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.”