Summer 2023: 42, A Little Grief, Please, Stuart Watson

I prefer casual wear. Something with a little ground-in dirt is best. I can slip into a pair of slightly grimy jeans and never worry about getting them dirty. I own slacks and a blue blazer, but I rarely wear them. Today is one of those days. My hair is lightly creamed, combed with my part on the left, as it should be. It’s cloudy outside, a little drizzle, but I have no need for rain gear. I always loved rain, loved the feel of it on my skin, dripping down into my eyes after a downpour. Most everybody is there when I arrive. They all pull back so I can settle in. Right up front. Lots of familiar faces today. I listen as they share stories about when we were kids and ran together, or when I fucked up the mid-rare steak for the building’s landlord and he sent it back and I got pissed and threw it at him. My next job was a better fit, tracking shipping tickets for pallets of tile. As mourners shuffle past and lay lilies on my chest, I take note of those who sob and those who smile. Hypocrites attend funerals, too. I wish I could tell them that true retribution originates best from beyond the grave. After I passed over and landed here, they gave me unlimited payback for the still-living. In here, they call it the consolation prize. My first wife is here. The one who never wanted to see me again. Still crying. True, I was the one who left. My widow is next-to-last. Acting as if grief were key to a successful audition. My boss, too. Why is he here? He hates my guts. Oh, his guiding hand of support above my wife’s butt. I knew it. Bastard. Now that I don’t have to worry about my own health, I can focus all my energy on his. Sudden cardiac arrest would suit him well. I can’t wait to deliver. Best served cold.