We sat in the church. I whispered, “Did you know her?”
“No.” said Ann. The sun filtered onto the gray casket.
“This is fun though, huh?”
“It’s okay, I guess.” She has a bored, sleepy look that alarmed me.
My shiny shoe did a little tap-tap. I observed the crying faces, an old guy was really wailing. Ann perked up at that. When the minister spoke about God. Ann folded her arms on her chest, and her eyes clouded over.
“Where do you want to go next?”
“There’s a six o’clock viewing at Oral’s Funeral Home, but it’s a long way.”
We cruised the empty streets. The sun flicked along the distant mountain tops. I reached between her legs, and she slapped them shut, but smiled.
Ann loved funerals. She loved all kinds of spooky things, always bringing home a new story from her hospice job. We were dressed in our professional funeral clothes. She wore a black satin blouse, and skirt with no panties, and stark white stockings. I’m the straight man in a black suit. We looked like we might live forever, with our blinding white teeth and new skin. But the process of death works against every breath and white blood cell.
The sun took a header behind the mountains. I pulled the scarlet red Hyundai up behind a line of cars. The funeral home looked like all of them with its rambling lit up porch, and the huge weeping willow tree. I ran around to Ann’s door; my shiny shoes slapped the payment.
“Thank you, sir.” said Ann. Trolling funeral parlors brought out the gentleman in me. Ann clicked down the sidewalk, swishing in the skirt. She abruptly stopped and bent over acting like her shoe strap needed adjusted and mooned me. My crotch bumped into her ass. She turned and smiled. I looked around, but only saw Mrs. Strep easing the long nose of her black Chrysler behind our Sonata. We knew Mrs. Strep well, she was in our circle. Circle of what, was hard to say?
I held the door for Ann, and I waited for Mrs. Strep. Mrs. Strep wore the classic black shawl, and dark dress. She was a regular old broom rider. I nodded at her. She whispered, “There’s a five o’clock viewing at Porter’s Funeral Home tomorrow night.”
We sat in the back row. A woman came in and right away started hitching and moaning. Ann bumped me and whispered. We did a lot of whispering. “She’s been sedated.”
“Hum, I’m not so sure.” I said, my finger rising like I was deducing some mystery. “See how alert she is rubbing his hand. Oh, listen.”
The woman leaned over the casket and sang, “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.” The young man seemed to be in perfect condition. He was only in a light sleep, just drifting across the River Styx.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word.”
Ann snickered a little too loud and said, “She’s high.”
Mrs. Strep, turned around on her creaky neck and said like an old busybody, “No dear, that’s un-medicated grief. Isn’t it glorious?” She sighed and turned back around and closely watched the woman.
Ann’s red lips turned down, and she looked a little ugly, glaring at Mrs. Strep’s gray bun.
Mr. Oral with his hands clasped together, smiled pleasantly off to the side, but gave us a sharp look. He knew all about our kind. We’re also part of the Bingo crowd. Once in a while someone had a heart attack.
“Isn’t that his mother? I read about this. He was only eighteen. Fentanyl, right?” I said.
“Od’d on H,” said Ann.
Mrs. Strep said, “I think it was Fentanyl dipped cigarettes. There all doing that now. What the heck is Fentanyl made of?” She was like that kid in class always turned around at their desk.
“It’s a synthetic Opioid, deadly as plutonium.” I said.
The door burst open or tried too. It got jammed halfway stopping the intruder. The door was thick glass. “Open you son of a bitch!” A large man stumbled up the aisle, his hair stuck up like bed-head, sporting three day whiskers, wearing a wrinkled golf shirt hanging over tan Dockers. I could smell whiskey and sweat.
Ann whispered with a throaty excited tone. “He’s drunk.” Her bright blue eyes were lit up.
“Oh, my—oh my… A drunk.” purred Mrs. Strep.
We got quiet and watched the show.
“My boy-my boy!” He wailed and dropped to his knees. Like some kind of actor from a Shakespeare tragedy. His large hands grabbed the casket rocking it. Mr. Oral moved fast like the Secret Service, breaking the cardinal rule for a funeral director. Mortuary 101: An undertaker shall not run. The dead require small soft steps.
Oral helped him to his feet, and the casket rocked back on its catafalque.
Mrs. Strep whispered, “Oh my, Ohhh… I’m going to cum.”
“Gross,” said Ann, giggling, her hand seeking the stone in my lap.
The mother rose from her chair, and screamed, “You drunk! You no good drunk. This is your fault!” She pounded his chest like every grief-stricken mother, since the beginning of time. The mortician stepped back into the shadows. Ann held her mouth, giggling, and I pulled her out the door. Before the big drunk turned on us.
Mrs. Strep said. “See you at Porter’s.”
#
At home I took a long cold shower. Ann has become more obsessive about that. I lay on the bed naked with my arms crossed, shivering, hands touching my shoulders in the dead man’s pose. I stare up at the ceiling fan, which glides to a stop. Ann requires absolute silence. I am Ann’s now. Soft fingers push down my eyelids. I am not to move, or it will break the spell. Cold coins touch my eyelids. She lifts her skirt and sings, “Hush little baby don’t say a word.”
THE END
Christopher J Ananias
(image by CJA)
Saragun Springs 
Well, as they say, there’s nowt as funny as folk! dd
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Indeed, it takes all kinds…Thanks CJA
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Christopher
I would say disturbing, but, really, they don’t hurt anyone. Their reaction to the real pain of other people, however, whatever the root cause, is building up one hell of a karmic debt.
Funny, sad, and the sexual nature of it cannot be denied.
Leila
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Hi Leila
Yes, these people have some awful ways to get their kicks. Probably goes with “Pain is funny…” Until it’s yourself. And right, that karmic debt, heaping. Definitely a believer in Karma. I hope it doesn’t include writing a story like this…
Thanks
CJA
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Hi CJA
Oh no, this kind of writing is good karma. It’s the meaning of the action, I figure!
Leila
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L
That’s a relief. lol. Need all the Special K I can get. That sounded cool… but might be a drug thing, lol.
CJ
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CJA
We live in a universe of death and it does weird things to people. And in the so-called modern world, especially the USA, people have been cut adrift from all the usual communal ways of dealing with this weirdness. We are all expected to ignore death, sometimes even while dying. Being half in love with death, or even all the way in love with death as these two seem to quite literally be, is, in many ways, just as irrationally rational a reaction to all of this as anything else is. So-called “morality” is not what people assume. We need to sin if we want to approach the condition of sainthood. If we remain in the lukewarm middle, nothing comes of it. All great saints started out as big-time sinners, so-called. I learned a lot of that from studying the life and work of none other than Johnny Cash. And your story today reminded me of Cash. He would’ve loved this!
I recently discovered the 43-line poem called “The Dark Man” by a certain writer no one’s heard of named Stephen King. He published the poem in 1969 in a small magazine in Maine. He later said this poem is/was the genesis for none other than Randall Flagg in all his various manifestations and permutations. The poem itself is one of my favorite things by King. It has some of his best imagery in it and to say that this poem is realistically “haunting” is an understatement.
Anyway, that poem reminded me of your story for today just like your story for today also reminded me of Johnny Cash. Your work is haunting and your characters are real.
And your sense of humor can be twisted, but it IS NOT sick. It is twisted because the world is twisted. Your writing is cathartic, and Aristotle said that is what writing is supposed to be; and he was right. This kind of thing will not bring bad karma, but it does help to purge the world in a shamanistic kind of way. We all need to face down our shadow, said Carl Jung. Otherwise it will explode without our knowing it in other ways.
Your stories are wildly dramatic, sometimes totally outrageous, and oftentimes wildly hilarious, not to mention tragic. But one thing your stories NEVER are is sensationalistic. You are not reveling in cheap thrills for the cheap thrill of it. On the contrary, the exact opposite, you are playing for keeps!
DWB
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Hi DWB
The world does seem to have an obsession with death. The hallowed ground is always shifting. The holy somber march to the graveyard interrupted with giddy bouts of laughter.
Johnny Cash was bad dude. The more I learn about him the more I like. Especially since I discovered “The Highwaymen.”
I’d like to read that poem by SK! I think the seed of this story may have come from SK. Something about an old woman and her ability to always show up for the latest wake or funeral, even though she didn’t know the departed. A small smile playing on her face.
There is something of the cheap harlot who rises her head time and again in this world. And the shadow is there. It’s a sad thing to grow up and realize it’s a bad deal over and over, but there’s good too.
I sure do appreciate your comments! They are full of wisdom, and once again your knowledge has got me onto something I will engage in. I’m impressed about your knowledge of Randall Flagg. An SK character who not everyone knows. “The Walkin Dude” was full tilt bogie in “The Stand.”
Jesus walked everywhere too, until he rode the little donkey to Jerusalem.
Thanks
Christopher
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As sex-games go this is high on the creepiness-meter. But it works! The voice is controlled, the dark comedy lands, and the ending is genuinely disturbing in exactly the right way. Well done!
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Hi David,
Glad you liked this! Means a lot coming from such an excellent writer as yourself!
CJA
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I really enjoyed this – bawdy, irreverent, and in its way philosophical, as death is the only true guarantee (there are some countries with no taxation) and so we must either just to laugh at it or live in fear of it. I’m reminded of the old Buddhist adage of how to choose to react to the chaos around us – do we flail and panic and scream ‘what can I do?’ or do we shrug, carry on and say ‘what can I do?’
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Hi Paul
I’m glad you liked the story! Yes the forever end is always ending, and strangeness rises its head–repeat ad infinitude. That’s funny about the abundance of death and the exception of taxes! You can’t count on any lousy thing here, lol! Shrug indeed…Thanks!
Christopher
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“Raises” not rises its head. Thought I had that one beat…ahhhh.
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