Here there be monsters (socratic) wrote,
Here there be monsters

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Weekend at Jennie's

I went to David's memorial on Saturday, Jenny by my side playing the role of the faithful girlfriend while dressed like a lesbian gym teacher, Bill Belichick, or both. The event was held in a Quaker Meetinghouse, which is sort of like a church except that all the pews are arranged to look towards the center and Jesus doesn't hang around on various crosses reminding you that you and you alone are responsible for his agonizing death.

It was a fairly typical memorial with people rising to speak about the deceased in reverential tones with absolutely no mention of his flaws, like how he kept the toilet seat up or how he always took the crumb-topped doughnut even when he knew they were your favorite. The first woman stood up and spoke about how good David was at editing interoffice memos, which, if it were my memorial, would not exactly be the first thing I'd want said about me. If after you're dead the first thing someone thinks about you is "Damn, the world has lost a really good spellchecker" then perhaps, my friend, you should have done more with your life.

Of course David did do more and later speakers were a little more personal (Samples included "David truly cared about justice" "David was a faithful friend" and "David gave me the best orgasm of my life and I'm not afraid to say it anymore" from a zealous young man who, as it turns out, had the wrong memorial service.) Much of the time I spent wondering whether I should get up and say something, since I had a few comments worth making but we had not been especially close over the past few years. In the end I decided to speak, and about an hour and 15 minutes after the thing started I stood up, said my piece, and sat down again, at which point the memorial ended immediately, and everyone got ready to leave. It is, of course, the natural course of events in my life that I will end up having the last word when I want it least, and of course I immediately wanted nothing more to vanish from that place and not be called out as an usurper for a position that should have gone to someone closer to him. As my actual luck would have it the father of an old classmate of mine spotted me and stopped for a nice little chat, even as my instincts urged me to bolt for the door. I probably could have gotten away, his large beard would have created a lot of air resistance had he tried to pursue me, but it would have made meeting in the neighborhood significantly more awkward, so I stayed until a crack in the conversation allowed me to make good my escape. So as to avoid losing Jennifer in the seething crowd of mourners I grabbed her by the hand and we made our getaway successfully.

It wasn't until Times Square that I actually did lose her, on the way to her parents house, when someone cut in between us as I entered the train. Needless to say we did not manage to reconnect until we reached Flushing, and, if you know her, needless to say she was pissed. I don't want to say that she overreacted, but I will say this. Getting shot with a crossbow hurts. A lot.

When we finally reached her house she wouldn't let me in. Finally I was allowed in, but was informed that if I wanted to do her a favor I would die right there on the spot. I ended up staying the night instead (faking dead) and when I went to the bathroom in the morning her mother mistook water dripped from freshly washed hands for urine all over the bathroom, so I got kicked out again.

All in all a really great weekend. If you like those sorts of things. Which I really don't.
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