Chapter I

Chapter I

A Chapter by sickgonzo
"

"Oh, Mistress of my heart, unconscious of thy lover's smart. Thou know not of my distress, or thou art false and pitiless."

"

    
    There is a place about one hundred miles or so in any given direction from any given modern metropolis. A place where dreams are born and a place where those very dreams then quickly die. Where hope is the illusion of choice, and time stands still, at least in that there is no progression of any significance. There is a place where only the aesthetics change; An ever-shape shifting snow globe filled with a perpetuated ignorance and mediocrity, proud and absolute. But this is by no means a mystic place. No, this place merely serves as but a stage for the eternal tragedy to unfold upon like any other, and like any other, only as alluring or enticing as the actors who occupy it. But with a fundamental lack of interesting and well-developed characters, any story begins to lose its momentum. And even the most colorful characters, without the proper direction, prove tiresome. Their stories are not profound. Their stories, in the majority of cases, could not necessarily even be considered relevant, in any sense. But some, nonetheless, are of a particular interest, if only for the strange chain of events of which they are comprised. Some of these stories meet their uneventful conclusion in this fateful place, and others, perhaps more luckily, solely begin. And then there are those who for one reason or another find themselves oblivious to the temporal quicksand relentlessly tugging at their lives. Those who will go about their entire lives without giving so much as a thought to the farce they have found themselves thrown into. Typically though, in Kenton, it is the entire unfortunate trifecta.
    The town of Kenton rested between two rather hilly areas: Ridgeway, a somewhat affluent suburb to the east, and Haden, a desolate and dreary desert town which made Kenton seem like a remarkably progressive city by comparison. Kenton was renowned in the tri-county area for its high frequency of apple orchards and religious institutions. There were twenty three churches of some sort in the nine square miles that was Kenton: religion was the town's favorite passtime and social activity. The majority of businesses in Kenton are family-owned, and most likely the legacy of some long deceased grandparent, a continuation of a life which ended before most of its successors' had begun. Most of the citizens which populate the town were born in Kenton, many have lived their entire lives there. Assassinations, political and social revolutions, and the deaths of many celebrities had all been experienced within the haunting borders of Kenton. On this Saturday, the entire town was preparing for its annual fireman's chili cook off, which was one of many celebrations that served as an excuse for the town to compare fashions and salaries. The final banners were being hung in place, and the rows and rows of picnic tables were quickly being erected for the day's events. However, about four miles inland, there was a strange feeling lingering about in the air. Not all could feel it, but for those with the right set of eyes, the day was undeniable: something peculiar was about to unfold. And nowhere was this more frightfully apparent than in a small funeral home on east Waterbrook Ave, where services were in full motion, and things were finally beginning to thrust into full swing, in one way or another.
        Vincent Cash sat sandwiched, uncomfortably, between his mother, Vera, and his younger brother, Chad. He had managed to position himself creatively somewhere just between sitting up correctly and slouching and now felt quite content with himself, his discovery. Still, his suit continued to brush roughly against his skin, causing a great discomfort within Vincent’s body and mind. The black suit he was wearing tended to have a negative emotional affect on Vincent; The suit had become an irritating reminder of each frustrated adolescent memory, the shackles of childhood of its smaller predecessor. The duality of the suit always caused Vincent to become somewhat conflicted, as he rather liked the suit and had always wished he had been afforded more pleasant opportunities to exhibit what he referred to as his Aesthetic Potential. He pushed his black eyeglasses back up his nose with his thumb.
    On Vincent’s right, Vera Cash sat at attention with her legs crossed, her hands folded neatly at the knee, her new and expensive black dress greedily distracting the attentions of any one with an interest in the Funeral fashions of the day. Every hair, a deep and morose brown, in its assigned place, every muscle doing precisely what she presumed was expected of it, every move and expression meticulously strategized, every wrinkle vaporized contently into the unusually warm fall air; Ms. Cash liked to be in complete control. In fact, anything but tended to upset her terribly.
    Piled onto a chair beside his older brother, Chad was thinking about a great deal things at once, all of which lacked just as greatly in relevancy. Most of what Chad was thinking of at the moment had to do with his suit, a charcoal-colored train wreck with black pinstripes racing inappropriately down the length of his body. Clinging to the center of his chest was what each of the funeral guests had overheard almost immediately: A loud and unfortunately orange necktie, emphasized by a series of intricate and psychedelic designs which covered it. Chad’s suit screamed deafeningly in the somber darkness of the crowd, but he was completely oblivious to the attention it was receiving, or at least the nature of the attention. In recent years, his shoulders had broadened, his arms had inflated, his neck had ballooned to a comical girth. His head, however, had retained its original, inferior dimensions, creating a bizarre and confusing illusion which Chad constantly attempted to disguise with a wide array of exaggerated hairstyles. Today, he felt, for the memory of his grandmother, that a lively pompadour would be most befitting.
    Vincent had become disinterested in the eulogy coming from the front of the room. The words all seemed so hallow and forced and were delivered in so sullen a manner. Vincent found the entire diatribe to be a rather depressing one, and had turned to sticking and retracting his index finger from a small hole in the inner lining of his black jacket curiously for several minutes in an effort to entertain himself and save himself from the dull hands of his grandmother’s funeral. He begun to feel a bit saddened by the fact that the activity would lose its novelty shortly, as it always did. This routine had become common in recent years at various funerals, weddings, baptisms, and other such irrelevancies which he felt as though inconvenienced him in one way or another. The sadness, he realized, was not sadness at all, but rather an intense annoyance. Today was his twentieth birthday, and though it was not even noon he sensed the day‘s best was already behind him, and began to feel a great deal of dread at the thought of unknown hindrances lurking beyond ever corner. This was hardly how he had envisioned himself at twenty as a boy. No, by now, he pondered dismally, he had imagined himself sailing around the globe to exotic locales, casually searching for adventure when it suited him, and entertaining himself with the locals when it didn’t. He had seen visions of a charming and enigmatically dangerous young explorer of strange and frightening new worlds, valorously stumbling into elaborate mysteries of lust and vengeance. What a dreadful existence he had so pitifully wedged himself into, he thought as he longed, not for the delusional fantasies of six or eighteen, but for the sense of optimism and wonder of an unknown and thrilling future, adventures and discoveries only dreamt of, all awaiting him on the other side of his life with the feeling of satisfaction which accompanied it.
    Vincent began to feel depressed by his own thoughts and shortcomings. He tried turning his attentions back to what, in that moment, seemed much less irritating. Pastor Tom was still speaking, and about absolutely nothing, Vincent presumed. This sort of mindless, empty banter was exactly the sort of thing that deterred him from funerals.  Pastor Tom was going on about living forever in some metaphysical kingdom just outside of life, about death being but the beginning of our greatest of journeys, about various other clichés. Having grown disillusioned after his confirmation, Vincent’s leaving the church created a collective resentment within the members of the church, which was, of course, to say the majority of East Kenton. Pastor Tom quickly made eye contact with his only and greatest failure, turning away quickly to avoid his own inabilities reflected within the piercing darkness of Vincent Cash’s eyes. Eyes which had always caused an inauspicious and icy sensation to shower over the pastor and eventually led him to warn each of his grandchildren and their parents about the young, soulless heathen running about their town.
    “Now, our own Kevin Gullen will grace us with a song in honor of our sweet, beautiful, new angel, Ellie.” Said Pastor Tom, excessively optimistic.
    Kevin Gullen stood up from a seat in the second row and walked excitedly towards the front of the room, took a black acoustic guitar from its hard-shell case anxiously, and, throwing its strap over his shoulder as casually as he could give the impression of, stood in front of the microphone, expectantly, and began picking the strings gently, with a forced passion.
            Tell me what’cha gonna do,
            When there’s no place to run?
            When judgment comes for you,
            When judgment comes for you.
    The crowd, finding themselves painted into some strange and unforeseen corner, could only sit and listen as politely as they could feign. An occasional eyebrow was raised, however most eyes forced themselves shut in boredom. Arms began crossing rapidly, and suddenly all eyes turned towards the ground in a collective and simultaneous disbelief, in hopes of finding something a bit more sentimental and entertaining. Chad nodded his head to whatever beat he managed make out. He was the only person in the room noticeably listening. Vera wiped a tear from her left eye to maintain the illusion of grief, and Vincent hadn’t noticed the change at all; he had found a small stitch sticking out in his pocket and had been struggling to gain a grip on it for the last few minutes.
            Exactly how many days we got lasting,
            while you laughin we passin', passin' away.
            God rest our souls cause I know.
            I might meet you up at the crossroads.
    Vincent shut his eyes in exasperation. The small stitch had proven elusive and the chase had become a tiresome one. Kevin Gullen uniquely articulated the song but his efforts were in vain; the small crowd of mourners of obligation sat eagerly in anticipation of the end, waiting for their cue to begin applauding and move on to activities a bit more festive in nature.
See you at the crossroads,
So you won’t be lone-leh.
    The last syllable had been stretched out a few seconds longer than Vincent had thought necessary, and the simultaneous eye-rolling of the room only affirmed his suspicions. Kevin Gullen smiled a peculiar and dim smile that lacked in confidence and nodded his head in lieu of a bow. A faint and somewhat puzzled applause made its way over the front rows, passed over the orangey-brown coffin, the milk-white cadaver which rested inside of it, the lively flower arrangement which sat perched atop, finally reaching the uncertain Kevin Gullen, who took the faint applause as a great validation of his skills as a musician, as an artist, as a humanitarian.
    “Thank you, Kevin. Thank you. That was our very own Kevin Gullen, whom we are lucky enough to play lead guitar in our church band. Let’s hear it again for Kevin.” Pastor Tom said somewhat proudly.
    As Pastor Tom continued smiling inappropriately, Kevin Gullen turned away from his audience and began to put his guitar away back in its case. Kevin smiled to himself, proud of the success of his performance. He hoped someone in the group of mourners would be connected to the recording industry in one way or another, and feeling the passion and intensity in Kevin's performance that one in the recording industry, Kevin assumed, would have abandoned all hope of ever experiencing in the flesh, would dash to him in the parking lot as he put away his worn, hard-shell guitar case into the trunk of his equally worn car and demand that he sign a contract immediately. Jaded by talentless and would-be artists, he imagined he would serve as a much needed breath of fresh air and originality to an industry desperate for creativity and aristry. Yes, Kevin Gullen felt quite content with himself as he snapped his case shut and turned around abruptly to make his triumphant exit. He then suddenly felt a cold, paralyzing feeling, along with a strong jolt to his hand, and the entire room, along with Kevin, turned its attention from another monotonous monologue from Pastor Tom toward the apple-sized indentation filled with cracked and splintered wood. Kevin stared into the dent with dread. Murmurs and gasps began to fill the room, along with several child-like smiles. Vera gasped dramatically in an effort to absorb the sympathy of the room while Chad pretended to be upset by shaking his head is disbelief, hoping his mother would appreciate his outrage. All of the gasps and whispers and murmurs were quickly silenced however, by a loud flash of a snort, followed by a quiet chuckling, and it was at this point that everyone in the room began to wonder how Vincent Cash could bring himself to laugh at his very own grandmother's posthumous misfortune, how could Ellie Livingston's very own grandson be so shameless at a time like this.
    Vincent had finally began to feel a bit more cheerful about things.

    Kenton tended to become rather chilly in the fall months, thereby ending all hope in those who felt the need to drag their summers as far into September as they could convince themselves was appropriate. However, said enthusiasts felt a certain sense of victory as September found itself reaching its unusually warm conclusion. The group standing outside of Meyer-Thurguson Funeral Home became aware of this fact very quickly as their sympathy-black attire began sticking to their moist skin from nearly the moment they stepped outside. A small group formed a smoker's circle just around the southern corner of the building as to avoid the looks of disappointment from their smug counterparts. Several of the women complimented each others outfits and exchanged critiques of the service, and in some cases, of Ellie Livingston.
    Vera Cash stood outside the entrance of the funeral home with Chad pointing to her with his elbows from her side. Together they  accepted the condolences of those who passed through the doors in exchange for a brief expression of gratitude for their attendance. Vera certainly loved the attention she had received in the last week and a half. It was an attention she had always felt she deserved but had been cruelly denied for reasons that were simply unknown to her, and with this fantastic era of sympathy coming to a swift end, a feeling of disappointment clouded the near, less validating, future. Vera felt determined to prolong the grieving process as far into the winter months as she felt was satisfying to her insatiable esteem, almost obligated.
    Chad became excited when he saw his mother's two closest friends from work making their way  towards him and his mother. He was well aware of Lucy and Maryanne's seemingly innate and unyielding dislike of Vincent. The smirk he tried so hard to restrain quickly made its way to the surface and positioned his elbows into his most genteel of angles.
    “How you doin', Vera?” Lucy asked for some reason. “A little better I suppose. Each day gets somewhat better, but the whole thing is still so...surreal. Yes.” Vera replied. Maryanne went to hug Chad, pressing his head against the reassurance of her bounteous bosom.
    “Everybody down at the office is praying for you.” Maryanne said hopefully. She was thinking about how nice Vera's dress was once one got an up close look at it, and started to doubt her own choices in dress that morning.
    “Oh, thank you, Lucy, Maryanne. I want to get back to work, I really do. I think it would maybe take my mind off of the death of my mother, But I don't think I can right now. It would be very hard for me, emotionally. Tell everyone that. So maybe they'll understand things.” Vera lamented emptily.
    “Don't worry about a thing, honey. You take as much time as you need, and let us know when you're ready to come back. We all completely understand. We know how hard it is, losing your mom and all.” Lucy assumed. She grabbed Vera's hand and gave it a squeeze of sympathy. Vera smiled in return for reasons Lucy and Maryanne completely misunderstood and thanked her friends once again. Maryanne looked over at Chad, who was scanning the parking lot unsuccessfully for girls his age, and mistaking his expression of concentration for grief, attempted to reassure him with a  smile. “How you doing, Chad?” Maryanne said.
    “I'm pretty sad.” Chad responded eventually in an emotionally ambiguous tone. The three women stood and stared at the younger Cash for a moment in anticipation of perhaps a brief elaboration which never came.
    “Chad's just been so wonderful. My man of the house. It's nice knowing there's someone around who will see that whatever needs to get done gets done.” Vera said proudly. “He's been a really big help, ever since his grandmother...died.”
    Vera feigned a tear, causing Maryanne to immediately offer her a tissue. An uncomfortable silence had fallen upon the four. Lucy and Maryanne suddenly became very interested in the ground and Vera pretended to think about what she had just said.
    “You know, I don't think Vincent feels the least bit bad. I don't understand it.”
    “There's nothing to understand, Chad. He's a bad and evil boy and you need to be glad you're nothing like him at all.” Lucy said passionately. Her words had delighted Chad as he always loved hearing people badmouth his older brother. It seemed as though their grandmother's death would be  Vincent's final, irreversible error. There was no forgiveness for giving your grandmother a stroke and nothing but disavowal for being regarded as the unofficial cause of death.
    Chad held back a small grin again and put his arm around his mother.
    
     “I found the whole experience incredibly underwhelming.” Vincent was saying to a middle-aged man in the hallway inside. “It's hot, for one thing, so you get very, very sweaty. Now you feel disgusting and I guess I would say that's what distracted me most from having a better time, the feeling of complete disgust. You know?”
    “Well, yes, you are going to get a little dirty along the way, but some would say that adds to the experience. What did you think of the visual aspect though? It didn't take your breath away? It's an epic  sight to experience.” The man replied.
    “No. I would say there are probably lots of things that I could see that would be much more profound experiences.”
    “Okay, such as what?” The man said starting to grow impatient. The two were in the restroom when the man complimented Vincent's suit. They soon struck up a conversation outside in the hallway, discussing classic television, traffic on the way to the funeral, and finally long drives. It was then that Vincent began an oft-rehearsed indictment of the experiences he had had at the Grand Canyon. The man was taken aback after nearly everything Vincent said, amazed at the intensity and purity of this young man's pessimism. He had attempted to remove himself from the conversation several times, but was interrupted each time with another question.
    “I don't know yet. There enlies the journey. I can't wait to see them though. I've seen the Grand Canyon and it was perhaps the most overrated thing I've ever seen in my life. And the drive there was just as horrible an experience, if not more so. I mean, Jesus, almost an entire day inside of a car with people a house typically isn't big enough for you to want to share with: its like torture, psychological torture.”
    “Well, I was put up for adoption as a baby, so I grew up in a lot foster homes. I never had that experience. I never knew my real family. I don't think you really appreciate the time you spend with them the way you should. A family is a blessing.” The man said very matter-of-a-fact.
    “Okay, so you were adopted? You of all people can probably empathize with always feeling like you deserved a much better family. The longing.” Replied Vincent quickly, almost cutting off the man's last sentence. “I've always felt like maybe I would've been better off with any other family than the one I was sentenced to. It becomes very cumbersome being a Cash after a while.” Vincent began to lament. The man's impatience was now beginning to crossover into offense, and this became quickly illustrated as his eyes started to flicker with annoyance.
    Vincent could sense the man's aggravation and quickly excused himself, deciding to save his insights for those less disinterested. Feeling bored, he made his way outside to look for his mother and brother, who were now standing across the parking lot by Maryanne's metallic Navy blue SUV. As soon as Vincent passed through the front doors, Chad turned his head in his brother's direction, flaring his nostrils in resentment. As though the others could sense his approach, they too turned briefly to confirm their suspicions. Vincent walked across the parking lot and into the nimbus of disapproval. Vincent took off his eyeglasses and replaced them with black sunglasses.
    “Hello, Ladies,” Vincent said. “how are you two these days? I'm sorry we're not meeting under more cheery circumstances, but funerals: what are you gonna do?” Lucy and Maryanne furrowed their brows in unison, with Vera joining in shortly thereafter. And noticing that he was behind the trends of the group, Chad shaped his brow into disappointment.
    “Yes, it really is a shame.” Lucy said.
    “A great shame indeed.” Maryanne confirmed. She was easily confused by erratic changes in atmosphere and often relied on Lucy for guidance through social gatherings.
    “How was parking for you guys?” Vincent asked to no response. After a moment, he disregarded their silence and continued anyway. “It took me like, what? Maybe fifteen minutes to find a good spot, and it's all the way behind the building. How many people have to come to these things?” He said, oblivious to all but himself.
    “Grandma had a lot of people that cared about her, Vincent.” Said Chad in what Vincent saw as a transparent attempt to win favor with the group, something which had never made much sense to Vincent as Chad naturally carried favor with his mother and most of her relatives and friends.
    “Yeah, but this many people? It's to the point where the immediate family, us, can't even get a decent parking space. It's absurd. I mean, it's a funeral. You really think people are racing here to stare at a box in the middle of the room? I don't care how nice you decorate it. Funerals are so depressing. They're all like this in one way or another, very monotonous.” Vincent retorted. It had been less than a minute and the group had already begun to grow bothered. Lucy decided to speak up.
    “Funerals aren't a football game, Vincent. They're not about entertaining ingrates, they're about closure and paying a final respect.” She articulated smugly. Vincent rolled his eyes, though he did not notice when he did anymore.
    “I'm sorry, paying respect? Why? Because we all matched? Once upon a time there actually was such thing as respect and tribute. The dead were put to rest and remembered with dignity. What happened to crypts and pyramids? Surely a fifty story monument is far more dignified and  respectful a gesture than putting them in a hole in the ground.” Vincent felt pleased with himself, as per usual and looked away quickly from the group; he never expected the others to appreciate his wit in any manner he would deem appropriate.
    “Vincent,” Vera searched for what exactly she wanted to express. “You shut the hell up! I think you have already done more than enough damage for one week! You just have to ruin, sit there and just ruin everything that you touch, and I won't let you destroy your grandmother's....last day!” Her face quickly collapsed into Chad's shoulder and began to weep in a series of quick, erratic bursts. Lucy and Maryanne glared at Vincent with a profound hatred. Chad caressed his mother's shoulder without emotion, staring at his mother's friends with an expression that they found bizarrely stoic.
    “All the time.” Chad finally said.
     And all Vincent could do was ponder, ponder, ponder…
    
    The Saturday Ellie Livingston died began as most Sundays had for Vincent Cash: He had awakened to the sounds of his mother complaining aloud to anyone sitting or standing near her general location about how Vincent was not yet awake and possible reasons why. Vincent would lay in his bed, attempting to return behind the shield of slumber, until his mother’s criticisms finally reached a pitch that seemed to him almost violent with impatience, and he thought it best to start his day. On this particular morning, Vincent was not especially surprised, upon entering the kitchen, to find his grandmother’s cloud of smoke sitting across from a newspaper, behind which sat his mother. They continued sipping their coffee conspiratorially, the two women turning towards Vincent and studying his puffs of black hair which were flaring in every which direction on one side of his head and completely flattened to his scalp on the other.
    “Well, thank you for deciding to wake up, and spend some time with your grandmother. It’s only a little after noon, after all. I hope we weren’t being so loud that we made it hard for you to keep on being lazy.” Ellie said in her unique, gracefully condescending manner.
    Vincent was not tired but hung over. The previous evening had been spent at his good friend Richard’s house finishing a handle of whiskey the pair had bought the previous evening, a task which always took a certain effort as Vincent did not like most liquors.
    “He was out late last night, again. God only knows what he’s out doing all night. I really wish you‘d put the effort into finding a job that you do into wasting time.” Vera added. She took a sip of her coffee in agreement with herself.
    “I’m in a gang.” Vincent retorted wishfully. He was searching for his beloved JUST GIVE ME A REASON coffee mug, out of which he drank a cup of orange juice every morning, a ritual he himself could not explain, but refused to begin his day without.
    “No, you’re not. That would require some initiative and courage, and probably some more friends.” His grandmother said to him.
    “A violent gang.” said Vincent. He was now rummaging through the refrigerator in an almost desperate manner, the realization that an absence of orange juice was now a very real possibility indeed beginning to dawn upon him.
    “Oh, I’m sure you are, Vincent. I’m sure you spend your evenings just going around from street corner to street corner, complaining, making sure everyone hates love and whatever else it is that you don‘t like that day.” His grandmother responded. Vincent’s spirits were suddenly lifted when out of the corner of his eye he saw a bright flash of orange which turned out to be the upper left corner of a deliciously animated, quartered orange. His face quickly morphed into a mask of great sadness, when upon reaching for the carton, he realized there may not be enough juice for one mug.
    “Firstly, I don’t ‘go around from street corner to street corner.’ I think that advice would probably flow a bit better in Chad’s direction. Secondly-” Vincent replied.
    “Chad does more than you’ll ever do,” Ellie snapped at her grandson. Her commitment to her youngest grandson sometimes bordered on obliviousness. “If you had the faintest clue about Chad and all he does for this family, which you don’t because you’re always out gallivanting, then maybe you’d at least have an idea about respect, and dignity, about being a respectable young man.”
    “Yes, you emphasize this point often- is this really all the orange juice we have left? Because, I mean, come on.” Vincent’s eyes pleaded with his mother for some unknown and previously unmentioned reserve of orange juice.
    “You polish off a carton every couple of days like we live behind the groves. The juice costs money, Vincent, money you don’t contribute to whatsoever. It’s really quite that simple.” Vera said, never taking her eyes off of the advertisement she had been studying carefully for the last few minutes. Vera had woken up that morning anticipating the encounter in the kitchen. The previous evening had been spent drinking Mimosa’s in the emotional solitude of her bedroom, watching the Classic Film Channel’s marathon of various black and white romantic comedies of yester century. Not that her using most of the orange juice bothered her in the least, it was simply an inconvenience she was well aware she’d be facing sooner than later.
    Ellie said, “You know, I-”
    Vincent stopped paying attention to his grandmother’s diatribes immediately. They had become tired and bothersome, as they always quickly seemed to do. There had been a few instances in which she and his mother had actually impressed them with their collective abilities to criticize him. At times, Vincent even began to admire their skill and their playfulness with the language. On this particular morning, however, he was simply annoyed. The amount of orange juice in the carton was not quite a mug’s worth but enough to satisfy him and distract him from the unfortunate reality he so sullenly referred to as his own. He sipped delightfully, ignoring the foul realities that surrounded him successfully and wondering with what to fill the day.
    “I told your father, you know I told your father. ‘There are moles and there’s the skin cancer, Calvin.’ And of course, your father, being a man, had to argue. He just sat there, babbling that jibberish of his that never made any sense, of course. He never made very much sense at all, your Father, but then again I suppose-” Ellie gave her cigarette a slight nudge, sending a quarter inch of ash plummeting towards the ash tray beneath it. Vincent’s grandmother was telling the story of the day her husband, Vincent’s grandfather, died of complications resulting from a brain tumor, as she did most Sundays she came over for dinner for reasons that, over time, he simply attributed to a raging senility. His grandfather had found Ellie when she was twenty-something, and having bought everything else for himself that he thought a man of six decades of age was thought to have wanted, he thought it only befitting to add her to his collection of emptiness. This story typically went on for several minutes. Her visits for the most part consisted of her articulating how Vincent was an inferior grandchild and, presumably, son, as well as reminding her daughter she was divorced.
    Ellie continued to speak, completely unaware of the lack of attention being paid her way, even by Vera, who had now begun to look over that morning’s mail.
    “I really wish you wouldn’t smoke in the house, Mom. It’s… well, it’s just a horrible, horrible smell. So stop it.” Vera said, locking eyes with her mother. Ellie rolled her eyes; this speech was a familiar one.
    “Vera, I’ve been smoking longer than you’ve been alive, honey. Indoors, outdoors, all sorts of places and it never really mattered. I smoked inside of that house for forty years and I still managed to raise you and your ingrate sister without any problem whatsoever. Now, suddenly, all these years later, you’re going to sit there and look at me and ask me to just stop, in the blink of an eye,  because it makes you a little uncomfortable?” Ellie responded, passionately.
    “No, I’m asking you to stop because smoking inside was really more of a ‘last century’ thing, as was, well, I don’t really care because I no longer live in the past. The fact of the matter is that you’re making the entire house smell like a horse race, and frankly, it becomes a bit unsettling.” Vera looked carefully over a piece of mail and quickly decided it was useless, tossing the opened envelope onto a gloomy pile of other undesirable post. Ellie was still attempting to comprehend the situation as best she could, which was very poorly. Her daughter’s sudden familiarity was an unexpected and even more unwelcome surprise, and to appease this outrageous request could only upset a delicate balance of maternal power within the Livingston side of the family. Especially in front of the boy…
    “Well, I don’t care if I smell like this, that, or whatever the hell else it is that bothers you these days! You have some gall, your poor mother trying to get what very little she can out of the twilight of her life, a life ripped out of my hands and womb, stolen! But, please, forgive my selfishness.” Ellie yelled unnecessarily.
    By this point, Vincent was skimming the newspaper for notices of celebrity divorces. He had often hoped the journalistic powers that be would simply group them together with celebrity birthdays, but alas, every morning he awoke to a familiar frustration. He began to hear murmurs trickling through. Now, for one reason or another, Ellie had turned her displeasure towards modern media.
    “All the time, its violence and breasts! Why, every time I turn on the television, trying to look for something nice and decent to sit down and enjoy, I see some woman with no shirt on, running around, getting stabbed or something just awful!”
    And Vincent, amused, replied “I’m sorry, but which channels are you subscribing to exactly, with these schedules consisting entirely of snuff films?”
    A powerful shriek made its way through the Cash home, lingering about the air for several moments after the fact. Midway down the hall adjacent to the kitchen, a slab of a young man jerked under his comforter, which was covered with various electric guitars. The beast’s eyelids parted, and immediately knew the source and cause of his undesired wake-up call. Chad sat up and took a moment to make sense of things, which typically took several extra moments. After sorting out his immediate affairs, he decided that, despite the unknown excitement fluttering in the kitchen, his morning work-out could not, and most definitely would not, be compromised; Chad reached for his fifteen-pound dumbbell.
    “Vincent Rupert! You know for a fact that I do not like you talking like that. When are you going to learn to express yourself like an intelligent, mature, young man? What good’s all school I sign the checks for every year if you can’t even speak like a boy your age ought?” Ellie said, still trying to compose herself after her grandson’s questionable choice of language. Most things Vincent said and did had the habit of upsetting his grandmother. “It’s all-”
    “Vincent, why are you upsetting your grandmother?” Vera said to the letter she was reading. Most things Ellie said and did had the habit of annoying her daughter.
    “I’m not-” Vincent began.
    “Stop upsetting your grandmother like that!” Vera interjected. Sensing the ruckus in the kitchen, Chad decided this would be a prime time to make his presumably anticipated entrance. He walked into the kitchen casually, putting forth his best effort to give off the impression that he was in no way aware of the morning’s verbose visitor: The lifting of the eye brows, slowly; the gradual widening of the eyes; the subtlety of the emerging smirk developing at the corners of his lips, all very necessary to maintain the illusion of appreciation. At least for immediate, financial reasoning.
    Seemingly gliding to his grandmother’s side and putting his arm around her, taking her leathery hand in his own, Chad said, “Is Vincent bothering you again, Grandma Ellie?” He lowered himself on bended knee and turned toward his brother, molding his face into a mask of authority. “Vince, I know you’re my brother and that’s why I love you, but you’re gonna have to go and ruin someone else’s bi-monthly family Sundays. ‘Cause it’s not  happening here anymore. ‘Cause I’m not gonna let you anymore.”
    Chad maintained an uncomfortably long eye contact with his older brother, his attempt at intimidation, a would-be experiment in intensity. Vincent could only stare back into the two empty and ultimately oblivious eyes in front of him and only found himself overwhelmed with frustration and confused.
    Ellie continued exhaling full and dense clouds of smoke into the side of her youngest grandson’s head, continuing her article on the ‘mysterious disappearance’ of a young pop singer two days earlier. In all honesty, she had not been paying attention to the majority of what Chad had been saying. Before Vincent could retort, however, their mother interrupted with the cracking tear of a new envelope.
    “That’s enough, Chad. He’s an idiot.” Vera said abstractedly. Vincent rolled his eyes and took another mouthful of orange juice. Still maintaining eye contact, Chad turned his eyes briefly towards his mother and back once again towards his brother. Nodding slowly, he began to turn gradually back to face his grandmother, who was now lighting another cigarette.
    “Thank you for being so…maternal.” Quoth Vincent.
    “Vera, what you need to do is find yourself another man to replace that other one you had hanging around for a while. That’s why Vincent’s in the shape he’s in: running about, smarting off, being crass. You’re so lucky Chad’s turned out as great as he has. We don’t know what we’d do without you.” Ellie had finally acknowledged her favorite grandson. Not that she was particularly fond of him; he was unbelievably naïve and obedient, and, she suspected, particularly desperate for validation of any sort. She handed him her coffee mug and smiling in that maternal way she had so often exploited to her benefit, continued with her indictment.
    “You know, you could really learn a lot from Chad, Vincent. How to be a nice, young gentleman, how to not act so foolish all of the time, how to treat your grandmother and your mom like you don’t.”
    “Vincent,” Vera interrupted, her furrowed brow zeroing in on the letter before her. Without even looking up from his horoscope, Vincent answered in a tone that screamed with annoyance.
    “What?”
    “There’s a letter here from our medical insurance.” Said Vera.
    “That’s unfortunate.” Replied Vincent.
    “It’s probably about him being a bad son, he treats everyone that way, you know, bad.” Chad added, handing his grandmother her cup of hour-old coffee. Usually, his trite remarks about his brother would be humored for a bit before being completely ignored, however at the moment, his mother seemed quite focused on the matter at hand.
    Vera continued, “It says you’ve been dropped from our plan.”
    Vincent suddenly became very interested in the conversation. Alarmed, he stood up quickly and made his way towards his mother, whose face had now grown longer with grave expectation.
    “No longer a full-time student, unsatisfactory academic performance, what the hell is this, Vincent? What the hell have you been doing the last two years?” Vera demanded.
    Ellie scoffed in astonishment, taking a frustrated drag of her cigarette, “Well, this is unbelievable. I‘ve spent two years, Vincent, two years paying for you to get a decent education I knew you‘d only piss away anyway!” Ellie screamed across the cloud of smoke separating her and her grandson. Ellie was raging through her cigarette in an emotion she could not quite identify; her choices had been narrowed down to some strange emotional hybrid of excitement and aggravation.
    Vincent was, at this point, very much aware of the situation at hand. For almost at once he shed his indifferent disposition and now seemed genuinely interested, concerned, with this new topic of conversation. Chad's lower jaw had been hanging loose and forgotten for half a minute, leaving his mouth ajar with fascination, an expression the others had become quite jaded to. Nonetheless, Vincent's misfortunes, regardless of their physical affects, brought a great deal of amusement and reaffirmation to his younger brother's otherwise meaningless life; no matter the degree of Vincent's mistakes, Chad was always reassured that his efforts, no matter how dismal, would always look far superior.
    "I should probably take a look at that." Vincent said, holding onto his last, remaining, shreds of hope for an ideal outcome desperately.
    “He’s probably high right now.” Chad remarked. Vincent stopped suddenly in confusion and turned slowly to face his younger brother.
    “What the…f**k does that even mean?” Vincent asked, painfully bewildered. Both generations of Livingston women raised their eyebrows in very animated unison.
    “You do not speak that way in front of you grandmother!” Vera commanded, returning to the compromising letter.
    “He’s probably acting this way because of all the drugs Chad was telling us about!” Ellie interjected.
    Vera flipped to the second page and began to scan over its contents, all traces of expression were quickly disappearing. Her eldest son carefully studied her grim expression, hoping perhaps to gain some insight into what still lay in store for him. “Look, I’m sure this is just some sort of error in whichever department it is that handles these sort of matters. So, why don’t you just let me see that and I can probably take care of it pretty quickly.” Vincent said, smiling awkwardly to illustrate his intentions. Receiving no reaction whatsoever from his mother, he quickly made for the letter. However, Vera batted at his paw instinctually, never taking here eyes from the page.
     Chad, meanwhile, was unable to piece together the implications of this newfound information on his own and was beginning to ask his grandmother what was going on when he was suddenly interrupted:
    “These are your transcripts.” Vera whispered, studying the page. Vincent’s eyes widened subtly and it was at this point that all hope disappeared from within Vincent, leaving instead an abundance of dread in its place that, at once, made him feel nauseous and very, very worried. He simply stood and watched, as he knew, at this point, was all he could do. With a mask of complete astonishment, Vera finally looked up from Vincent’s transcripts at their author.
    “…You’ve only earned four units in two years?” Vera asked. Chad gasped genuinely and audibly, unsure exactly as to how to react. At that same moment, Ellie, upon hearing the news, gasped deeply, bordering somewhere on a deathly shriek, causing the cherry of the cigarette in her mouth to glow brightly for a moment.
    Ellie Livingston died of a stroke shortly thereafter, and the week following had brought with it monotony and universal condemnation, both exclusively for Vincent. The previous seven days had served merely as a bothersome training exercise for today's main event. He needed only to make it through the day. Why? Of this he was not entirely sure. However, he felt confident that once the funeral proceedings had come to their inevitable close, the majority of friends and relatives who never particularly held their misanthropic relative in high regard to begin with, would surely return to their traditional, understood contempt. Of this, he was quite certain. As for other likely outcomes, Vincent preferred, when it was to his convenience, to obscure said scenarios with a rare and unrealistic optimism.
    At present, he was not entirely sure he would be able to survive the current conversation. Their vibrations were becoming quite hostile, he was sure of that much. And taking into account the fact that he was no longer a minor, the odds seemed very heavily stacked against him. He decided it best to refrain from opening any further sort of 'observational dialogue', a term he regularly used in defense against various relatives, teachers, parents, etc.
    "Looks like everybody's starting to head off." Maryanne needlessly observed. The crowd had been dissipating for several minutes, excusing themselves from smoking and gossip circles and making their way toward their respective vehicles. Now, the few attendees who remained were eagerly making their way out of the funeral home parking lot toward the final hurdle of this marathon en memoriam.
    “We should all probably get going then too, I suppose.” Vera said, her words garnished with sniffling. She raised the tissue to dry faux tears that were no longer there in her attempt to remind everyone of who exactly had found themselves victimized. “Don’t want to be the last ones there.”
    “How would that look?” Lucy added, laughing softly in hopes she would lighten the tense mood. Vera smiled and chuckled politely at her friends, hoping to end the day soon and get back home, alone.
    “Alright, well, Maryanne and I are gonna stop and pick up some coffee on the way.”
    “We’ll make sure to get you one too.” Maryanne said with an assuring smile and wink. Maryanne’s second purpose in life, seemingly and other than to agree with Lucy, was to ensure the mental well-being of her long-time friend and co-worker, Vera Cash. For one reason or another, Maryanne constantly felt the need to see to it that Vera was taken care of, which, taking into account the condescending manner in which Vera often addressed her benefactor with, would often perplex many an observer.
    “Thank you, Maryanne, Lucy.”
    “We’ll see you over there, Sweetie.” Said Lucy. Lucy and Maryanne both paid Vera one final sympathetic hug, followed by a matching embrace, then began to make their way toward their car. The family Cash began to walk in the opposite direction, alongside the all but empty parking lot.
    Vincent walked on the outer side of the walkway, Chad walking arm-in-arm with his mother. The preceding week had been equally as kind to Chad as it had been to Vera. Vincent was practically non-existent now, and he knew it would only be a matter of time until Vincent was gone entirely.  
    “Did you like the service, Mom?” Chad asked, to which his mother smiled a small, bittersweet smile.
    “It was just beautiful, wasn’t it?” Vera responded to herself.
    “It was. Grandma would’ve really loved it.”
    “Oh, I know she would’ve. All the flowers and music and people; your grandma always loved funerals.” Vera noticed Chad awaiting acknowledgment and, uncomfortably, smiled politely before quickly looking away again.
    Avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk to evade boredom, Vincent unconsciously struggled with a centimeter or two of excess stitching in his pocket. He was annoyed at the fact that he, the deceased’s very own grandson, should have to go through such lengths to get to his car. Perhaps he would write an strongly-worded letter to whichever special-interest group it was that was responsible for the funeral parlor industry. He made a mental note to not forget to do so when he got home. The process, however, was interrupted as Vincent suddenly stopped walking along side his family. A couple of moments had passed before they noticed.
    “What’s the matter with you?” Chad asked with a blossoming hostility. Vera looked at Vincent staring straight ahead and turned toward the empty parking spot.
    “Vincent, where’s your car?” Vera asked, already beginning to become annoyed. Vincent struggled to make sense of the situation, his mouth hanging open with disbelief.
    “I don’t know, Mom. Hence the look of absolute bewilderment.”
    “Well, you parked it right there, I was sitting right next to you, I’m not stupid. This is where you parked, correct?” The space between her expertly plucked eyebrows began to turn pearl-white with tension, as it always did in such times. Chad walked over to to the vacant space and attempted to look as though he was making sense of the scene, which only meant he had placed his hands on his hips. “Yeah, this where he parked, Mom. He probably got it towed.”
    “We were parked in visitor parking, stupid.” Retorted Vincent.
    “Then you probably left it unlocked. You’re irresponsible all the time! This is only happening because of your laziness. Not mine.” Chad always spoke to Vincent’s forehead when trying to give off the impression of authority, as eye contact made Chad uncomfortable.
    “Did you leave your car unlocked?” Vera asked, unable to believe what she had just heard.
    “I didn’t l-”
    “Chad’s telling me that you left it unlocked. The car is gone, now who am I supposed to believe, Vincent? Tell me.” Vera was becoming frantic.
    “Somebody stole your car.” Chad said with a cackle, studying and pointing to a pile of broken shards of glass which had been crudely swept into the gutter which ran along the front side of the parking space. And it was at this point that Vincent Cash became overwhelmed with emotion, enveloped in a wave of profound sadness and anger and frustration that was unprecedented, unfathomable.
    “Goddamn it.” Vincent said to himself.
    “This is just great.” Vera searched for the words to express her disgust with the situation, but her reserve had already been overly-exhausted. “Well, don’t just stand there doing nothing! They’re getting away! Call the police!”
    “I would, except for the fact that you insisted we leave our phones in the car.” Vincent said solemnly. Vera was taken aback for a moment, unsure as to how to proceed; she knew she had only moments to shift any feelings of responsibility she may be feeling back toward Vincent, a habit she had fallen into long before.
    “Do you see what happens? Do you see what happens, Vincent? When I can’t trust you to behave yourself like a grown man and stay off your phone for your grandmother’s funeral!” The pearl glowed white.
    “Yes, my irresponsibility. I’m gonna go see if I can use the phone inside.” said Vincent, waiting for any sign of response but instead finds only two impatient faces. Sensing defeat, Vincent began to walk back toward the funeral home.
    The interior of the funeral home seemed entirely different now, less than half an hour later. The flowers had all been removed, leaving a powerful absence of color, and the respectfully mournful dispositions of the staff were nowhere to be seen. In its place remained only a casual indifference. The room actually seemed more optimistic.
    Vincent seemed to disrupt that indifference and newfound optimism almost immediately upon reentering building. All eyes at once rushed in his direction and a cold wave swept over Vincent.
    “Uh, excuse me.”
    A rotund blonde woman began walking over to Vincent with a confused expression.
    “May I help you?” The woman asked.
    “Yeah, uh, my car is gone.” Vincent said uneasily. The mood of the room had begun to rub off on him and he could tell it would get the best of him if he did not leave this place sooner than later.
    “Is there something you’re dissatisfied with? Something we did? Or perhaps, didn’t do?” The woman continued.
Vincent tried his very hardest to maintain some sort of order within himself. “I’m saying my car was stolen. Illegally.”
    “I’m sorry, Meyer-Thurguson Memorial Home is not responsible for-”
    “No, no, no. I don’t want to sue you. I just need to call the police. I need to use your phone. Can I do that, please? Or are we going to sit here and bother ourselves with business formalities?”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry. We had to start charging twenty-five cents to use the telephone. People we starting to take advantage. Mostly kids.”
    And all Vincent could really do at that moment was struggle to understand.


© 2010 sickgonzo


My Review

Would you like to review this Chapter?
Login | Register




Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

145 Views
Added on February 12, 2010
Last Updated on February 12, 2010


Author

sickgonzo
sickgonzo

Redlands, CA



About
My name's Albert, and I want to improve humanity by pointing out each of its countless flaws:) more..

Writing
Of Being Of Being

A Poem by sickgonzo