Three Word Wednesday 4/21/2010

It’s not like I didn’t love her once I just didn’t love her anymore. Long ago my feelings for her had ebbed into a collection of fond memories and depressive nightmares. There were good times, no doubt, but there were also bad times and it was those bad times that ultimately led to my departure. I hadn’t even thought about her for quite some time when I got the call from my brother that Michelle had been killed in a car accident. Starring down at the closed coffin in front of me now I couldn’t help but feel a little sad but wasn’t sure if it was for my loss or hers. I said my goodbye, a little prayer and proceeded towards the receiving line of Michelle’s grieving family.
There’s a funny thing about funerals. People thank you for coming, hugs and kind words are the currency of the day and the regurgitation of “It was just her time” or “She has gone to be with God” are suppose to comfort those left behind. I wonder how much of a comfort that is to a mother that has had to identify an accident ripped corpse at the morgue or a child who has no one left to “kiss away” their boo-boos. Apparently grieving also builds quite an appetite. The reception room is always adorned with various appetizers and treats. Of course these days there are no more “wakes” there are only “calling hours” or “celebration of life” ceremonies. It’s all bullshit really. A marketing ploy by greedy funeral directors who’s only mission in life is to negotiate the terms of your loved one’s passing into a display of your affection by what kind of meat is on the platter and how many chairs you want set up. I ate my requisite amount of ham salad, doled out my quota of hugs, told three people that she was “with god now” and left.
I hadn’t spent much time in my home town since college. It seems the only time I ever came “home” was for funerals, oh sorry, celebrations of life, weddings and the random holiday. I had outgrown this place long ago and, although it’s streets and landscape were familiar I felt like a stranger making the drive from the funeral home back to my parents place. My taste and style of living had become more ostentatious than this modest New England town could provide. I had been here for seven hours and I was already bored. It was 8pm when my parents settled in for another Murder She Wrote re-run, I had to get out of there.

Three Word Wednesday 4/14/2010

The room was cold and damp, poorly lit and had an odor of old gym socks. A shadowy figure cloaked by a fog of cigar smoke sat at the end of an old wooden table. “This is him?” he asked of the thick necked goon that had escorted me into this pseudo lair. “Yeah Boss, this is the guy” the cretin mumbled. “Leave us”, the seated patriarch apparent commanded. Goon boy backed out of the room, closing the thick door behind him with a thud.

“Sit”, the smoke obstructed mouth beckoned. I walked over to the table and sat in the only other chair in the room. I deducted it may be the culprit of the gym sock odor. “It seems you’ve been asking a lot of questions around here lately, what is your interest in such old stories? Tales told by old men to widen the eyes of their grand-children.” “I guess I am just a history bluff” I replied, trying not to sound too brash. “Mind your tongue or find it removed from your mouth” , said the man, leaning forward as he spoke I could make out a long scar running the length of the left side of his face. “Apologies, Mr… Mr… What should I call you?” I asked. “ My name is not important Mr. Hood”. Apparently he knew mine.

“Perhaps I could do something to lubricate this situation” I stated, reaching for the thick envelope inside my jacket pocket. I heard a pistol cock and a dark figure stepped out of an unlit corner and ordered me to show my hands. “Where the hell did he come from?” I thought to myself as I held up the envelope. “Does it look like I need your fucking money?” the seated man snipped. “Actually it does, my money, a maid, an electrician, a hazmat team and maybe a neck for goon boy” Were the words I wanted to say but valuing life over humor “No sir, no disrespect intended” was all I could mutter. The surprise guest lowered his pistol and backed into the dark corner.

“State your purpose Mr. Hood and choose wisely of word”, said the man with an obvious tone of shortened patience for my presence. “I am looking for information regarding the crypt that holds the remains of Saint Sebastian” The man motioned with an upraised hand. I heard the pistol cock again…….