The Bestowal

Young man learns of his birth-mother's death and discovers something mysterious about himself.

The Bestowal

 

By: Ricky Thompson

 

My mother died. Liver failure. The funeral was happening at that very moment, the very moment I was sitting at the bar in this crusty old dive in my idyllic home town of Autumn Falls, downing my sixth shot of John Jameson’s endowment to humanity. The warmness of the Irish whiskey sloshing from my tongue down my esophagus and into my chest cavity felt as warm as the first shot.

      “Another,” I slurred toward the bartender.

      He brought me another shot of Mr. Jameson’s original, I looked over at the morbidly obese man eating a stack of ribs a few stools down and I raised my shot glass to him, in acknowledgement of our camaraderie as midday bar-mates. He nodded and in doing so formally acknowledged our camaraderie as well. He quickly shifted his focus back to his baby-back ribs and began to devour. If there was a heaven he wasn’t going there, gluttony was one of the seven deadly sins, or so I’ve heard, and he was the epitome of the glutton sinner. I downed Mr. Jameson’s gift, the warmness caused me to quiver with irreverent delight. I laid down a ten dollar Federal Reserve note and told the bar-keep to keep the change.

     So why was I at this dive bar and not at my own mother’s funeral? What type of irreprehensible human being gets s**t-faced at noon instead of grieving over his mother’s fancied and formaldehyde corpse in lieu of delivering a poignant eulogy which results in both politely appropriate laughter and timely tears? Why, those are good questions.

     Irony, perhaps. My mother’s liver failure was due to her uninhibited and incessant consumption of alcohol, or the Devil’s Kool-Aide as the fundamental Pentecostals would dub it. Was my mother’s choice of sauce the same as my own? Did she find Irish whiskey as comforting as her offspring? I’d like to think not. I’d like to think that she and I had nothing in common with each other. Was I being too callous towards her? Possibly. But it’s hard to be magnanimous towards an individual whom spawned you, and then left you to be for twenty-plus years without so much as a letter. Then she has the gall to have me contacted in lieu of her bereavement, to extend an olive branch in the form of a funeral invitation. Yeah, I think I had the right to be callous.

     I can’t be too angry though, I had a fulfilling, albeit unconventional childhood with my real parents Jack and Evelyn Porter. They named me Sidney after their favorite silver-screen thespian, Sidney Poitier. Mom and Dad told me that he was one of the few visible African Americans on the silver screen in their youth, and that he carried the monumental weight of representing our people on the silver screen for a generation. The term our people " in reference to Sidney Poitier was indicative of Jack and Evelyn’s complexion, but not so much mine. Now you see how my childhood was unconventional?

     Jack and Evelyn were unable to have children and were set to adopt an African American baby boy, but there was some miscommunication within the adoption agency and when they showed up to claim their prize, there I was, a white baby. Jack and Evelyn later told me they believed in fate, and had to take me home with them, and to this day they say it was the happiest moment of their lives and the best choice they ever made.

     “More ribs,” demanded The Glutton before taking a swig of his Samuel Adams lager.

     So I can’t be wholly angry with Jessica Ellis, my birth mother. But why have me contacted upon death, Jessica Ellis? I found this utterly cowardly. I was a tad bit curious, were there going to be answers at the funeral? Probably not. I was set to go to the funeral " I had my freshly pressed gray suit on, with a white shirt and black skinny tie. I looked around and thought to myself " that I must have been the only patron in the history of this decrepit dive to sport anything more elegant than a grunge era flannel noticeably absent of at least three buttons. Autumn Falls’ most dilapidated and crusty bar sparked more curiosity in me on the way to the funeral home than did the funeral of Jessica Ellis. What answers would the eulogies of Jessica Ellis provide me that a healthy supply of John Jameson’s bestowal could not? At least Mr. Jameson could help aid me in my existential journey through life. All the most virtuoso intellectuals and litterateurs were or are drunkards, not that I’m a virtuoso intellectual or litterateur, but I’m still in my early twenties, I had time, and I wasn’t going to waste it grieving over the corpse of Jessica Ellis.

     “Hey, can I get Blue Moon?”

     The bartender quickly unhinged the cap off a twelve ounce bottle Blue Moon and shuffled it toward me without saying a word. I slid a five-valued Federal Reserve note across the sticky bar and told him to keep the change. I glanced over at The Glutton, he was devouring his second plate of ribs, maybe more; I arrived after he was already shelving down his last plate. His hands were covered in barbeque sauce as were the corners of his mouth which were practically engulfed by the protruding flab of his cheeks.

     “How are the ribs,” I asked.

     He looked over at me without setting down his half stripped baby-back. “S**t.”

     I looked over at the bartender who looked down and shook his head.

     “Why are you eating them then?”

     “They’re cheap, I’m hungry, and I have nothing else to do.”

    Touché Glutton, touché.

    I looked around the cramped dive to see if there was anybody else that I could engage in drunken dialogue with, but the bar was empty. I guess that’s expected in a run-down s**t-hole dive like this one in the early afternoon on a Tuesday, although I doubt it ever reached capacity. It wasn’t the type of bar that you would see a red velvet rope on a Friday night containing miniskirts and stilettos in single file, garnering to gain entrance by flirting with the bouncer and in turn, the sovereign of the door. 

     I glanced back over at The Glutton. He was shredding apart the ribs with reckless abandon, I was afraid that he was accidently going to swallow one of the bones. And sure enough…

     “Are you okay?” I asked watching his head bob back and forth.

     “Hey man,” I called over the bartender, “I think something’s wrong with him.”

     We both glared at The Glutton whom was now standing and grabbing his throat.

     “S**t, he’s choking,” exclaimed the bartender.

     “I know,” I slurred frantically, “Do something,” I yelled, jumping out of my stool and knocking it over.

     “What the f**k am I supposed to do,” he yelled back.

     The Glutton was now looking at us, his hands around his throat, with pleading eyes, and scarlet cheeks.

     “I don’t know, do the Heimlich or something, do something man, this is your s**t-hole.”

     “First of all "“

     “Fine!”

     I ran over to The Glutton, “I’m going to help you, okay?” he nodded. His whole face was shifting from scarlet to plum and he began to hyperventilate violently. I went behind him and attempted to reach around his body, but to no avail. I don’t even think a wingspan in the like of Yao Ming or Dikembe Mutombo could have reached around the glutton’s morbidly obese torso. He dropped down to one knee, the floorboards sounded like they were about to crack upon the impact. I looked over at the bartender whom was engaged in a laissez-faire discussion with the emergency operator. The only thing I could think of was to punch The Glutton in the stomach as hard as I could. I was highly inebriated at the time, I couldn’t think of anything else. I reared back and punched his abdomen as hard as I possibly could, sending him to his back and injuring my wrist. When he hit the ground, it felt like the tectonic plates engulfed within the earth were shifting right under my feet.

     “They’re sending an ambulance,” the barkeep said calmly.

     “He’s not going to make it!”

     “Not my fault.”

     A*****e.

     While on his back I repeatedly hammer-fisted his abdomen and sternum, but to no avail, and the glutton swiftly drifted out of consciousness.

 

. . .

 

I went to the bathroom to wash the perspiration off my face, and when I exited the lavatory into the crusty dive I found two EMTs, and to my surprise, they had revived The Glutton who was standing next to them with his gaze focused toward the ground. When I shifted my gaze to meet the object of The Glutton’s fixation, I noticed something peculiar. I noticed that the glutton was staring at his dead carcass. I decided to lay off the alcohol at that point.

     The upright Glutton looked over at me and tilted his head, giving him a quizzical gaze and said, “You can see me?”

     I rushed out of the dive; the sun hit my eyes violently. I saw black circles and almost lost my balance. I quickly recovered and donned my black Ray-Bans to shade my eyes from the effervescent rays of the midday sun. I abandoned my truck and began speed walking down the sidewalk passing the little shops that encompass downtown Autumn Falls. I had no particular physical destination in my mind at the time. The only destination I wanted to arrive at was destination sobriety.

    “Hey! Hey! You!”

     I looked behind me and saw The Glutton running after me like I was the baby-back rib that got away. I know, too soon.

     I turned around ready to sprint away from The Glutton and instead smashed my right knee against an unoccupied bench, causing me to crash to the ground, squeeze my knee and grimace in pain.

     “Hey, are you okay?” asked The Glutton, now standing over me.

     “You’re dead.”

     “Yeah, I guess so.”

     “What the f**k?”

     “I know right?”

     “Why am I talking to you?”

     “You don’t know?”

     “No.”

     “Oh.”

     “Do you?”

     “Nope.”

     I used the bench to stabilize myself up onto my feet and began to limp away slowly. The ghostly Glutton began to follow me.

     “Leave me alone.”

     “I need a favor,” the Glutton pleaded.

     I stopped and turned around, tweaking me knee, which caused me to grimace.

     “Please.”

     “I already attempted to save your life, I think I’ve done my good deed for the day.”

     I started to walk off. And he followed.

     “Please, just "“

     He suddenly stopped talking, and stopped following. I looked behind and noticed him trying to walk forward, but something was preventing him, there was like an invisible fortress that his apparition could not pass through.

      “I can’t… I can’t go any farther,” he said with frustration.

      “Ha!”

      “Really, please, I just ask one small favor.”

      “Okay, only if it is a small favor.”

     “I just need you to go to the pharmacy a little ways down the road, do you know what pharmacy I’m talking about.” I nodded. “Okay, the pharmacist working there, she has the most beautiful green "“

     “I need to find a bed man,” I interrupted. “Just tell me her name and what you want me to do.”

     “Her name is Samantha Adams,” he said with a sigh and a big dumb grin that a kid gets when he sees his first pair of breasts.

     I laughed.

     “Why are you laughing?”

     “We were just at a bar, you were just drinking… you don’t get the joke?”

     “No, enlighten me?”

     “No, just continue.”

     “Okay I want you to tell Samantha Adams that Greg Peck loves her… Is in love with her… Loves her.”

     I squinted at him, “Why do you want me to tell this pharmacist that a… dead actor loves her?”

     “No, no,” he said shaking his head, “I’m Greg Peck.”

     “Ah, is she your girlfriend?”

     “No.”

     “Ex-Girlfriend?”

     “No.”

     “Okay, then,” I said skeptically.

     “Please, promise me,” Greg Peck pleaded clasping his hand together.

     “I promise.”

     “Thank you, thank you, you’re a great man!”

     I proceeded to limp ahead, leaving Greg Peck behind, and easing the pain in my right knee with every step.

 

. . .

 

It took me around ten minutes at a brisk pace to reach the pharmacy. I glided through the aisles as quickly as my inebriated legs would allow me to and into the back where the pharmacists were stationed. I glanced behind the counter and saw a long-haired red head with smoldering green eyes, soft pale skin, and cheek bones that a model would eat baby-back ribs for. It couldn’t have been Samantha Adams; this pharmacist appeared to be around thirty, which would make her around twenty years younger than Greg Peck, and much out of his league in terms of physical attractiveness and body aesthetic. I looked closer, and noticed a name tag, and sure enough it read, Samantha Adams.

       I approached, “Sam Adams?”

       I wouldn’t have made that joke if I was sober. Trust me.

       “Haha, funny,” she said exposing her pristine ivory smile.

       “I’m sorry, I have a message for you.”

       “Yeah,” she asked scrunching her forehead.

       “Yeah… Greg Peck asked me to tell you that he loves you… That Greg Peck loves you.”

       She looked at me as though I just told her that deceased acting legend Gregory Peck was in love with her.

       “The… Actor?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

       “No?”

       “Who?”

       “Greg Peck?”

       “I don’t know who that is?”

     “Okay, have a nice day?” I quickly said and swerved as swiftly as I could through the aisles before reaching the door and throwing on my Ray-Bans in preparation for the sun’s gleaming vivacious rays.

 

. . .

 

Upon descending from the pharmacy I came to an epiphany. I realized that if I could see the dead Glutton Greg Peck, I might have the facility to see other dead people. There was one dead person that I wanted to see, not to tell them that I love them, but rather to get answers to the questions that I’ve often wondered about, but would never admit to anyone, especially my parents, Jack and Evelyn Porter. Jessica Ellis was not going to get away without giving me the answers I desired and deserved.

      The cemetery was about a mile away, and I couldn’t contain my eagerness, so I started to jog. It was a fairly warm spring day in northern California and the combination of the heat, liquor, and elevated heart rate caused my glands to open up releasing an inexorable flow of perspiration. I couldn’t stop though, and threw my gray sport coat onto a bench that I passed.

     By the time I reached the cemetery I was saturated with sweat, and was panting restlessly. My state of inebriation was also beginning to fade. I scanned the small cemetery swiftly and noticed the only grave that was being worked on. Two burly bearded groundskeepers were ferociously shuffling dirt into the grave in which the excavator already mostly covered with soil. I looked around frantically and saw a woman in a white dress watching me. She appeared to be in her early forties with tan skin and long chestnut hair; she wasn’t attractive at this moment, but at one time I could tell that she had double-take beauty. I stared at her, and she stared at me.

     She smiled at me, and mouthed, “Your Welcome,” before vanishing for eternity.

     B***h.

End

Author's Note

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