Death of a Persona

In the area between the entrance from the hallway and the back row of pews, the small parlor smelled faintly of sweet black cherry pipe smoke. The scent, coupled with the heavy oak pews and the plush, dark brown carpet, lent the parlor a sense of density. As if darkness itself had substance.

In that area were the pastor and the funeral director, standing off to one side near the door. When the time came, the pastor would walk to the front and the funeral director would force himself to walk calmly along the hallway back to his office. Never mind that he wanted to bolt. Sometimes a funeral was just a funeral. Sometimes it felt as if something unseen were tugging at him, as if he were being siphoned.

Nearer the center of that area, a few feet from the wall behind them and a few feet from the head of the center aisle in front of them, were three other figures, all men. Two were substantive. One was a pinch removed from being vapor. He was the source of the sweet black cherry tobacco scent.

Two of the men were obviously old friends. The third seemed a loose thread. They all appeared casual, as if attending just another fact of life.

At five feet ten inches, Eric, the loose thread, was the tallest. At only a hundred and forty pounds he was also trimmer than the others. His sparse dark brown hair was cut short and greying at the temples. He was sporting a three-day growth of whiskers and resembled a calmer but more intense Bruce Dern.

The narrow black glasses perched on his nose added to the effect. They were canted slightly down to the left, as if the top of the right lens were reaching to match the curvature of his eyebrow. Despite the fact that his dark grey suit was impeccable, it would not surprise anyone to see white tape wrapped around the bridge of his glasses, but that was not the case today.

The man in the center, the one who appeared to be mostly mist, wavered at about five feet eight inches. His white van dyke beard and moustache were precisely trimmed and barely discernable against his pale visage, atop which was a slightly canted white straw fedora with a modest brown and gold band.

His off-white LL Bean shirt was tucked into tan slacks behind a brown leather belt. His shoes matched the belt. His left hand was inserted loosely in his trouser pocket. With his right he was cupping the briar bowl of his pipe. Occasionally he moved the stem to his mouth. His attention was on the coffin at the foot of the aisle.

Gervasio Arrancado, the third man, was a little taller than the second and considerably more substantive at around a hundred and ninety pounds. His black hair was salt and pepper along the temples and, like Eric, he was sporting a few days growth of whiskers, but his were white. His dark shoes and slacks and belt and shirt were unobtrusive. Only his eyes, and possibly the imagination behind them, were intense.

As he gazed at the coffin, he shook his head. Quietly, he said, “Ah Paco, Paco. It was far too soon. What stories you might have told.”

The man in the middle, his attention still on the coffin, the stem of his pipe in his mouth, nodded.

Then Gervasio glanced past the man in the middle, or perhaps through him. He looked at Eric. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head, then muttered a curse under his breath.

Eric didn’t notice. He was occupied with other matters. As he gazed over the pews, something didn’t seem quite right, so he counted. It was as he suspected. The count was off. A twinge of annoyance raced along his spine. For a moment he felt a .32 caliber revolver in his right hand in his trouser pocket. His index finger moved over the trigger.

One hundred and twenty-nine people had crowded themselves into a pecking order in the pews. From the rear, the pecking order consisted of three ranks. Those who didn’t feel like sitting home on an early Saturday afternoon filled the back three rows.

Those who had read some of Nick’s stories or some of the stories of his peers or at least their biographies filled the next three rows and half of the second row. And as there were no family members, the first row and a half were filled those aspirants who found Nick’s work worthy of study and certainly would write like he did if only they could find the time.

At the far end of the front pew on the right side of the aisle was the boss.

Eric counted again.

One hundred and twenty-nine people. There were eight rows of pews, two pews to a row, eight seats to a pew. That would mean sixty four people to a column and one hundred and twenty-eight to fill all the pews. But the count was one hundred and twenty-nine.

Eric took a deep breath, released it slowly. The disparity in the count simply wasn’t right, and it bordered on disrespect for the deceased. Disrespect for the deceased—any deceased—was a serious social infraction. And this decedent was a friend. Disrespect to this man was an unpardonable transgression. He took another breath.

The broad center aisle was vacant except for a stroller, which the mother had thoughtfully parked as close to the edge of the pew as she could. The aisles on either side of the pews were as broad as the center aisle, but the soft vertical folds in the heavy red velvet ceiling-to-floor drapes made them look nonexistent.

It wasn’t difficult to find the flaw. Fourth row, right pew. That pew, alongside which the stroller was narrowing the aisle, held nine people instead of the standard eight. That skewed the count to an odd number. Eric let his gaze traverse left to right over the backs of the heads protruding from that pew.

Where there should be one head hovering over the fourth seat in from the center aisle, there were two. One was slightly offset and lower, to the left.

As he watched, the larger head, the one with the long smooth brunette hair flowing down over the narrow shoulders of a royal blue dress with a white collar, tilted forward to the left. The mommy turned her head just enough so a quarter of her profile was visible. She parted the left corner of her lips slightly and whispered something to the top of the smaller head, which was covered with a fine layer of blond gossamer. Then she pressed her lips against it for a moment.

The smaller person squirmed in her lap.

If you could count the little two foot tall subhuman as a person.

Three. He must be three. Only a three year old squirms like that.

One of the men near the door said quietly, “Well, I suppose we’d better start.”

It sounded like a complaint.

Eric frowned. Poor pastor. Had to cut short his visit with his little friend. He shook his head and a smirk stretched across his lips. Undertakers and sky pilots. You stab ‘em, we’ll slab ‘em. An’ then my buddy here will preach ‘em into the arms of the god of your choice for a one-time fee of only several thousand dollars.

What a deal. He shook his head again and crossed his arms over his chest. What a scam. And on top of that the guy actually complained about having to start the service. That would make my friends and me an inconvenience.

Eric didn’t like being thought an inconvenience.

The pastor slithered in behind the podium and glanced at his notes. He looked up, no doubt casting his gaze over the multitudes, much as his hero might have before he tried to feed them tainted fish and moldy bread, and began talking in muted tones.

The muted tones were a nice touch. That they were intentionally muted was not. It was one more testament, pun intended, to the man’s hypocrisy.

Eric smirked again and shifted his attention back to mommy dearest and her disruptive little monster. He hadn’t been disruptive yet, but he would. And then Eric would— what?

It wasn’t like he could just pull his revolver and put a bullet in the back of the little beast’s head. The backwash would get all over mommy, and from what Eric could tell she was a real looker. Might be a future there, but probably not so much if he splattered her son’s brains all over the guy in front of her.

Didn’t matter anyway. He hadn’t brought his revolver. He thought some might find it in poor taste considering someone had flipped Nick’s switch with a revolver. And face it, most of the people in this room had zero imagination.

The .45 automatic in his shoulder holster would do, but that would leave him with the same problem. Her son’s grey matter still would be scattered all over the place, and there was a good chance that would make her less than amenable to his advances. Plus the noise. That .45 was a really loud gun.

Then again, he was pretty fast. Maybe he could draw it, shoot, and pocket it before she turned around. Then he could rush forward to comfort the grieving mommy in her time of need.

Okay, probably not the best idea he’d ever had. Never knew who else might see him pocket the piece. He sighed. Back to the drawing board.

Still, someone would have to silence the little snot sooner or later. Eric might actually be doing mommy a favor if he—

In response to the pastor raising both hands, those in the back pews stood. Those on the left faced right, and those on the right faced left. They stepped into the center aisle one at a time, first one from the left, then one from the right, and began shuffling toward the coffin as if they had suddenly been transported to a Georgia chain gang.

It seemed a scripted progression. He hoped they were there to pay their respects and not to simply be seen paying their respects. Then again, a lot of them didn’t know the difference.

Regardless, they shuffled onward, a slow motion zombie non-apocalypse sans the raised arms and constant groaning.

Soon the last zombie from the eighth row had passed the seventh row, and everyone in that row stood up. They faced inboard as if receiving direction from a drill instructor and shuffled forward to join the chain gang.

Eric shook his head. Maybe Mr. Nicolas Z Porter should have written about a zombie apocalypse in full swing in southern California. He snorted. Who has a Z for a middle name? Not even a period after the Z. And he’d bet money the Z stood for exactly zilch. He grinned. Maybe it stood for zombie.

Anyway, the zombie thing. There could’ve been zombie lifeguards leaping out of towers, their zombie arms and legs snapping or falling off. Great idea. Zombie babes running along the beach, their zombie boobs bouncing. Would they have enough spring left in them to bounce? Anyway, like Zombie Bay Watch. Who knew how big the zombie thing would get before someone grew a brain and it all faded into dust. Puns intended.

As the last person from the seventh row passed the sixth row, everyone in that row stood up, faced inboard, began shuffling.

Or Nicolas Z could’ve written a story about a black tide of enzyme- and flesh-eating-bacteria-infested slime washing ashore in New York. That could be a whole series of stories. A novel even. A novel series even. The goo would not only coat the streets and fill the subways and sewers. It would climb skyscrapers and—

And the last person from the sixth row slimed past the fifth row, and everyone in that row stood up, faced inboard.

But seriously, the goo. It would climb skyscrapers and break windows and ooze over secretaries and their bosses and their bosses’ clients. If only ol’ Nick had written something different. If only he’d made a choice.

How about science fiction or science fantasy? Nick could’ve written about an abandoned spacecraft tumbling through the endless vacuum of space with three otters, a bullfrog and the bones of the pilot aboard.

The fourth row stood, faced inboard, began shuffling. The woman stood. The royal blue with a white collar was a blouse, not the top of a dress. Below it was a skirt, separated from the blouse by a wide, shiny white belt. Plastic?

She bent to pick up Junior, then planted him on her left hip. He certainly wouldn’t slide off that thing. He could put out a tent and camp overnight if he wanted. Her shoulders being so narrow made her look a little like a pear. A lot, actually. That’s all right. He wouldn’t feel so bad about splattering her kid’s brain should the need arise.

Anyway, what happened when the tumbling ship came to rest in a dense jungle on a faraway planet? Well, there are cosmic rays way out there, and cosmic rays cause all sorts of problems.

The third row stood, faced inboard.

Cosmic rays. Eric snapped his fingers, causing Nick, Gervasio and the pastor to look up.

No matter. He was being creative. If Nick had been that creative he’d still be vertical and warmer than room temperature.

Cosmic rays, cosmic rays. Ah, cosmic rays developed within the otters the ability to reason. As a result, they selected the bullfrog as their once and future king. Because they could reason, but not overly well. Eric grinned. They were otters, duh.

The second row popped up as if on command, faced inboard, began the slip an’ slide to the center aisle.

Or he could’ve written almost anything that wasn’t “mainstream” and “literary” and hoity-toity and crap. Almost anything that would mean he’d actually made a choice. How did he not know when you were only a persona you had to make a choice? The work had to be divvied up among the different voices, and if you didn’t make a choice, then you couldn’t contribute a unique voice.

Gervasio had made a solid choice. He wrote magic realism. Nobody else wanted that one anyway. He’d even helped the boss write a novel.

Eric had made a choice too, sort of. He wrote weird fiction. It was in various genres, but it was always weird fiction. The boss had even given him a novel. He hadn’t give either of the others a novel. Well, Gervasio would have a novel, but it would consist of independent, interlocked, complete short stories. So both a long collection and a novel. Moron. Always has to do things the hard way.

The first row stood, watch piously as the last few remaining second-rowers filed past the casket. There was no aisle to step into, and there was no room for a queue. As if on cue, the two people next to the aisle looked up at the pastor.

As if directing traffic, he crooked a finger at the man in the left aisle first, then the right aisle. Apparently he was under orders to be sure the boss went last.

As the others filed past the casket, the boss continued to write. Every hour was another thousand words. Every half hour was five or six hundred. Every fifteen minutes two to three hundred. Sitting at the end of the pew in this funeral was the same to him as sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. The only real difference was that here things went pretty much according to schedule. And there was definitely no over booking.

So anyway, Gervasio chose and Eric chose. The boss wrote whatever occurred to him, but then, he was the boss. What was the old saying? He who has the keyboard makes the rules? Something like that.

So the boss did make the rules, but even he had made a choice. Right there in his bio it said he wrote whatever the others, meaning Eric, Gervasio and Nick, left to him. So he had chosen to write pretty much anything and then blame it on them. That included a lot of the hoity-toity stuff, not that he’d use those words to describe it himself.

So the real problem was that ol’ Nick was stepping on toes. He was writing pretty much anything as well. He could do that, he claimed, because like Papa Hemingway, he was an adventurer.

Adventurer my ass. Plagiarist was more like it. He was swiping the boss’ ideas and slapping his own name on them.

So the boss issued a contract.

Eric glanced out of the corner of his left eye. Nick was scowling. He was also fading.

There it was. If he’d even written a story about a man scowling like that and fading and the reasons behind it, he might still be alive. Just something the boss wouldn’t feel Nick was stealing from him. Who steals from the boss? Who’s that stupid?

*

The funeral was over.

The mourners had filed past the coffin and mumbled their goodbyes. Then they self-herded themselves up the side aisles, out into the hallway, and out into the brightness of a hot Arizona afternoon. They did not moo, which Eric found curious. Gervasio was merely relieved.

Finally, at the right end of the first pew to the right side of the aisle, The boss typed seven centered asterisks and closed his laptop. He stood and glanced at the pastor, who was blatantly looking at his watch.

The boss said, “You are no longer necessary.”

The pastor disappeared.

The boss approached the coffin.

Gervasio glanced to his right, quickly swiped a tear from his right eye, and looked at the thinning mist. “Farewell, Paco, my friend of friends.”

Nick took a final pull on his pipe, filling the area with the sweet aroma of black cherry.

Eric smirked, glanced to his left, and made a pistol with his right hand. He extended his forefinger, then pointed it at Nick. “Pow, guy. See y’in the funny papers.”

The boss arrived at the coffin. He looked at his second oldest persona, then hesitated for a moment. Finally he said, “Well, ‘bye Nick.” And he closed the lid.

He stepped back, stretched his arms so his left hand was at the head and his right hand was at the foot. It isn’t difficult to do in fiction or hypnosis.

He slowly started bringing his hands together, moving them as if he were polishing the coffin.

The coffin dissolved bit by bit by bit. Finally there was nothing left but the dust of an idea of a persona. He opened his hands, pondered the dust for a moment, then blew it away.

He turned and looked at Gervasio and Eric. “Now, boys, let’s go get some writin’ done. Whaddya say?”

* * * * * * *