Kiver stole a shot glass of Tracy’s ashes when Tracy’s sister Moira was shitting in the bathtub, so drunk she thought the copy of Factotum on the black toilet lid was an out of order sign, the door open so she could make sure Kiver didn’t steal ashes.
She was just sober enough to know she was drunk enough that she didn’t want to carry the urn into the bathroom with her but the last bereaved bong hit put her into some dreamworld on the pink faux porcelain tub.
Moira would never look in the urn again anyway.
Kiver felt like he should have taken more ashes, when the thought that he had actual, real remains of his ex-wife grabbed him somewhere deep in his lungs.
He would have been convinced this was the long overdue cocaine heart attack except he was breathing well enough to sob and to turn the key on his 77 Cutlass that was mint two curb hops ago.
The lady at the Peking Duck’s Nest lectured him about picking up the order late, about they can’t keep food hot forever,
Kiver said he was sorry, and when the lady said something after that that included the word “disrespectful” he bowed and told her to go fuck herself in Serbian.
He ripped open a fortune cookie as he walked out, not concerned with the fortune, just in a hurry to put something in the puddle of Mountain Dew in his gut, when a voice behind him said “ti ces da se jebes.” You’re about to go fuck yourself.
Kiver turned.
It seemed so purely on brand for Kiver’s shitty life that Jonno, the 6’7” Macedonian guy who used to make cevapi at Wonder Bowling and Go Karts was now working at a Chinese restaurant and knew exactly what he said.
Kiver ran, the bag of food ripping, Kiver catching a pint container of once hot rice and dropping Szechuan beef, which was sort of pretty as it splattered on the yellow parking line on the asphalt.
It was seventeen miles to Kattajian Park, to the small cement dam where Kiver and Tracy first discarded clothing together.
Kiver drove, eating tepid white rice with his hands when a typhoon of sobs shook his face like one of the antique popcorn heater coils at Wonder Bowl.
Tracy couldn’t give two shits about sports, and a small portion of her remains was riding in 2024 in a 1977 Cutlass in a Quad City RiverBandits shot glass covered with plastic wrap, next to a tiny plastic container of plum sauce.
About three miles from Kattajian, Kiver pulled off the road.
He reclined his seat, balanced the shot glass of ashes on his beer gut.
He heard these wheezes come from his face, like they belonged to a wild animal in a trap, something he would save, something he would like…go to Mavarin’s Hardware and buy channel locks just to free the damn creature, but it was his own face, his own throat making those noises, and he couldn’t cut anything or save anything and he didn’t want to spread the damn ashes in a dam he wasn’t going to visit very often.
Kiver hadn’t thought about the worst part, because dead was pretty bad, but his brain tissue curdled with this thought:
He had 14 days sober.
He was waiting for 30 to call Tracy and tell her.
Kiver was pretty sure, but not all the way sure, that he had stopped crying when he lifted the shot glass of ashes, pulled the flimsy plastic lid off the plum sauce, poured the ashes in and downed the mixture like the pro drinker he had been.
Moira didn’t think he deserved to have Tracy’s ashes.
She didn’t think he had deserved to spend any time with Tracy at all.
He had the ashes now. The time was extinguished.
His lips, lips with a single grain of white rice he didn’t know about hanging from them, lips that continued to quiver, had never kissed Tracy sober.
That was the worst part.
***
***
This one is written in memory of my dear friend Kathleen Johnson who (from our very first weeks of friendship) was extremely supportive of my writing and my loftier writing aspirations.
I was just informed of her recent passing a few days ago.
Together and separately she and I turned our early twenties into the type of barely controlled chaos found in Bukowski and HST stories. Twice (that I remember) I thought we were going to die.
Years ago she married and took on the more serene life of mother and grandmother, reaffirming my belief that she would outlive me. It pains me that I was wrong.
There are landmarks in Detroit that will remind me of her forever.
Cedar Point, 1986. Photo by Dave Krieger
That is a thing of beauty. theres a feeling when you read some things... people use the expression "that hit hard" im not sure i can think of a better one right at this moment... but its that feeling you get when you read something that presses on your soul button, or whatever... (oh I just found another way to say what I meant) i mean the thing inside that holds our humanity that recognises the deep truths about what it means to be a person amongst people. you get shown something you've seen in your own life and you recognise it for what it is. hard to catch that in words but this story does it. Magic stuff.
So, where did the idea of the take out food and eating her ashes with rice and plum sauce come from? I’m reading this wondering who eats their ex-wife’s ashes? Is he going to barf it all up or get seriously sick? And, what about that bathtub toilet scene? You have a strange and beautiful mind Sir—very effective visuals I might add…. And, I was totally hooked from the beginning to the end. You are a great storyteller. My condolences—you two were a gorgeous twosome in the photo.
❤️