above and torch these old people. Show them your justice and benevolence for your true followers. Kill them swiftly, yet painfully.” Being punished for theirs sins would make them better people.
Chewing on some ham, I gaze across the room and see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, honestly. She looks about twenty, maybe a few years older. Her face is flawless, not too tan but tan enough, lips dark red and eyes light green, black hair bundled atop her head with just a few strands falling before her face. I think I’m in love. She has curves where they’re needed and none where they’re not, which is good because I insist that all my women are perfect in every way. Best of all, she’s wearing this tiny black miniskirt that barely covers her ass, which makes me hope she’s easy. I prefer my women easy. Easy and perfect. Easy girls are a lot less work, and who needs work? If a girl doesn’t give you everything you want the first time you ask for it, then why bother? I don’t have time for nonsense like “I’m waiting for the right time”, or “This is only our first date”, or “Who the fuck are you?”, or “Aren’t you my cousin”, “There are children around us!” Some women are so particular.
“Wow, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” Jordan claims. I glare at him. No one, not even my best friend, steps on my turf. Unless the girl is into that kind of thing. I can be convinced to do almost anything as long as my penis never touches another penis. That’s just gay.
“Yes,” I say, agreeing. “And she’s mine. My territory, Jordan. Back off.”
“She must be at least eighty-five. God, look at all those wrinkles. I could lose myself within those wrinkles. They’re like ecstasy, but better. Liquid ecstasy shot into my veins.”
“Uh…what? Who the hell are you talking about? There are a hundred women here full of wrinkles. Which one?”
“That beautiful old lady in the casket. I think I love her. Her eyelids are captivating.” Jordan stares across the crowded room, his eyes lusting over the corpse.
“Jordan, that’s Tabitha. Remember whose funeral this is? She’s dead.”
“She may be dead, but she’s given my heart new life. I must have her! I want to be her man, forever and always.” A fairly disturbing grin spreads across his face. It is then I know trouble brews in the recesses of his mind. I have seen this look before, and that time it resulted with his arms inside a cow. I still have the pictures, framed and all.
“Quick, make a distraction while I grab her and run to the car. We can’t leave poor Tabitha here with these heathens. They don’t love her like I do. They don’t understand her. She and I, we’re connected. We exist on the same plane. We’re destined for each other, man and woman to live and die in love.”
“But she’s already dead! Dead people can’t love! Not legally, anyway.”
Jordan scoffs. “Living and dead mean little when love is involved. Apparently you haven’t read enough Nicholas Sparks or Vladimir Nabokov. A cultured, well-read man such as myself understands love. This is love.”
“You’re not making sense! Fucking dead people has nothing to do with love.”
“Just do this for me,” he genuinely pleads. “I’ll owe you. I can’t live without her, Mike. I just can’t.”
Crazy, I know, but I have to help a friend. “Fine, I’ll make a distraction, but you better return the favor. You know how much I value morals.” Looking back, I’m a damn good friend.
Seeing no options, I do id the only thing possible. “Fire!” I scream. “Oh, sweet Jesus! There’s a fire! Run for the hills! Fire!” I holler while setting the table cloths on fire with my lighter. The flames spread almost immediately, the mini sandwiches melting into liquid puddles of bread, meat, and mayo.
Old people start screaming, flying away in their wheelchairs and hobbling through doorways on canes. A stampede of elderly folk and an obviously easy woman bounced past me; it is a hypnotic sight I will never forget.
Jordan wastes no time. He grabs the dead women from her casket as I stand amongst the fire, looking at my watch, hoping he would hurry. It’s becoming hot and the smell of burning meat makes me hungry. If we hurry, we can still grab some food on the way home without missing our favorite reruns.
Tabitha dangling over Jordan’s shoulder, we escape through the back door as fire spreads through the funeral home. The ride home is pleasant and full of excitement, but it’s kind of difficult to drive when you have a dead body in your backseat. I keep thinking Tabitha was going to come alive and eat me. Too many zombie movies, I suppose, but someday, just you wait, zombies will be a real threat. I keep checking my rearview mirror, making sure Tabitha hasn’t moved.
I guess I should stop calling her Tabitha. Jordan decided to name the corpse Nancy, since he hates the name Tabitha, and I can’t blame him. If you saw her corpse, you’d see why she looks more like a Nancy than a Tabitha.
A few days pass as Jordan and his new old dead girlfriend develop a romantic relationship. I see it in both of their eyes—true love matured between them—though I have to fold up Nancy’s eyelids to see her eyes.
At nights I watch the X-Files from the couch while Jordan converses with his dead girlfriend. She never responds, just sits there stiff as a board as he brushes back her gray hair and kisses her pasty cheek. I’m okay with public affection, just as long as Nancy stays fully clothed around me. Not to sound like a straightedge, but seeing a naked old dead woman turns me off.
Some nights, as I lay awake in bed listening with a smile on my face, I hear Jordan and Nancy make sweet, sweet, blissful love, the kind of love that’s only possible through two soulmates joining as one. It is a beautiful sound, a sound that makes life worth living.
A day or two later I answer a knock on our apartment door. Since our door hasn’t been knocked on in a few years, I expect the worst—the police have discovered my pyromatic adventure from the charred rubble of the funeral home, or they learned of Jordan stealing and loving of the recently deceased, but much to my surprise, neither of these complications arise.
I open the door and standing there is the undoubtedly slutty woman from the funeral parlor. This time her skirt is even shorter, her red blouse unbuttoned to reveal a most stimulating array of divine cleavage—surely a sign of easiness.
“Hello,” she says, smiling, her breasts heaving with each syllable.
“Salutations,” I say, doing everything possible not to stare down her shirt. I give up after three seconds and stare.
“This may sound sort of odd,” she begins slowly and uncomfortably. “I saw you and your friend at the funeral a few days ago. I had no idea who either of you were. None of us did. Anyway, my dead grandma was stolen after the fire began.” I raise my eyebrows. Grandma…oh fuck. “Do you have any idea what happened to her? It isn’t common, you know, dead people being stolen from their funerals.”
“I suppose it isn’t,” I say, offering my most seductive grin. “But no, I have no idea where your grandmother could be. No dead people here. My cat, Fred, he might be dead, but as you can see, I’m fully alive and completely functional. Roommate is too. Just me and him, both alive and enjoying life and whatnot.”
“Oh...,” she says. “I really do wish I could find my grandma. The police have no clues. No one does. It’s like she disappeared.”
Wow, she really has great breasts, the kind that make you salivate all over your shirt, the kind that make jacking-off last just a few seconds. I consider asking her in right there, to dine on some fine flat cola and unsalted breadsticks before the sex commences. Then in waltzes Jordan.
“Mike!” he yells. “Nancy’s thirsty and we don’t have any more cola! I had a two liter bottle today. Where’d it go?”
“I spilt it on the cat,” I say. “I’ll buy more tonight.”
I somehow let Jordan’s dead girlfriend slip my mind. He walks into the room, holding the rigid body in his arms, kissing her neck and squeezing her butt. The hot chick freaks out and starts screaming. Women are so emotional.
“Grammy Grammy! What are you sick fucks doing with her! Give me my fucking grandma!”
“She’s my fucking-grandma now,” Jordan says, winking at her and raising his hand for a high-five. He shrugs upon receiving none, hand back to the ass.
“Everyone calm down!” I shout after dragging the woman inside and slamming the door shut. “Now there’s nothing out of the ordinary here. Just listen for a second, then you’ll see why we did nothing wrong. You see, my friend Jordan loves your grandma, and well, she loves him. They’re quite smiting. We had to steal her from the funeral. We had no choice. Really, no choice. Love, you see, makes fool of us all.” I smile.
“But she’s dead! That’s disgusting! Fuck you freaks, it’s illegal too!”
“Love has no boundaries,” I say in my most poetic voice. “Like birds in the wind, we soar on the wings of love. We cannot choose where these wings carry us, whether to a perky breasted dark haired woman in a short skirt, or to a dead old woman in her casket. We’re all subject to love, and destiny. Yes, destiny. Nancy and Jordan love each other. Who are we to deprive them of that? Let your grandma live, or die in peace, by fucking my friend. If she were alive now, I’m sure she would ask the same. She would say, whatever your name is, let me fuck this man. Let me ride him into the sunset.”
We all realize it’s true. Jordan, Nancy, myself, and even my libidinous new friend, we know my words are so utterly true, that love has no boundaries. How could we deny it?
She and I fall in love at that moment, and as I guessed, she was easy, very easy. We have sex three times in the next hour. Hot, rough and wild sex full of penetration and sweaty bodies tumbling through sheets, off beds and rolling across the cola canned floor, out the door and down the hallway, finally ending on the living room table, above Fred, who still refuses to move.
We’ll never forget that week, for we all shared something in common. We found love, true love. I found mine in twenty year old woman who I soon discovered was also an STD ridden low-rate prostitute, but who was I to judge? I was in love, and even an Easter basket full of STD’s could not change that. Jordan found love in an eighty-eight year old corpse, but truly, there wasn’t a difference between my love and his. Either way, it was love. And together, toasting our stale cokes, Jordan holding one in each hand for Nancy, the four of us watched the latest X-Files rerun.
Winning. I still love that story. Good old Nancy... She was a good lay.
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