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September 24, 2007

Funereal Disease

I’ve always hated the custom of the wake. Maybe it’s just a Catholic thing, but wakes always bring out the worst in people, starting out as a period of group mourning, descending into a lively party, and then—when everyone gets drunk enough—into a writhing lake of fire, with each friend or family member airing his or her grievances about everyone else in the room. By the end of the evening, we’ve all forgotten why we’ve bothered to get together—that we should both mourn and celebrate the life of the departed.

Thankfully, according to Owen Autumn and Sarah’s (and my) attorney, Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein, Sarah specifically requested no wake, no public viewing, no religious service of any kind—just a simple burial. I had a brief recollection of a conversation with Sarah, many years earlier, in which she’d stated just these wishes. She and I consoled each other over the awful wakes we’ve attended, the tragedy over the funeral ceremonies turning into a series of sidelong glances and disapproving grunts in the wake of…well, the wake. She wanted to keep things simple.

Ironically, as a result of one of these fitful wakes Sarah refused to contact anyone in her family. Her specific wish was not to contact anyone until after the funeral, and then to alert only her sister, Rachel. I hadn’t thought about Rachel in years. I felt awkward getting aroused while sitting in a lawyer’s conference room hearing my ex-fiancée’s burial wishes and thinking about the deceased’s hot younger sister, but there we were.

“Girth, I think you should wait outside for this next part…” Feinstein said.

“Uh…can it wait a few minutes?” I asked.

Owen Autumn met me with a steely look. I shrugged and stood up, the spandex attacking my unit with such force that they could see the outline of the veins snaking through my man-meat. I went out into the waiting room, where Sheila peered at my crotch and gave me all the approval I needed with her eyes.

“I’m in mourning,” I whispered.

“I can help you with that,” she said seductively.

“Maybe later.” I sat down and blocked my throbbing man-at-arms with an issue of Slut-Wrench. The magazine didn’t help to settle things down.

Some time passed. Feinstein and Owen came out of the conference room. Owen looked as forlorn as he had yesterday. He walked over to me, hands in the pockets of his leather pants, and said sullenly, “I guess we’re gonna do this this afternoon. You’re invited. She wants a few people there. Your band, her band…Herc made a phone tree.”

I nodded as Owen handed me a copy of the tree.

I went home and called Riffs and Mikey, who were to call to other people on the list. They both said they’d be there, offered condolences. I asked Riffs to call Margo, even though she wasn’t on the small guest list at all. “It would mean a lot to me,” I said.

“This isn’t about you, man,” Riffs chattered, “but I’ll do it. She should be there.”

“Thanks, Riffs,” I said.

I sat in the still silence of my apartment, doing nothing. I guess you could say I spent my time thinking about Sarah, but in reality I couldn’t commit to thinking about anything. I felt restless but exhausted. Eventually I picked up my guitar. I started to strum. I wrote a song—the song, the only one that could finish what I started on “Man Is It Sweaty!” I knew I had to sing it at the funeral. Sarah Goss had to hear it before they lowered her body into the ground for good.

On Sunday morning, we gathered at Forest Lawn. The weather was nice, sunny as usual. The plot Owen Autumn picked out, I have to admit, was a good spot. She would’ve liked it. She made such a huge deal about worshipping nature, so Owen picked this spot near the shade of an elm tree, on the side of a hill overlooking a little duck pond.

Owen brought Gambol Gutenberg to preside over the service, even though Sarah specifically forbade religious interference. I think Owen brought Gambol more for himself than for her. All of Redstain Attack! and most of Abysmal Crucifix sat in folding chairs arranged in a semicircle around the coffin, which was mounted that weird hydraulic lift thingie they use nowadays to lower caskets into the grave. Colby and Harcourt Abimelech Feinstein also showed up.

I didn’t see Margo anywhere.

Gambol went up to the podium and cleared his throat into the microphone. “Well, it looks like everyone’s here…”

As I sat down, Riffs whispered, “Why’d you bring you guitar?”

“I have the perfect tribute to Sarah.”

“Couldn’t get more perfect than that.” Riffs gestured to an easel erected (in more ways than one) near the casket. It held up (in more ways than one) a large photo of Sarah on stage, semi-nude in a torn mesh tanktop and thong, blonde hair tumbling down her sex-tightened back.

I shrugged, unable to argue.

“Where’s Mikey?” I heard Marie Bennet yell at Gambol with her usual shrillness. She and Mikey bonded over playing bass and remaining largely unrecognized in bands whose larger-than-life leaders absorbed most of the limelight. I think they also fucked for a brief period. Considering Mikey, really brief, I’m sure.

“Who cares?” Gambol retorted.

I snickered and said, “Well, I called him, so he should probably…”

“Fuck you!” Owen snapped.

“Please!” Gambol roared into the microphone.

We all quieted down.

“As we all know,” Gambol began, “I’ve been forbidden by no fewer than four court orders and nine legally binding contracts—not the least of which is Ms. Goss’s notarized burial wishes—from injecting any religion into these services. To those who follow and understand the Church of Rafelman or have read my book Deinetics, I apologized. To the rest of you, let us proceed with the service…”

Mikey’s ‘83 Civic rumbled along the nearby driveway. He leaped out and stamped over, looking a little irritated that we started without him.

“Would anybody like to say a few words?” Gambol asked.

Owen stood. Everyone deferred to him. He went to the podium, and Gambol stood beside him quietly.

“I’ve never loved before,” Owen said, “and I’ll never love again. Being with Sarah… Being…” His voice trembled. “I can only say this now that she’s gone. The one thing—the only thing—the only bad thing…I’m sorry, Girth. I’m sorry for the way I took her from you.” He started sobbing. “I love her more than you ever did, so fuck you, but I’m sorry!

“Also, I want to say a hearty FUCK OFF to the Samuel Oschin cancer care people, who promised she’d live longer and took shitty care of her. I know none of them are here today, but they’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

Feinstein applauded as Owen sat down.

“Anybody else?” Gambol asked into the microphone.

Little Riffs Nicky started bawling loudly. Gambol tried to ignore him, searching each person’s face. Finally, Dominic Castonguay (Redstain keyboardist), face red and puffy from what we assumed was a nonstop crying jag, took the stage. He’s an old, grizzled kind of guy with long brown hair and those tinted glasses—not quite sunglasses, but darker than normal glasses. He talks like a total femme.

“She’s the only person who understood how deep I was,” Dom said hoarsely. “I don’t understand why God took her away from us. I…I’m sorry, I can’t say…” He broke into a choked sob and galloped back to his seat.

Gambol grinned into the microphone and said, “God didn’t take her away, for He does not exist. Instead, she was called back to Olympus by Zeus because as Hephaistelicatouma—”

“Shut the fuck up, Gutenberg!” Mikey snapped.

Gambol glared and said without emotion, “If there are no other speakers…”

Nobody volunteered. Marie collapsed into Mikey’s arms, sobbing. Mikey glanced at me and gave a subtle thumbs-up. I clutched my crotch in acknowledgment, and he nodded.

“Mr. McDürchstein has asked to sing a song he’s written specifically for this—”

“No!” Owen shrieked. “I don’t wanna hear none of his shit. Not today!”

“Fuck you, motherfucker,” I said. “You can’t stop the rock.”

“Yes, I can,” Owen said, turning with confidence to Feinstein. Feinstein gave a reluctant head-shake.

“That’s what I thought,” I said, taking my guitar to the podium.

I sang the song I wrote, a song entitled “Funereal Disease.” I had the presence of mind to jack a small DAT recorder into the podium sound system, so while the quality isn’t exceptional you can download a fairly high-quality version of the song.

Click here to download “Funereal Disease.”

Cancer took the one we love Want to curse the motherfucking gods above Why’d she have to go so soon On a Friday afternoon?

Why can’t we make love?
Why, when we fit like a glove?
Why did they take you away?
Why, when I want to get laid again?

I won’t forget the way she looked at me
When I jabbed her with my man-meat.
Her eyes rolled back, she screamed with ecstasy.
Now she’s in a pine box before me.

Why did you have to die?
Why is it that I can’t cry?
Why do you no longer breathe?
Why does your body smell so much like pee?

As I set my guitar down, I caught a glimpse of Margo standing behind a tree, sobbing. While Gambol led them in whatever the fuck was going to happen next, I went over to talk to her.

“Margo…” I whispered.

“Why, Girth?” she asked.

“I wrote that song for you,” I said. “I thought, What if she died and it just poured—”

“Save it, asshole. You think I don’t know shit about music? You just took the bridge of ‘Man Is It Sweaty‘—the song you admitted to writing about her, and added a chorus to it. It’s about her, goddammit. I know how your mind works. I read your book.”

“Yeah, well…sorry. It’s hard to…I dunno, it’s hard to move forward.”

“Maybe I realized that.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“I don’t kn—Girth, look out!”

I can’t tell you what I felt in the next few moments. I saw blackness, followed by stars, then a warm sensation in the back of my head, which eventually transformed into the worst throbbing I’ve felt since yesterday morning. It also dawned on me at some point that I was lying on my back on somebody’s gravesite.

Owen Autumn stood before me, one fleshy hand wrapped around a splintery two-by-four.

“How dare you write something like that about my woman?” he rasped, his spittle dotting my face.

“She wasn’t your woman, man. She’s not a possession. I loved her, too.”

“Yeah, past tense.”

“Yeah, past tense, so think about that before you go around hitting people with two-by-fours, you fucking cockscucker.”

“Sorry.” Owen dropped the two-by-four, then extended the same hand to help me up. I felt like shit.

“I know,” I said. “Your emotions are raw.”

“So are your mom’s.”

I let that one slide. A bouquet of roses dangled on the edge of a table behind the easel. We each took one and, in an orderly fashion, tossed it on her casket as the creepy groundskeeper guy worked the machine that lowered it. Riffs did some weird Jew thing with a stone. I don’t get it, either.

Afterward, we all shared a silent drink at Rosalind’s Ethiopian Cuisine, which at one time or another had been our watering hole. We took to talking some; I hadn’t seen most of the Redstain guys in years, but I mostly talked with Margo. We tried to hash out the various problems with our marriage and come up with some kind of solution. We were there long after everyone, including Owen, left.

“Are you coming home?” I finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Margo susurrated.

“Please…”

“I think I need another night. I’m sorry, Girth.” She stood up. “I’ll…I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Just like that, she left.

I sat alone for awhile, ordering Lemon Drop after Lemon Drop until the bartender told me his blender broke. I left, even though I was pretty sure he was lying.

I drove my hearse around for awhile, soaking up the cool of the night. Then I went home and slept like a rock.

Alone.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on September 24, 2007 7:48 PM
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