The Wake

The Wake

Carl had a small circle of family and friends. Today they converged not on the Nautical Lounge (Carl’s favorite bar), but on his creaking asbestos-shingled homestead on Asbury Road. Storm clouds lined the horizon as his mourners arrived and parked their cars, trucks, and motorcycles along the curb out front.

The home’s cramped interior grew louder by the minute. Most folks muscled their way into the kitchen, where bottles of booze – Canadian Club, Popov, Seagram’s 7 – lined the countertop. They filled glasses in their grief, while cans of Bud, Miller, Pabst flew from colorful boxes in the fridge.

The ten mourners drank, then drank some more. Their mingled smokes – both skunky and acrid – formed a thickening fog that few folks seemed to notice and no one seemed to mind.

“Okay, okay, everyone!" an older, gray-haired man said. “Let’s get started.”

Gradually, the chaos of voices subsided, until one remained – some guy slurring curses into a cell phone.

“Hey Jason! Can it, will ya?” the gray-haired man said.

“Gotta go,” Jason said into his phone. “But listen – this ain’t settled!” Then he hung up.

The gray-haired man glared at him, then continued.

“It’s our family’s tradition to remember our loved ones, by sharing our memories about the dearly departed. Those memories don’t have to be all good stuff. Just things that really stick in your mind. So speak up, everyone.”

A collective muttering moved through the house as folks considered their options.

“Carl, I always dug your outrageous handlebar mustache,” a hulking biker in a spiked black leather jacket said. “I tried to grow one as cool as yours, but I never could. Here’s to you, buddy.” He raised his glass and tossed back several shots of vodka.

Several folks pointed at the biker’s lackluster facial hair – his spotty beard, scruffy mustache – and laughed. The biker wasn’t amused, and he drew up to one of his detractors, a scrawny guy wearing an oversize Orioles cap. He glowered down at him from above, and the scrawny guy shut up. That seemed to satisfy everyone.

“I remember when Carl was on the lam for growin all that dope out back, in his garage,” an older fellow said.

The crowd’s muttering turned to grumbling.

“He kept movin from place to place, crashin on people's couches, one after another. Ended up on my love seat for a week, then shacked up with an old girlfriend til the cops caught up with him. I thought – Carl, why you so dumb that you grew it right out back? Half the time you left the damn door hangin open so wide the grow lights were visible down the block!”

“And who was buyin his weed?” a middle-aged woman shot back. “Was you buyin, Jimmy? ‘Cause if you was, you can’t be callin Carl out!”

Jimmy turned and glared at her, his face flushing red.

“I didn’t buy none of it!” he said, and the grumbling subsided.

“Anyone else remember,” another man said, “how he couldn’t stand dogs barkin at night? When I lived in his basement, back in ‘04, he carried a grocery bag full o’ rocks up to his bedroom. If the dog next door started yappin at two or three in the mornin, he’d curse at it and throw rocks to shut the mutt up!”

Folks erupted with laughter. One lady had to dry tears from her eyes.

“Yeah, he sure hated loud noise at night!” someone chimed in.

A crash of breaking glass made everyone jump. Someone ran into the kitchen, where the huge bottle of Canadian Club had fallen, exploded on the floor into a pool of caramel colored whiskey and shards of glass.

“Who left that bottle on the edge of the counter?” he said.

The crowd moved toward the kitchen, some of them rudely shoving between and past others to get a better view. Nobody wanted to clean up the mess, so they lost interest soon enough.

“I think we can all agree,” said a biker with long-spiked hair, “that Carl was a very complex man. He once lent me a book about the history of this neighborhood. He was all happy that I was interested. I looked it over and brought it back a couple weeks later, and he blew up in my face! I had no idea what I did wrong. Carl said he thought I’d hawked the book and he’d never get it back! He was real unpredictable like that. Grinnin one minute, explodin the next.”

Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. Just then, the phone on an end table rang, and everyone went silent. Folks glanced at each other, waiting for someone to answer it. At last, the gray-haired man picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

A distant-sounding but enraged “Fuck all of you!” escaped from the phone, followed by a deafening click. The man gingerly set the phone onto its cradle, his face like stone.

“I could swear that was Carl,” he said. “Sounded just like ‘im.”

Muttering replaced the silence, as some folks refilled their glasses or grabbed beers from the fridge. Finally, someone else spoke up.

“I remembered how he loved fireworks, especially near the fourth of July,” a man said, his eyes bloodshot from pot. Everyone voiced their agreement, so he paused, then went on.

“There was some lady down the street Carl couldn’t stand. She came walkin up his street the day before the fourth. He watched from the door, as she got closer and closer. As she passed in front, he lit a whole pack of firecrackers, kicked open the front door, and threw em at her! She was scared out of her mind when they started blowin up all around ‘er. Got so terrified, she fell over, let go of her dog’s leash, and the dog ran off. Never seen Carl laugh so hard!”

Just then, smoke began pouring from the right pocket of his jeans. Folks fell back, shouting, pointing, and the guy, wide-eyed with horror, undid his belt and dropped his drawers. He stood there in his underwear as a blinding, white-hot flame erupted from inside his pocket.

“Your phone!” a woman screamed. “Your fuckin phone’s on fire!”

A teenage girl grabbed the cuffs of his jeans and dragged them, still burning, toward and out the front door. Outside, on the cement of the front porch, the fire burned on. Back indoors, folks were fanning magazines at the smoke from the torched lithium and plastics. Some were coughing, others were sneezing, and it took a few minutes before folks calmed down.

“Shit, Carl!” the guy in his underwear shouted. “You owe me a new phone!” He shook his fist at the ceiling. Then a broom, propped in the corner, tipped forward and fell to the floor with a smack.

“What the hell?” a lady said. “Everybody see that? Ain’t nobody touched the thing!”

The whole house fell silent. Folks gathered round, stared speechless at that broom on the worn, stained carpet.

“Sorry for that, Carl,” said the man in underwear, his face aimed toward heaven.

The mood had shifted, and there was no going back. Folks glanced at one another with wide, nervous eyes. Most mourners folded their arms and refused to say another word. Over the next few minutes, amid quiet, murmured farewells, they took their leave.

On their way out, each patted the shoulder of a younger man with blonde hair, cutoff jeans, and a Harley Davidson t-shirt. Soon, only he remained, while thunder boomed in the distance. He bent over, picked up the broom, propped it back in the corner. Then he sat down on an old, threadbare sofa and lit a Lucky Strike.

Reaching to an end table, he lifted up a small framed photo. He gazed into it, his eyes filled with tears.

“I miss you, Dad,” he said. “Rotten bastards – I’m glad they’s all gone. All they did was make fun o’ ya. To hell with all of em. They’re dead to me now, Pa.”

Then he sniffed the air, as an overpowering reek of pot filled the room. His son dried his eyes and smiled.

“I can’t see ya. But I sure know yer here...”

He reached for his whiskey glass and raised it.

“To you, Pop. Love you, big guy…”

And he drank...