COMMEMORATE
(to call to remembrance)
§
You nervously tug at the waist of
your pants and shift your weight from your left foot to your right, then back
again. Somewhere in your head, a
mocking voice chides, here you are at the funeral of the only real friend
you ever had, and all you can think about is the fact that your suit is too
big?
The priest hasn’t begun talking
yet, and you force yourself to look around.
You’re vaguely grateful that Rikki’s family decided to hold the services
in Pennsylvania, rather than in California.
You don’t think anyone is prepared to handle paparazzi this morning.
You’re all standing in a u-shape
around the raised coffin, near the back of the small cemetery. Rikki would have wanted it this way, you
think. He’d have balked at the idea of
a large, garish event with camera flashes and ornate floral displays. You keep looking around, but there’s no one
and nothing you really want to see.
Everything around you is just another reminder of what you’ve done, as
if you possibly needed any more. Across
the coffin from you stand Rikki’s parents, both crying silently. You fear that it’s you that they blame for
this, that it’s you who took their child away from them and brought him along
on this crazy rock and roll ride to begin with. And they would be right.
It was your fault that this had happened. They just wouldn’t realize how right they were.
Directly in front of you is the
coffin, so close that you could touch it, but you don’t dare. It is made of some kind of dark red wood,
although you’ve never known anything about that sort of thing and doubt you
ever will. All you know is that you
didn’t pay for it because Rikki’s parents refused to take your money, and for
some reason, that hurts you almost as much as anything else.
Bobby is standing to the left of
you. You haven’t dared meet his gaze
since your arrival, and you know that people were looking at you funny when you
showed up alone. Glancing over, you see
that the bassist’s hands are balled into tight fists by his sides. Looking up, you see that his jaw is
clenching and unclenching slowly, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to keep
from crying, or trying to keep from splitting your skull open. You figure it’s probably both.
CC is on your other side. He hasn’t exactly been friendly to you since
this all happened, either, but then, you and CC are notorious for not exactly
being friendly. The entire time he’s
been there, he’s been staring at the coffin with the same strange, vacant look
in his eyes. At first, you thought he
might be high, but gradually, it became clear to you that he’s not. You’re proud of him for that, but don’t dare
tell him.
You wonder how it came to pass
that you were standing here at Rikki’s funeral between the two remaining
members of your band, two men who clearly hated you. You supposed that it was because it is what people expected to
see, and with so much tragedy and conflict all around you, it was simply the
way things had to be done. All of the
hatred in the world couldn’t keep the three of you from keeping a modicome of
civility at this moment, and you’re grateful for it.
The priest has begun to speak now,
but you can’t hear what he’s saying.
There’s something too real, too final about all of this, and you tune
out his words and stare mutely at the ground, trying not to lose it in front of
all of these people. Your overwhelming
guilt is compounded by the feeling of being guilty for feeling guilty. In the end you were the only one who could
have kept this from happening, and instead you made sure you crossed all the
necessary t’s and dotted all the necessary i’s to assure your best friend a
quick trip to the grave. The idea makes
your stomach twist.
You’re tired. So tired.
You haven’t been this kind of tired in years, the kind of tired where
every muscle in your body aches and you constantly feel like you’re on a head
full of bad acid. You haven’t slept more
than half an hour at a time for the past three days, and every time you eat
anything, it comes right back up. Your
knuckles are swollen and torn open from hitting everything you got the chance
to, and you’re pretty sure that one or two fingers are broken. There are black circles under your eyes and
you know that you look like shit, but thankfully no one expects you not to.
The priest is droning on with the
funeral rites and for some reason, it’s making you sick to your stomach. You want to go up there and choke the son of
a bitch, tell him that you don’t care if this is the way that funerals
are supposed to be performed or not.
The man being buried today was your best friend in the world and he
deserves more than this prefabricated ceremony. You manage to keep your impulses in check, somehow.
You’ve managed to keep all of the
memories at bay over the past few days.
You were safe from them as long as you’d managed to keep yourself busy,
and you’d certainly been busy. There
were shows to cancel, people to inform… and hell, an era to end. But now you had nothing at all to do but
stand here and wait for this funeral to be over, and so now the memories came
and there was little you could do to stop them.
A hotel room somewhere in
Washington state. You’d been working
yourself too hard and it had caught up to you, caught up to you like it always
did no matter how hard you pushed against it, and you had ended up with a
raging fever, throwing up like your body was trying to turn itself inside
out. And he had been there, he was the
only one who had been there, by your side on the white-tiled bathroom floor,
holding your hair and stroking the sweaty flesh of your back for hours. Then later, practically carrying you to bed
and just sitting in a chair and watching serenely while you went in and out of
fitful sleep, and when you’d woken up the next morning, he was still sitting
there, just watching. It hadn’t
mattered to him that he had a million things to do that day or that he couldn’t
go out and party with the guys. And
you’d never even thanked him.
Once he’d gotten arrested for
you. You had beaten the absolute snot
out of some asshole after a show, although at this point you couldn’t even
venture a guess as to why, and chances are, you hadn’t had much of a reason
when it happened. All you remember is
that when the cops showed up demanding to know who was responsible, Rikki had
come forth without hesitation and taken the full blame for the fight. He’d spent a night in jail for that. While he was behind bars, you were in one,
doing body shots with a Brazilian stripper whose name was the only part of her
you didn’t get familiar with.
There were a hundred stories, all
with the same ending, and that was with you being an ungrateful, thankless
shithead. There had been countless
times that he’d sacrificed anything he could possibly sacrifice to you, and all
you’d ever done is take from him as though you were entitled to it. He’d given you sex, drugs, groupies,
freedom, love. Bought and lied and
fought his way through your messes so that you didn’t have to worry about
them. Defended you in every possible
way, even when you didn’t deserve it, which was often. And he’d done all of this without ever once
asking for reciprocation or even acknowledgement. Without ever once seeming even slightly as though he didn’t want
to. He’d never once stopped looking at
you as though you were the most wonderful, precious person in his world.
The only emotion more powerful in
your life than his love for you is your hatred for yourself.
And then suddenly you look up and
realize that the funeral is over and people are slowly wandering away from the
casket. You hadn’t realized you’d been
off in space so long.
You clear your throat and give one
final lingering look at the coffin before turning away from it. Part of you wants to just stand here and
watch as it is lowered into the ground and covered with dirt, but you know that
realistically you couldn’t handle that at all.
By the time you turn around, Bobby and CC have already begun walking
away. You fight back the urge to call
out to them, knowing that you have nothing to say, least of all anything they’d
want to hear.
For a moment, you just stay where
you are, watching everyone walk towards their cars. You’ve never felt so alone.
You know that there’s a reception being held at Rikki’s parents’ house,
but you’re not sure whether you’re supposed to attend it or not. The funeral was one thing; you’d gone to
that because he was your best friend and you wanted to pay whatever pathetic
final respects you could. But you
weren’t sure about the reception, weren’t sure how receptive anyone
would be to your presence.
You feel a hand on your shoulder
and jump involuntarily before you realize that it’s only Smoothie. You look at each other expectantly, both
hoping that the other will have something to say. You frown. “Do you
think…” You clear your throat. “Do you think I should go to the reception?”
Smoothie studies you for a
minute. He doesn’t really know what
happened between you and Rikki, nor you and the other guys, only that whatever
it was was not something to be taken lightly, and that whatever it was has
severed your ties with everyone in the band.
But he’s the best person to ask, all the same. Levelheaded and honest Smoothie, who will give you the best
advice, even now when your best friend is dead and your other friends hate
you. He takes a breath. “I think that it would be inappropriate for
you to come here and then to not go to the reception,” he says evenly.
“I don’t know if they’ll
appreciate my being there,” you respond, unable to look directly at him.
“Bret, no one is going to cause
any trouble after a funeral,” he explains.
“And besides, it’s a matter of showing your respect.”
You sigh. “All right.
If you’re sure.” The feeling of
relying on someone else to tell you what you should do is entirely
foreign. You’ve always been completely
in charge, but you just can’t handle that at all. Not now, not anymore. The
horrible catch-22 here is that the only person that could help you get through
this is the person you’re going through it because of. Although really, the only person who’s
putting you through this is yourself, and it’s been that way since the beginning.
“I’m sure,” Smoothie assures you. “Come on.
You can ride with me.”
“I’ve got a cab waiting,” you
offer feebly. Everyone else had flown
out and rented cars, but you didn’t trust yourself to operate a vehicle.
He waves the idea off and gestures
toward his car parked by the side of the road.
“I’ll take care of that,” he says soothingly. “Just get in the car.”
Lacking the strength to protest,
you simply nod and walk the few yards to Smoothie’s car. The passenger-side door is unlocked and you
tug it open, wincing slightly at the pain in your hand. Once inside, you pull your knees up to your
chest, barely able to fit in the seat in this position. You absent-mindedly reach up and tug the
rubber band holding your ponytail together and your hair slips down over your
face. You close your eyes, wishing that
you were anywhere, doing anything but this.
A moment later, Smoothie climbs
into the car beside you and starts the engine.
“You all right?”
“Not really,” you say into your
knees.
“Are you going to be?”
You squeeze your eyes shut more
tightly. “Let’s just get this over
with.”
Rikki’s parents lived less than
two miles from the cemetery, and you sit through the short car ride in complete
silence with your knees still pulled up to your chest. When you feel the car stop, you carefully
unfold yourself and resist the urge to bolt.
You watch out of the corner of your eye as Smoothie gets out of the car
and closes his door, then walks around to the passenger side. As he opens the door, you feel like an
invalid. You look up at him and wonder
what he sees when looks at you. Does he
see what a horrible monster you are?
How even though this is the worst pain you’ve ever felt, it’s not a
tenth of what you deserve? You don’t
deserve his kindness nor anyone else’s.
“Are you ready to do this?” he
asks gently. He extends a hand.
You stare at his hand. “I’ll be there in a minute,” you say
quietly.
“Come on,” he insists. “We’ll go in together.”
“I don’t want to go in
together.” You try to sound firm and
commanding, but it doesn’t work and all that comes out is a voice you barely
recognize as your own. It sounds tired
and old.
“Bret—“
You close your eyes again. “I’m serious,” you say with a bit more
force. “I’ll be in. Just give me a minute.”
You hear him sigh. “All right,” he agrees reluctantly. “If you need me…” He doesn’t complete the
thought and you watch his legs as he walks away.
After a moment, you pull yourself
out of the car. Every muscle in your
body hurts, and you wish they hurt worse.
You stand before the house and try
to remember the last time you’d seen it, but you can’t. All you’re certain of is that it was a
happier time than this one. You chuckle
to yourself in an unamused way. The
Holocaust was a happier time than this one.
You slowly make your way across
the sidewalk and up the steps onto the porch.
Only the screen door is closed and you can see people inside, an entire
house full of sad people wearing black and eating the obligatory post-funeral
finger foods. Again you feel your
stomach turn and you think for a moment that you might be sick, but you choke
it down. With a sigh, you pull the door
open and go inside.
At first, no one even turns and
looks at you, and you feel a terrible pang of isolation before you realize that
a part of you hopes that no one notices you at all. As if on cue, you somehow catch Rikki’s mother’s eye from across
the room, and before you can duck out of the way, she is coming toward
you. You self-consciously straighten
your posture and wish you hadn’t taken your hair down, even though she’d never
seemed to have anything to say when you were wearing a bandana and eyeliner.
“Hello, Bret,” she says. You try to analyze her tone to see if it’s
cold, but the only thing you can hear is the sadness.
“Peg,” you say with a slight
nod. You want to hug her, but you’re
not sure that you should.
“How are you holding up?”
You give her a sad smile. She’s always been like a mother to all four
of you. “I’m okay,” you lie. “How about you?”
She closes her eyes and then opens
them again, and you realize she’s trying not to cry. “Oh, you know,” she says, looking at the floor. A moment passes before she looks up
again. “Bret…”
“What is it?”
“Bobby… well, Bobby said that you
boys had a fight,” she says. You can
tell that she is asking because she needs to, not because she wants to.
You stiffen. Over her shoulder, you see Bobby in the
living room, leaning against a wall.
He’s got a beer in his hand and you almost laugh at yourself for wanting
to call him on it. He is staring at you
with a level of hatred you don’t think you’ve ever seen on anyone before, and
you have to force yourself to pull away from it and turn your attention back to
Rikki’s mother. She is looking up at
you expectantly, and you know that she wants you to deny it. You silently curse Bobby for telling her
that, not because you didn’t deserve it, but because she didn’t. “Yes,” you say finally, barely able to look
at her. “We did.”
“Oh,” she says, her voice an
octave higher than it usually is. Her
hand flutters to her chest and then back down to her side. You feel your heart break all over again.
Suddenly Bobby is standing beside
her, and your stomach clenches. He puts
a hand on Peggy's shoulder. “Are you
all right?” he asks her gently.
She reaches up and pats his
hand. “I’m all right, dear,” she
says.
“Am I interrupting? I’d just like to talk to Bret for a few
minutes, if that’s okay with you.” You
bite the inside of your cheek.
“That’s fine,” she says, looking
distracted. “Yes. That’s fine.” She turns and walks away, and you wish that she wouldn’t.
“Why don’t we go outside?” Bobby
says, in the same soothing voice he’d used when he was talking to Rikki’s
mother. But there’s nothing soothing
about his fingers grasping your arm tightly, and there’s nothing soothing about
the look in his eyes. You don’t say
anything, because there’s nothing to be said, as he spins you around and leads
you back onto the front porch, closing the front door behind him.
Once outside, he lets go of your
arm, and you take a few tentative steps backwards. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me,” you say.
“I don’t,” he says, and now
his voice has changed. It drips with
icy sarcasm, and it’s almost scary. “I
just want to know what the fuck business you think you have coming here.”
You look at him. His brown eyes are angry slits in his
face. “Smoothie said that I should
come,” you offer lamely.
“Then he’s as fucking stupid as
you are,” Bobby spits back. “I told you
what I’d do if I ever fucking saw your face again, Michaels.”
“Bob… this isn’t the place for
this,” you say.
“This isn’t the fucking place for you,”
he hisses. “What kind of selfish son of
a bitch are you to come to his fucking parents’ house? You killed their child!”
The words knock all of the wind
out of you, and they only hurt so much because they’re true. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,”
is all you can think of to say.
He laughs in a very alarming
manner. “You should have fucking
thought of that before you turned him into your personal fucking whipping
boy.” He takes a few slow breaths. “I don’t know what you said to him that
morning and I don’t want to know. I
just want to know if you’re fucking happy now, Bret. Is this enough for you?
Taking his life away by degrees clearly wasn’t. You had to take the entire thing before you
were satisfied.”
You just look at him dumbly. There’s nothing you can possibly respond to
that with, and you don’t think he’s actually looking for an answer.
“Listen to me carefully,
Michaels,” he says, “because is the last time you’re ever going to hear my
voice, and if I had things my way, my voice would be the last thing you heard
before you got your fucking spinal column ripped out.” He pauses.
“Are you fucking listening?”
You give him a barely perceptible
nod.
“Well, then you won’t forget what
I’m about to tell you.” He leans over
so that his face is only inches from yours and you can smell the beer on his
breath. “Everything that’s happened is your
fault. You are the reason
that he did what he did to me. You
are the reason that the band is destroyed.
You are the reason that his parents are in there right now
mourning the loss of their son. You
killed him, Bret, and I want you to fucking remember that for the rest of your
life. Every time you wake up and look
at your pathetic life in the mirror, I want you to remember that.” He draws a breath. “The only reason I’m not going to kill you right here on this porch
is because one of us has respect for the family you destroyed, but trust me, if
I ever see you again, things will be very different. Now… get… the fuck… out of here.” He says these last words with a piercing
finality before spinning on his heel and going back into the house, slamming
the door behind him.
For a moment, you stare after him,
trying to absorb everything he’s just said, then you mechanically reach into your pocket and pull out your cell
phone. You don’t hear the operator as
she connects you to the local cab company and you barely hear yourself as you
give the address to the person who answers the call. They say they can have someone there in five minutes. You don’t end the call, just drop the
phone. You hear it bounce a few times
on the steps before hitting the pavement with a final crack. You look down at it and see that it’s split
in half, and as you step off of the porch, you grind it into the cement with
your heel.
What’s happening in your head
can’t even be classified as thinking.
It’s not thoughts, just fragments, memories, pictures, colors. If you thought you were going insane before,
you’re certain of it now.
You aren’t even aware that time
has passed when you see the yellow taxi pull up in front of the house. You don’t feel the door handle under your
fingers as you climb into the car, don’t see the scenery go by as the driver
pulls away.
“Where to?” the cabbie asks.
You meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Take me to the nearest hospital.”