The glossy remorse and theatre of concern summoned for a funeral have always eluded me in their purpose. Take the case of Brigadier General Alfred Pennybottom--genuinely despised by his family, universally reviled by his subordinates, and ultimately disliked by his closest friends, the retired old officer's visitation was nonetheless crowded with gawking disbelievers who had nothing but kind caws to offer for the corpse's beloved to lap up like soured wine. Pennybottom's nephew occupied himself with the church's young organ player, whose thin hands danced a waltz across the keys to provide the suitable melancholy for the event at hand. By the time of the procession, the two were gasping and grabbing at one another in the bathroom of the church.
Having led such an unfulfilling and despicable life, Pennybottom left few good memories among those who survived him, a rather frightening prospect for those who barely knew him. Everyone strained to remember an anecdote, an amusing glimpse of humanity in the old bastard's excruciatingly long life, and everyone came up blank. I felt the eyes of a dozen strangers turn on me, expecting me to provide some sliver of insight into the man, but I could only shrug my shoulders. I had only met the man at Saint's Junction Hospital, where we shared a room; both of us were expecting a liver transplant, but unfortunately only one was available. Old man Pennybottom was rejected for having had a single shot of whiskey after his wife left him two years ago, and so the liver went to me. Pennybottom died a week after my surgery.
"Alfred was a generous man," I said meekly. "He once gave me his Jello. The green kind." This wasn't entirely true, as Pennybottom had actually thrown his food tray across the room in a fit of anger, but the embarrassed looks of Pennybottom's relatives were enough to secure my silence for the rest of the afternoon. Having fed on the misery of the not-quite-bereaved family and friends of the deceased, I returned to my quiet home in the suburbs and promised to appreciate my life (and my liver) all the more.
An hour after I had returned home, there was a sharp knock on my door. As I opened it, a translucent, grey-blue mass in the shape of Brigadier General Alfred Pennybottom rushed by, smelling like a pile of dead fish and wheezing, gasping, and coughing his way across my living room floor. In a booming, wind-washed voice, the spirit demanded, "You got any goddamn cigars, you blue-blooded French-looking pantywaist?"
"Well," I said, "therapy is clearly not working."
With a gust of wind, my front door slammed shut. The lights throughout my house flickered on and off, and I could hear a rattling in the kitchen. A slow chill crawled into my spine as, shaking my head, I shuffled through the living room, the dining room, and finally into the kitchen; the ghastly figure was rifling through my refrigerator, finally emerging with a six-pack of beer. The mustachioed, ethereally obese spirit gazed at me with cold blue malice. "I see you're treatin' that liver well, Frenchy."
"That's for a fr--no, wait, I'm not talking to a..." I shook my head. "A ghost?"
"And what the hell else would I be?" A quick gust shut the refrigerator door, and the ghost of Alfred Pennybottom slid past me, beer in tow. The lights flickered, and I could hear the television switch on.
Shaking, partly from the cold chill of the house and partly from fear, I followed Pennyworth into the living room. He was hovering above the couch, his ghostly feet spread across my coffee table, with the remote in one hand and a beer in the other. "Al-alfred?" I stuttered.
He took a deep sip of the beer, and I could see it trickle down his translucent body. "I'm tryna watch the game, kid."
"I-- well, er, why are you..."
The ghost groaned. "I'm hauntin' you, if you need it spelled out."
"I don't believe in ghosts."
"I don't believe in men who wear pink shirts," he said, pointing a finger at my seasonal button-up.
"S-so, uh, why are you haunting me?"
He set the beer and remote on the table, and turned to face me, flinging his arms wide; his eyes began to burn with red heat. "I, ALFRED CASSIUS PENNYBOTTOM, HAVE UNFINISHED BUSINESS ON THIS MORTAL PLANE, AND ONLY YOU CAN AVENGE MY UNTIMELY DEATH!"
"I... really?"
He fell back onto the couch, grabbing the remote and beer with his spectral arms. "No," he said. "No, that's goddamn stupid."
"Oh."
"I didn't get to pick who I haunt. Otherwise I mighta picked that organist from the church. Hot little number, that one."
"Uh. So what can I do to... I don't know, exorcise you?"
"Shut up and let me watch the game?"
"I... I don't think that would be--"
"Were you in 'Nam? No? When you fight a war for Uncle Sam, then you can decide who gets exercised or exorcist or what-have-you, but until then you can shut your lily-livered lips."
I took a seat in the corner of the living room, my eyes glued to the irreverent sight of this beer-guzzling spirit. "You're not a very nice person, you know."
He turned the television off. "Oh for Christ's sakes." He turned to me. "If I can't watch the goddamn Packers, what's the point."
"Sorry." After an uncomfortable pause, I decided to break the silence. "Can I ask you a question, Mr. Pennybott-"
"Don't goddamn call me that. You will call me Brigadier General, General, or Sir, but never 'Mr. Pennybottom.' Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Mist- uhm, sir."
"Get out with your question."
"I was... well I was just wondering, what's death like?"
"Picture going into a deep sleep, with warmness and a bright light."
"Okay..."
"It's nothing like that."
"Oh."
"What kind of half-assed question is that? Do you remember what it's like being born?"
"Well, I just thought you might have some words of comfort, or that you might remember your last thoughts--"
"Oh, sorry, my last thoughts. 'OH MY GOD MY LUNGS ARE COLLAPSING, I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE.' Those were my last thoughts, sorry I wasn't philosophizing or looking for a goddamn light or whatever the hell they teach you happens in that liberal arts pansy school you probably went to."
"I was an art major in college, actually."
"I goddamn knew it."
"So... is there anything, I don't know, that you want to say? Any messages you want me to pass along?"
"Oh, sure, just go up to my ex-wife and tell her I'm sorry for the syphilis, but she wasn't in Saigon. What the hell kind of question is that? I'm dead, I don't give two shits about what those people do."
"Erm. Are there any... well is there anything I can do?"
"Go liberate all of 'Nam from those goddamn Viet-Cong with your pink shirts and your art degree."
"You aren't being very productive."
"Okay. Fine. Go back in time and give me a goddamn liver."
"Is that what this is about?"
"You killed me."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes you did. You were so goddamn sick that you had to have that liver?"
"I followed the rules. You broke them."
"The rules? I had a shot of whiskey. The only reason they knew about it was my goddamn son ratted me out. That ungrateful son of a bitch."
"You could have lied."
"Life ain't worth living if you're living on a lie."
I leaned back into the chair. "That's rather profound."
"And I didn't mean a goddamn word of it. I was just tired of fighting."
"Then why does it matter?"
His face crumpled, looking less-than-spectral for the first time. His features were frozen in frustration. "Maybe I've been blamin' the wrong person for my death," he said. His ghostly form began to fade into my couch.
"Maybe you were sent here to forgive me." His eyes flashed red, and I jumped back. "Or yourself! Yourself."
As he faded from the room, his voice echoed. "You're still a god.... damn.... pansy..."
Last week, I visited the Brigadier General's grave. His son had elected to place him on a family lot rather than have him buried in Arlington, and his tombstone was rather plain. Kneeling, I put a crumpled beer can, an imported cigar, and a copy of Sports Illustrated next to his grave, as well as a note. It read: "Here lies the General. He hated Jello, loved booze, and finally learned to forgive."
As I was driving home, I decided to triple the number of therapy sessions I had scheduled for the month.
Great story! :D
I really liked it; made me smile more than once and it usually takes quite a bit for a story to make me do that.
some of my favorite lines:
Quote from: Elven Doritos"I was... well I was just wondering, what's death like?"
"Picture going into a deep sleep, with warmness and a bright light."
"Okay..."
"It's nothing like that."
Thanks! This was definitely the most light-hearted piece I've written in a while, so I'm glad it didn't fall completely flat.
I enjoyed quite a bit of this. A little more about our narrator might havel helped create a better dichotomy, but you roused a prety good amount of smiles from me.