Putting Fun Back Into Funeral

(For B.)

*

"Honey Bee told me you've got... talents." Alice does her damndest to sound tough, takes a drag on her toothpick-thin cigarette, and exhales a blue cloud.

"Everybody's good at something." I offer her an easy smile. Clasp my hands on the sticky table. My gestures and my expression are a picture of absolutely sincere, total innocence.

I worry my appearance might suggest something else. It had been a while since I've had any new shoes. Or clothes. Or a shower.

"Honey Bee said you put your mind to it, you could talk anybody into anything."

"I like to think I'm just charming," I say. Same smile.

It doesn't work any better the second time. She leans back, glaring at me through the smoke. Alice is in her early fifties, not that anybody can tell. She's got an expensive, aggressive bob. Betty Page bangs that get me every time. Her jeans and T-shirt look casual, but only if you aren't paying attention. I'm not even gonna talk about the rock on her wedding ring. Hell, her goddamn watch cost more than everybody else in the bar's annual income put together.

The place is cheap and small and dark. It's the kind of bar that saves money on their electric bill by only turning on the neon beer signs along the walls.

It's my kind of place.

Alice found me in a booth in the back. Where it's even darker.

The jukebox is what the kids call old school and plays actual 45s, not the digital crap that clogs the air these days. The needle comes down, gentle. Seductive. It produces some hiss and crackle and a few pops. There's a sweet, almost quaint howl and then the descending, pretend-scary chords of "Lil' Red Riding Hood" from Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs fill the bar.

Alice takes a last drag and stabs her cigarette out. "No. Honey Bee told me about New Orleans," she says and lights another immediately.

The bar is also the kind of place that doesn't worry much about smoking ordinances.

She smiles, for the first time. "You know damn well who I'm talking about. You don't lie half as well as you think you do."

If she only knew.

I never lie. That's something I can't do.

It's not usually a problem, though. I can do other things, things that make telling the truth sometimes easy.

Honey Bee knew this and a hell of a lot of other stuff about me. She was a vodouist with a cramped shrine buried in a maze of connected basements up around 135th Street. She was probably one of the few people on Earth that knew what I really was.

I just wished she would tell me one of these days.

As always, it was easier to simply tell the truth with Alice. I spread my hands. "Long time ago. I don't take things that far anymore."

"I'm not asking you to kill anyone." She blows smoke at the ceiling, taps the big white triangle on her phone, and pushes it over to me.

A severely pixelated middle-aged man in a decades-old video, all herky-jerky VHS, looks like he's enjoying himself.

The young woman in the video does not.

The waitress gets close and I turn the phone over.

The waitress is a tired old brown girl that couldn't have been more than 23 with a half-hearted DIY dye job. She moves with practiced smoothness, dodging the wandering hands of the bar's patrons, numb to the leering, the clumsy and cruel jokes.

She sets another beer in front of me, turns to Alice. "You sure you don't want anything?"

"No thank you," Alice says. Her eyes never leave mine, but I know she's checking the girl out. She'd seen the waitress the moment she walked into the bar, absorbing the essence of the young girl like a dying woman inhaling the scent of a field of flowers after a rain.

After the waitress leaves, I say, "You have your doubts."

Alice nods.

"So. A test." I smile, for real this time.

It's enough to make her finally break her stare. She camouflages it well, focusing on twisting out her cigarette. She doesn't light another one. "A test. Such as?"

"You tell me."

"Make somebody jump around, squawking like a chicken."

I shake my head. "It doesn't work like that. Nobody in here wants that." I wait until she glances at me. "You have to want whatever you're talking about. On some level at least. Maybe it's not something you'd ever admit, even to yourself, but you gotta want it. Fuck somebody, hit somebody, grab a diamond necklace, lick donuts, whatever."

She isn't convinced.

"I could talk you into slamming enough shots of vodka that you puke all over this table," I toss out, taking a healthy sip of my beer.

"I don't drink anymore."

"I know. But you want to."

She gives me a glimmer of a smile, nods, says, "Okay. Okay. Could be one of three things. One, you've got a conman's gift of reading people. Two, you've done some research. Three, you guessed and got lucky."

She shrugs and leans back against her chair, settling into herself, back to being cool and distant. She takes her time lighting another cigarette. "Honey Bee said you waste your talents fucking soccer moms in their minivans when their kids are at school and their husbands at work."

My turn to shrug. Like I said, I couldn't lie worth a shit.

Her eyes nail mine through the smoke. "Don't take this the wrong way. But you sir, are repulsive."

I've been called a lot of things wandering around, but I honestly couldn't remember if I'd been called 'repulsive' before. Probably.

"You look as if you've been sleeping in a dumpster."

"Just that one night, a few weeks ago."

"And you smell like a sewer." She takes a moment to think, then nods, pleased with her decision. "I'll make you a deal. If you can talk that waitress into banging you, then we can talk. Until then, you're a bum. A grifter. All hat, no cowboy."

Getting women to bang me wasn't the problem. The problem was that sometimes I couldn't stop. You ever heard of elephant musth? Adult bulls, man; it's like they go into heat, and get aggressive as all hell, want to fuck everything in sight.

But don't get the wrong idea. I'm trying to explain what it felt like, so don't go expecting me to grow a monster cock like a were-elephant or something. You're gonna be disappointed if that's what you're waiting for. Hell, I don't even have a giant porn star dick. It's average, I guess. But it's served me extremely well, thankyouverymuch.

I trace a heart through the condensation on the table, waggle my eyebrows at Alice. "What if I talk you into banging me? What if I get you to beg for it?"

She swallows. And for the first time, I see outright panic flit across her face. "Please. I..."

"I know," I say and lean in close. "You're not wired that way." I catch her startled expression and shake my head. "Don't worry. Nobody else can tell." I add an arrow through the heart on the table. "I'm not a bad guy. Not really. I'm not very nice sometimes, but I'm not a bad, bad guy."

It didn't reassure her.

So I said, "What if I talked that waitress into banging you?"

*****

Like I said, I can't lie.

I am not a nice man.

But I'm not a bad guy.

I just can't help it sometimes.

Actually, when you get down it, I'm not entirely sure I'm a man at all. Or not completely, at least. Honey Bee could tell you how she found me, but that's a long story, for another time, over a lot more booze.

I'm... different.

I'm not a vampire. I don't drink blood. Unless, you know, it's offered. And even then, I don't sprout fangs. I don't fucking sparkle in sunlight. All the sun does is give me a headache.

I'm fond of shades, sunglasses. Not my own; I tend to pick 'em up wherever I go, at diners, hotels, anyplace I can make them disappear. If you caught me a moment of vanity, I suppose I'd admit that I like women's sunglasses. Not sure why. Old lady, cat's eye horn-rimmed sunglasses are my favorite. I like the way the sharp points set off my narrow face and chin.

Almost like horns and goatee.

But I'm no devil, no demon.

At least, I don't think so.

Depends on your definition, I suppose.

I mean, there's no immortality here. I'm getting older. Just slower than I should be.

I don't know how old I am. But I know damn well I passed my late twenties way back in the 1950s. Sometimes I think I might be close to a hundred years old. Then I firmly push that thought out of my mind, lock that particular door, and take another shot at whatever bar I've found myself.

All I know is that it feels good when I give folks a little nudge. Give 'em a hunger. An appetite. I like it when people give in, act selfish, do whatever their deepest, darkest heart desires.

And I can push them. That's my particular talent. I can talk folks into doing almost anything. Deep down, Alice lusted after the waitress. That didn't take much, getting past her carefully built walls of social inhibitions. The waitress was a little tougher, since wasn't gay, but she craved love, attention, someone to enfold her and keep her safe. When I left, I got everybody distracted, cheering themselves hoarse at the ball game on the tiny black and white TV above the bar. That gave the waitress some privacy to get busy in the back booth with Alice. Last I saw them, the waitress was grinding her ass into Alice's lap, making little cooing noises while Alice had her hand down the front of the waitress's shorts.

*****

Alice had said, "I want him humiliated."

Then she told me why.

I said, "Sure."

I needed a job and after seeing that video, this sounded righteous.

With Alice's envelope full of cash tucked away, I head north, looking for a richer neighborhood. I'd gotten my jeans from a Salvation Army a few weeks earlier, a hundred miles back. The T-shirt was from somebody's back yard. Somebody who thought big and bold and patriotic and was way too enthusiastic about wolves. I was naked at the time, and running from a pissed-off husband who had a shitty little Saturday Night Special.

I don't know if bullets can kill me. All I know for sure is that knives hurt like hell and cause a whole lot of problems and a long time to heal.

So the first step is to acquire the appropriate attire.

I squat near the subway stairs and hold my hand out. It's a halfhearted effort, and people can tell. I only collect a few dimes and one quarter before I spot the right guy. He's my height, broad shoulders like mine, wearing a damn nice suit, and most important, I sense desperation.

He's a trader, stockbroker, some kind of fucking banker. Big and blond, like he'd been a linebacker in high school or college, but there'd been too many Double-Quarter Pounders since then.

I follow him for a couple blocks.

He sneers at some old dog shit on the sidewalk, and I knew he'd been fixated on that pile of poop for at least a week now, getting angrier every trip to and from work.

He looks like a guy who would kick the dog instead of the owner.

That's enough for me.

I move fast, cross the street and get a block ahead of him. Then meander back across through sluggish traffic to his side of the street, stopping to look in a shop window, inhaling his scent as he walks past.

Like I figured. Desperate and unhappy.

I follow him home and step close when he's opening his front door.

"Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing?" he shouts.

"Goddamn I'm thirsty," I say.

"I don't give a shit what you want. You get off my property. Right now. Or the cops'll bust your ass."

"Thirsty as all hell."

He swallows. "That your own fucking problem. I'm gonna..."

"Call the cops?"

"Fuck you."

"Goddamn. I'm thirsty. Aren't you?"

This time, he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He unlocks the door.

I wink and step inside ahead of him.

Mom is arguing with her precocious four-year-old twins upstairs. "No, you will brush your teeth or by God I will brush them for you."

Dad shuts the door behind him, looking confused. Sets his briefcase down, steps out of his shoes. Loosens his tie.

Their place is huge. It's mostly painted in shades of beige that make me dizzy.

Upstairs, Mom steps out of the main bathroom long enough to whine, "Oh. My. God. These little shits..."

I duck out of sight into the kitchen and waited for the guy to stagger past me up the stairs.

Right on cue, I hear Mom say, "What are you-what is wrong?"

I hear the toilet lid in the master bathroom slam against the tank. Then there's a slurping sound, much like an old man with no teeth sucking up cream of tomato soup.

Mom almost vomits; her very soul has been offended. "What-what-what are you doing?"

That's my cue. I bound soundlessly upstairs. Passing the main bathroom, I stick my thumbs in my ears, waggle my fingers and stick out my tongue at the twins. They watch in amazement for just a moment, then shriek in laughter.

I keep going down the hall and take a quick peek into the master bathroom. Dad has shoved his head into the toilet and it looks like he can't quench his thirst. Mom is trying to pull him back out by his collar, popping the buttons.

The master closet is magnificent, better than I had hoped. I find a smart black suit, a tie, and a pair of shoes. I grab some black socks and some underwear, just 'cause I'm thorough, and head back downstairs.

I sling the suit over my left shoulder, grab Mom's giant amber sunglasses, and wave goodbye to the twins who are watching me from the top of the stairs.

*****

The funeral is the very next day.

Alice's father had died. She wasn't going to miss him.

I get all slicked up at a cheap motel. Even shave. The suit is a little loose, but it'll work. Mom's sunglasses are the icing on the fucking cake.

I sweat a little, not because the ceremony's being held at some mega church, but that it's all the way out at the end of the train line. Once we get past the industrial areas and then the regular burbs that I can handle without feeling too agoraphobic, I start seeing a lot more green than I'm comfortable with. I don't think there's gonna be any taxis where I'm headed. I might have to talk somebody into a ride.

Turns out I didn't have to worry. There's a goddamn bus waiting at the train station with the name of the church on the side. Me and the rest of the old folks from the city shamble off the train and climb on the shuttle bus. Another one takes its place as we leave.

We roll through farmland and cheap subdivisions. I knew we were getting close when the quiet declarations about the weather, the deplorable state of the world these days, pointless anecdotes about their kids, all of it peaks into a babbling chatter.

Their excitement is contagious.

Everybody audibly moans when we see the giant cross. It rises above a jumble of rocks and a spilling waterfall, nearly fifty feet across. We all tilt our heads back in unison, mouths agape at such a sight, as the bus passes under the shadow of the cross.

The church itself is a sprawl of connected buildings all pushed against a massive wall of windows, making it look like a series of proud cliffs amidst a pond and a tasteful, subdued nine hole golf course.

Calling this place a church is wrong. It's more like some corporation's idea of a mall, amusement park, and religious center all rolled into one awkward package. The parking lot itself is a lot bigger than a lot of farm towns I'd been chased out of.

The bus stops and lets me and half of the old folks off at one of the apparently dozen entrances. I stay outside and read the Welcome Sign and Map. YOU ARE HERE! Between at least five or six main houses of worship, ranging in size from a hundred pews or so all the way up to nineteen hundred seats, laser light show included, there's also a preschool playroom, an arcade for the older kids, classrooms, meeting rooms, a bookstore, a coffeehouse, even a goddamn CD store.

I wonder if they've got any Mahalia Jackson.

Probably not.

I drag myself inside and give myself a ticking time clock, like Snake Plisken in Escape From New York. If I couldn't locate the right chapel in fifteen minutes, I'd come back outside, have a smoke before heading back inside to finish the job.

I check Mr. Banker's watch, counting down the deadline.

There's a word tattooed in medieval lettering inside the wrist, just under the watchband. MISCHIEF. I tend forget the tattoos are there sometimes, and slide my right sleeve up. MAYHEM.

The tats help me find the proper mood as I step inside. I'm right. The place is a fucking mall.

I start by looking for any temporary signs, the kind that've got letters you can slide in and out. It takes a while.

There's a slim girl next to a sign up ahead. She's blond. Angelic. My cock stirs slightly, like a sleepy puppy blinking at the possibility of some fun. I try to imagine hitting it with a rolled-up newspaper. Not here, I tell myself firmly. Not now.

"Are you looking for the Stiglitz funeral, sir?" Her voice sounds rough. Eyes puffy and red. She's been crying. I get closer; she seems genuinely stunned. It's easy to see this girl still in college, trying to comprehend her grandfather's death.

Poor thing. They've put her out in front, to herd traffic.

"I am," I say. "And you are...?"

"I'm Mr. Stiglitz' granddaughter, Yvette."

I give a deep nod, almost a low bow. "Death can be so unfair, Ms. Stiglitz. My deepest condolences."

She doesn't exactly know how to react, but covers it adorably, gesturing at one of the chapels. "He's... you'll want... in there."

I give her a solemn, commiserating smile and follow her direction. The funeral for Mr. Claude P. Stiglitz is being held in the second-biggest sanctuary. I pass between two ushers handing out funeral programs and step into the auditorium.

The place is packed. Over a thousand people. At least. I have no idea if Claude was a businessman, a politician, a televangelist; it doesn't matter. There's a hell of a lot of his closest friends here and it's time to get that angel Yvette out of my mind and really go to work.

But first, there's a goddamn gauntlet of grieving relatives to get through. It's more like a receiving line at a wedding. The two sisters and their husbands are up front.

Alice has some serious skills at this deception thing; not even her eyes give anything away as we shake hands. Then her husband. I can smell that he's got a mistress.

And now, Alice does too.

I wonder if the waitress is here.

The younger sister, Candace, looks like she stepped out of a Stepford wives' handbook. Tall. Thin. Blond. Chilly. The only things missing are the pearls around her neck and an American flag pin on her lapel.

She glares at me suspiciously. This woman looks like a severe Sunday schoolteacher who thinks smiling is a sin, like she not only taught the abstinence programs in this vast mall of a church, she damn well practiced what she preached.

There's something about her though, a quick, furtive lick at her bottom lip as we nod at each other. I don't even think she's aware of the movement. There's an anxious heat coming from under her conservative clothes.

In my mind, I raise the rolled-up newspaper and give Mr. Happy downstairs a threatening glare.

The line moves slowly. On and on. Shaking hands, murmuring condolences.

At the very end, the widow. Rosa. She doesn't look heartbroken. She looks amazing. A trophy-wife with a capital fucking T. Cuban maybe? Early thirties. Black hair. Dark eyes I could fall into headfirst and disappear for years. An hourglass figure with more curves than a 1970 Corvette. Va-va-voom, baby. Four-inch stilettos bring her up to my chest. Her cleavage, while tastefully contained, could make a dead man stand up and shout, "Hallelujah!"

Her accent is wonderful. "Did you know my husband long, Mister...?"

"I was only recently introduced to him, I'm afraid." I think about MISCHIEF and MAYHEM on my wrists and shake her hand. M and M. "Michael Myers."