Thank you to several of the crew at Specialized Iterations for their help.
I threw the final shovel of dirt on top of the grave, patted it all sort of flat, then sat down on the grass near-by and started to sob... not for the first time that day.
The funeral ceremony was long since over. Everyone who wanted threw a handful of dirt on the grave. Some, not many, picked up the shovel thrust into the dirt pile and threw a shovelful of the brown dirt onto the white coffin... the coffin she picked out for herself when it became obvious to all that she wasn't getting out of this... "adventure," as she liked to call them, with only minor scrapes and bruises. This time, her punishment was going to fit the crime, she had said.
Her crime, she knew, was being too selfish to live life like most other people. She had the gifts of music and beauty, and she used them like weapons of mass destruction to get what
she
wanted, and to hell with anybody else. She didn't care if you loved her or hated her, as long as she got what she wanted from you. It was better if you hated her, because then she would just use you for a while and toss you away. It was much worse if you loved her, because then she would heap all sorts of abuse and indignities upon you until there was nothing left, finally crushing you under her boot heel like a spent cigarette butt.
Of course, then there was me. I loved her and she loved me back, so she kept telling me, and I got the ultimate indignity of being crushed over and over again, like a cat with nine lives losing one every so often. All because I loved her, and she loved me back.
I don't know how long I sat on the grass sobbing, but I eventually noticed several of the cemetery workers approaching to finish up at the grave site. I picked up my suit coat off the ground, fished my handkerchief out of my breast pocket and dried my eyes. I folded my coat over my arm, nodded at the worker who appeared to be in charge, slowly walked to my car and drove off. That would be the last time I was sober for a month.
Everybody called him Father Ron, but technically he was Rev. Ronald Combs. He appeared one day when I was heading into my local liquor store, a 10-minute walk from my quiet country home. The store opened at 10 AM, and by 10:05, I usually had made my day's selection of a bottle and was heading home. Not on this day, however. On this day, Father Ron was waiting for me by the door to the liquor store.
"I know you know she's not going to show up again no matter how long you stay drunk," he said to me as I reached for the door handle.
I jumped back like I'd touched hot metal. I had no idea who the hell this guy was, only that he was dressed like a Catholic priest... and I wasn't a Catholic. At that moment, I couldn't have told anyone what religion I was, and I didn't care. I was one hungover son of a bitch, and I wanted my daily bottle of drunk. I was actually thinking it was going to be a tequila day until that Goddamn priest got in my face.
Maybe it was the hangover, but to me the priest sort of looked like Gene Hackman from the 1970s movie, "The French Connection." That struck me funny, and I chuckled. Okay, I actually coughed and choked a bit. I looked from the priest's face up into the sky, and mumbled, "You've got a helluva sense of humor there, Big Guy."
"You talk to The Boss, too?" Rev. Hackman Look-Alike asked.
I know I gave him my best "fuck you" look, but after being drunk for almost a month straight, I probably looked more like a pathetic asshole than a pissed-off drunk.
"No, former Yankees owner George Steinbrenner's been dead for a long time. I was talking to God, you yutz," I mumbled.
"That's who I was referring to, as well," the priest said in his best friendly tone.
"Then why were you talking about Steinbrenner?" I asked.
I was pretty sure he was sober, but he seemed to be making less sense than me.
"Reverend, one of us needs help, and I'm sorry to say it but I don't think it's me."
"You wouldn't happen to have a cup of coffee at your home, would you?" he asked.
That was an easier question to answer. I was starting to like this guy.
"Sure do. Why don't we head on over to my place, and I'll make you a good cup of coffee. Can't do any of that froofie shit with the creamy stuff and the crazy flavors, but good old black coffee I can do," I said.
We walked back to my house. On the way he told me his name and the name his congregation called him. He told me he was outside the liquor store waiting specifically for me.
"Was it God or George Steinbrenner who told you about me?" I asked.
"Neither. It was a friend of yours, Steve Rodriguez. He told me you'd had a rough go of it recently and figured I might be able to help."
"Yeah, Steve's a good guy," I said. "I knew he was just trying to help me when I threatened to throw him through my front door recently."
"You wouldn't hit a man of the cloth, would you?" he inquired, not looking too awfully worried.
"Only if you try to put anything other than milk or cream in your damned coffee," I answered honestly.
"Fair enough," he said.
I'm not sure what Father Ron was expecting when he got to my house. It was a four-bedroom, 2,500 square foot ranch, with an attached professional music studio off the back end. Prior to my life coming from a liquor bottle, I was a pretty good music producer by trade.
The house was clean because I had a maid come in every day. I think the good father thought I was going to be living in a hovel... at least maybe a pig sty.
I made a pot of dark roast for my guest. I'll admit to getting the shakes as I started to sober up.
"Why don't you sit here and drink some coffee and I'll be right back. You interrupted my booze run, remember?"
"No, why don't you sit your ass back down in that chair and drink some coffee with me."
It was a command, not a request. I was confused.
"Wait a minute," I protested. "Priests aren't supposed to curse. That's my job."
"No, right now your job is to drink some coffee and tell me what's gone wrong," he said.
