The Funeral

(This is something I wrote a while back, and a buddy of mine convinced me to post it. So I decided to, on one of our most hallowed holidays. Veteran's Day. And if you haven't done it yet,,,,, Go thank a Vet you fucking smucko)

I grudgingly picked up the phone and called dad. He answered, in that 2 am voice that I was accustomed to hearing at 2 am. It was the same voice as his 4 am, or 6 am voice, always full of gravel and baritone. His 2 am voice was always a couple notes deeper than it normally was because he hadn't cleared his throat of all the day before cigarette phlegm that was stored up.
There wasn't just a tonal inflection because of just waking up though, there was also a emotional tone of being pissed off because he had just got woken up in the middle of the night by his phone.
Just like anybody else, he was aggravated that he had just been woken up, but unlike everybody else this unusually only lasted about 25 seconds. After that he was good to go. Full of vigor, full of intensity, and full of what we all knew he was comprised of. Passion. But you had to wait about half a minute after he woke up to get those passion blood cells moving.

"YEAH?..... Who the fuck is this?"
"Dad?,,,,, you there?"
"Yeah"
"I got really bad news."
"What?, did you set the fucking terminal on fucking fire again?"
"No. Nothing like that,,,,,, I got some bad news. Real bad"
"What?"

I could hear him sit up in bed, and light a smoke. He was grunting and groaning, struggling to move his fat ass up into a sitting position. Then I heard fumbling in the background, and the unmistakable sound of the "ting" and "scratch" of a zippo lighter unleashing its flame on a Marlboro medium as he inhaled it.


"Ronnie's dead."


There was silence on the other end of the line.
My dad was never silent. Ever. The man wouldn't shut the fuck up if you paid him to. He'd talk, and talk, and never be silent. A trait that I didn't get from him. I can go weeks without speaking.
His silence spoke volumes because of it though, now the weight of the situation was as heavy as a small room filled with his Marlboro Medium exhales. I could tell he was thinking about every moment he ever spent with Ronnie, and I couldn't blame him. I did the same thing when I got the phone call minutes ago. My buddy Will called me, and while I wasn't as close to Ronnie as Dad was, it hit me hard because I knew that I had to call Dad and it was gonna hit him hard. For one of the few times in my life I didn't have to fake empathy. I felt bad for pops. It was hard watching him go through shit like this. I had seen him like this before, matter of fact, once a year. On Veterans day. Every November 11th he was especially sad. Not because he lost a lot of buddies in Vietnam, he didn't lose a single one. Every one of his guys lived through that war, but they all had since died. Dad was the only one left.

He remembered every fucking one of them on that day, a day which he set aside to mourn for them, to remember them, to remember how much they meant to him. It wasn't a situation in which I liked being around. As a spectator all you could do was listen to the stories and try to steer him into telling you the good ones. The happy stories. There weren't too many of them though seeing as they were all set in Vietnam, but you'd make him tell you stories about the crazy shit that he did with them after the war, and as usual he told them in a way that set your hair on fire. With passion.

He always got drunk on Veterans day, mainly because he would do shots to all of his buddies and say there names out loud. As if they were up in heaven or down in hell, raising their whisky glasses with him, saying his name outloud too. I always pictured them in Vietnam alongside a tank as they clinked those shot glasses together. I wondered if I listened close enough I could hear the glass coming together. Whisky spilling, overflowing on their hands, the shot glasses making that unmistakable sound when it comes together in a toast. In my thoughts they were always in their fatigues, dirty, beaten down by war, but ecstatic to be in the company of one another. I got the distinct feeling that's the way Dad pictured it too.

Getting drunk was not a typical thing for dad. Sure, on any given occasion he tell you he was "trashed" or "high", but he was full of shit. He rarely lost his wits. He was a slow drinker, he paced himself. But not on Veterans Day.

Normally he drank Short and Fat's. A Short and Fat was Jim Beam with soda water and a splash of coke to add a little sweetness. He drank em slow. Or at least slower than the rest of us twenty somethings. I'd never known him to drink anything else but those fucking drinks. To this day, I've never known anyone else had ever even heard of a Short and Fat. Dad spoke of it as if it was an internationally renowned drink. We believed him. But on Veterans day he didn't just drink Short and Fat's, he did shots of Beam alongside his Short and Fats, and both the shots and drinks went down twice as fast as on a normal day. This made him twice as somber as he usually got. And somber did he ever get. At certain points in the day you'd just have to leave him alone at the bar so he could weep in silence. Sooner or later I'd feel bad because he was all alone, even though it was probably the way he wanted it, but you would saunter back over after thumbing through the jukebox for an hour, or after 10 games of darts which you played even though you hated darts. He'd look at you and you'd share a smile, because you had played darts for 2 hours so he could be alone, and he knew you hated fucking darts, and in his smile you knew he was saying thanks. Then he would call you a fuckface for some reason, ask why you didn't close the deal with the whore across the bar, and yell at the bartender to bring more shots for you both. You'd then go through the entire dance again.
More shots were drank, more drinks were imbibed, and he'd tell more stories about his buddies. You always remembered them. By the third or fourth Veterans day you heard most of them, but you still listened intently. He'd raise his glass and salute his buddy "Red", throw the shot down then break into a story about how they used to gather around the campfire at night and listen to "Red" read Marquis De Sade. Ten minutes of silence would pass and then abruptly as if he was sick of the moment, or sick of feeling morose, he'd yell for the bartender for more shooters and put on his happy face. We'd raise our glasses in the air and he'd quote "Red" who was quoting Marquis De Sade directly and shout to the bar: “In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice.” Then we'd all clamor in unison and throw the whisky down our throats in belief that those shots of booze were going to lead us to a penitent life. We must have looked like fools. We didn't care. Truth is. I still don't.

After about 6 or so hours he'd ask you why you couldn't get you dick wet, question your sexuality, question your lineage, and wonder matter o' factly outloud if he fucked mom or some Frenchman did. Then he'd tell you under no circumstances, that if you didn't pick up the chick across the bar that evening you were no son of his and a disowning was forthcoming. It was like fucking clockwork. Every Veterans Day. And even though the entire day was uncomfortable being around him, now I wish every day was Veterans Day so I could spend it with him.



Days later I met up with pops in Chicago. I was living about an hour away in Michigan City Indiana., so we saw each other a lot. Usually every weekend to be exact. We were going to Ronnie's funeral together, and not unusually my Dad was talkative. For the next hour or so while he was driving we talked about all the times that he spent with Ronnie. All the times they spent drunk together on Taylor street, the camaraderie, the times they worked together at that "one" shithole and made a difference. As I sipped whisky straight from the bottle while Dad drove through the southside of Chicago, I remember Ronnie telling me stories about Dad as we drank hot coffee late at night on the cold dock. The most memorable story was one where after he re-organized a merger between two trucking companies to form one huge company, the owner of the company reneged on his promise to the employees and not give them their benefits and pay. Dad was furious,he gathered the employees together and they burned the fucking terminal down to the ground. Like as in, Jimmy Hoffa burned the fucking terminal. My Dad wasn't a union man, but apparently that night he was.
It was surreal when Ronnie told me those stories, it was as if someone else validated his existence. There was a sense of pride that flowed through my veins. My Dad stood up for what was right. I thought about Ronnie telling me this story while half heartily listening to my Dad yammer on as we passed the bottle of whisky between us. I secretly hoped I had the same traits in me too.

As we meandered through traffic navigating the stoplights on Harlem avenue, I asked him where the funeral is at.

"The wake is in Downers Grove"
"What the fuck are we doing in Bedford Park then?"

Bedford Park was the wrong direction. Why were we in Bedford Park? It was 30 minutes out of the way? No....... We can't be doing what I think we're doing? Can we?

"We gotta go pick up Donika"
"Are you outta your fucking mind? Donika? Seriously? Donika?"

Donika was my Dad's crazy psycho girlfriend. And I'm emphasizing the crazy psycho part. Psycho was a fucking understatement. I'd seen this fucking nutjob punch my Dad in the face, spit on him, kick his car, throw drinks at him, and overall act like a 12 year old spoilt child in his presence. This chick was nuts. With a capital Bellvue. But my Dad was nuts about her. Apparently they had met at Midway, at an airport bar. She was a flight attendant, and he was talking at least medium game. Because that's all it would have taken to pick up this slag. She wasn't a slag in the physical sense, but in the mental sense. She had a body that wouldn't fucking quit. But she had a brain that stopped working in grade school. Dumber than a bag of fucking hammers, but smart enough to know what she had in the toolbox.. She knew what she had, and my father was in love with this hot retard.

"Yes Donika.........It'll be fun"
"Fun as in pouring napalm on my fucking genitals near an open flame,,,, fun?"
"Stop it. She's a good person.... At heart"
"Yeah, but she's a horrible person otherwise,, and her heart is black from the 5 packs of smokes she burns everyday"
"Be quiet retard. I've got a surprise for you"
"What? Are you planning on driving head on into a bridge abutment? Because that would be a pleasant surprise"
"She's got a niece. A super hot niece, that likes potty mouthed blue eyed black haired assholes"
"You're talking about me.... Right?
"Yes."
"I didn't know because I don't consider myself "potty mouthed", just pretty."
"Who says black hair and blue eyes are pretty? Himmler is doing somersaults in his grave right now"
"Himmler was a pussy who couldn't stand the sight of blood and gore. I have titan blood in me sir"
"Yes you do. Fuckface"

This was going to be a night to fucking remember. On a double date with my Dad, his girlfriend, and her niece, to a fucking funeral. Unreal.