Bindings

Flash Fiction

The jar at the VFW Hall had only taken in about nine hundred bucks, online donations were about seven-fifty.

They lowered the gleaming black and chrome casket into the hole and everyone standing in the shade of the rundown Catholic cemetery knew Rick Dachmire paid for it.

He hung back while the old guard, the guys who had stayed in the neighborhood and played euchre at Dooley’s shoveled dirt on the fancy box.

Finally, Petz motioned to Rick, and he stepped forward, tattooed flames peeking out of his black suit as he shoveled an overflowing pile of dirt clods onto what was left of Scuzzy.

Petz had almost gotten rear-ended at the airport while Rick posed for a selfie with a fan.  He was beaming just as much as the woman when she snapped the picture, and Petz thought of how proud Scuzzy had always been of their famous rockstar friend. 

When the ceremony was over Scuzzy’s sister invited everyone to the reception at Morelli’s Steaks on the Hearth, and of course, Rick was picking up the tab for that too.

As cars started to pull out of Sepulchre, Rick tugged at Petz’s coat. Wait.

He walked off through the overgrown evergreens, picking up a Burger King cup that had blown off the freeway and throwing it into a receptacle in need of emptying.

Petz followed.

“Do me a favor,” Rick said, walking and not looking at Petz. “Tell Sandy Scuzamaro she doesn’t have to thank me anymore, okay? I’m happy I could help the family out. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

“I’ll try, “ Petz said, sounding like he wasn’t counting on success.

Rick looked over at a large, grey marble grave marker.

“Wow, Mr. Sullivan. Coached me three years in a row for Keegan Hardware. Got so pissed at me for missing a steal sign once he’d remind me of it every time I saw him.”

Petz caught up to Rick, walked alongside.

“Pretty much all our friend’s parents are in here somewhere.”

Rick laughed, a lighthearted little chuckle. “Most of ‘em hated me.”

“Totally,” Petz said. “No question.The wild child.”

Rick crossed the winding asphalt road. A traffic copter flew overhead, cast a rolling shadow blanket on some of the more modern headstones.

Petz looked at his watch.

“We should head out, I promise I’ll tell--”

“Fuck.”

Rick’s voice sounded like a talking doll on the last juice of its battery.

“Fuck...noooo.”

He turned and looked at Petz,  his shoulders tensed, hands palms up.

“You didn’t tell me Maureen Van Houten died.”

He spun back and dropped to his knees in front of the marker, bowing his head.

A photo of Maureen was embedded in the black marble.

Petz didn’t believe Rick still prayed if he ever had. But he was mumbling something.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” Petz said. “I...I didn’t know you and Maureen were tight.”

Rick picked a blade of grass from the headstone then mumbled under his breath for a while.

Petz realized he had never heard his friend do that. He was the loud one, the boisterous one, everything he had ever said was a couple decibels louder than it should have been.

Rick stood, glancing back at the headstone as though it might run away.

“Remember when I washed dishes at Winnie’s?”

Petz nodded.

“I’d get off work every night about ten. I’d walk Fenkell, past the Van Houten’s house. Remember they had that big finished porch on the side?”

Petz nodded again, looked at the headstone.

“She sure was beautiful. I didn’t know you went out with her, I swear, I--”

Rick was shaking his head no, vigorously.

“No, brother, I never went out with her. God, I wish.”

Petz grunted. “Old man Van Houten forbid her to go out with you?”

Rick shook his head, slower this time.

“No, no… I would walk past their house, every night I worked, and almost every night she’d be on that porch reading a book.”

“Yeah, so what did you do?” Petz anticipated a story.

“I didn’t do anything. Just walked past every night, dreamed about her.”

Petz asked, “Why the hell didn’t you ask her out?”

“I was scared.”

Petz laughed heartily, despite the somber atmosphere.

“Yeah, right. You were Rick Fucking Dachmire. You weren’t afraid of anything.”

Rick chuckled, but it was short and sad. He bowed his head.

“Not true. I was afraid Maureen Van Houten would find out I couldn’t read.”

***

Photo by Kevin Andre on Unsplash