Chapter Five: The Funeral

The Larry Smith Saga, Chapter 5

The Funeral

"Are you ready, ready to leave
This life we love, you know what I mean?
No more whiskey, no more cigarettes
Your last breath is like a sunset"

“Are you Ready?” Blue Rodeo

Saturday, July 22, 7:29 a.m.

When I woke up that Saturday morning I was not alone. Technically I was alone in the bedroom. Nadine was on the couch watching some horrible show on the Home and Garden Network. Even though my embarrassing wound healed a couple of weeks ago she still spent a lot of time at my place. Nadine worked three or four 12-hour overnight shifts a week, so her sleep schedule was a little funky. It wasn’t unusual for me to wake up in the morning and find her, wearing scrubs, catching up on TiVo.

My phone rang, which never happens on a Saturday before noon. I had barely started my third bowl of Count Chocula. I grabbed the phone and didn’t predictably drop it on the floor when I heard the news. I was too shocked to react. Without knowing what happened, Nadine came over to me. She held her hands out, and I took them. Considering her line of work, they were quite soft. I stood up. She embraced me. We’d never hugged before. I didn’t burst into sobs or anything, but I could have and I don’t think she would have minded.

Vince went for a bike ride at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday morning like always. He started waking up early when Dylan was born in 2003. Vince wasn’t the kind of guy who went back to sleep. For the first year he’d run but after repeated back and knee problems a doctor recommended biking. Vince dove into the new hobby as he did every pursuit in his life. He special-ordered a model from California for about a thousand dollars and spent another couple of hundred on accessories and clothes. During the week it was hard to go on an extended ride but on Saturdays he’d go all morning. Vince would never tell others to follow on his path. Once he suggested that I join him for a ride sometime. I turned him down even though he offered to borrow a bike for me.

Vince usually rode with a partner, but his partners never lasted long. He rode fast and almost never let up. Some days he’d go for a 150-mile ride and not drink any water until he returned home. He had to go to the ER for an IV once. Carol put a stop to that.

At 5:43 a.m. on Saturday, July 22, Vince crossed the intersection of North Decatur and Clairmont. He had the right of way, as the light was green in the direction he headed. The 23-year-old woman, name withheld, who ran the red light at the intersection, hit Vince’s bike head-on. According to witnesses Vince started pedaling hard when he saw that the car, instead of slowing down, actually started to gain speed. It swerved in his direction. Alcohol is not considered to be a factor. A dropped cell phone is the probable culprit.

There’s no point in saying whether he went quickly or less quickly. He died and it was avoidable.

July 22, 9:13 a.m., Tom Novak’s house, undisclosed location ITP

I slammed the door behind me. He let me have a key because I feed his gray tabbies Janice and Ben. I don’t think he lets anyone else in his house. Tom’s home but when he gets bunkered in he’s not going to answer the front door.

We became friends a few months ago after meeting at a Happy Hour in a college bar near Emory. We were members of a social organization but not key players in said organization, so the mutual outsider role kept us at the bar after the group scattered, which was usually around the same time as when the free appetizers ran out. There was a bartender at the place who we both knew in a horizontal way. With some guys, such familiar territory would be uncomfortable, but neither of us was serious about her, and it didn’t matter what feelings she had for him.

Ben casually approached me. He by far is the more social of the cats. Janice tends to hide from anyone other than her owner and Ben, her true love. It’s more of a mutual cleaning kind of love since they’re both fixed.

Ben rubbed against my leg, looked up at me with pet-hungry eyes, and scattered when I stomped loudly on the hardwood floor. I wasn’t here to see a cat.

The Chiefs just traded for Michael Bennett, which meant that I had some thinking to do. For the fantasy football illiterate, here’s what this means. I have Larry Johnson, the Chiefs’ starting running back, in the league, and it’s a moral imperative to lock up your stud running back’s real-life backup whenever possible. Unfortunately Phil, the guy who owns Bennett in the True Geeks Fantasy League, was a right bastard when it came to trading.

I couldn’t even stop thinking about football today, of all days. I walked up the stairs and for the first time noticed the distinct lack of personal photos in the house. Everyone has family/friend/pet pictures, especially homeowners. There were none in this house. On the way up the stairs I saw one of those generic photos with a rainbow and the inspirational words “Believe in Yourself.”

The door was closed, as it always was. I gave it the secret knock.

The door opened. He was there, wearing a dirty green tank top, boxer briefs and pink bunny slippers. When I first met him I spent the rest of the evening devising back stories for his scars. My best scenario had him earning the one over his right eyelash on the business end of a broken beer bottle during a college brawl, and the one on his left cheek came when he rode his three-wheeler through an old rusty barbed wire fence. The gap in his top lip had to be a miscue involving a girl with a pierced tongue.

I was wrong on all counts.

After offering me a sly smile, he finally said “What kept you?” Christopher Lambert, Highlander.

A minute later I was uncomfortably sitting at the end of a made but not necessarily clean king-sized bed. He was at the computer desk. Had he changed to relax my obvious discomfort? Heck no.

“So you’re feeling weak and decided to drop by,” he said.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to get off the wagon?”

“Sure I have,” he replied, his cool blue eyes appraising me. “If you’re going to get off the wagon, it’s generally better if you jump rather than fall.”

“I thought you’d be more alarmed that I was tempted.”

“I am your advisor, not your sponsor. If your need is compelling, I’m not the person to stop you.”

“I’ve never had someone close die before.”

“My resume’s pretty up to date there,” he said, keeping his gaze on me until I turned away.

I backed up so much that I can’t even see the horizon anymore. “Are you the kind of guy who likes to back up his studs?”

Tom did a double take. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a blatant attempt to change the subject. You’re just obsessed enough with this fantasy nonsense for me to believe you.”

“Nonsense? You’re in two leagues with me.”

“I don’t mind a little fantasy football talk to lighten the mood. Here’s my theory on that, mister. There’s a reason why they’re backups and not starters. If I don’t have a better option than someone who’s content to be number two, I’m up shit creek without any mode of transportation.”

He was so full of it. “Hmm, wasn’t Larry Johnson the backup last year? It would have sucked to own that second-string guy last year, considering that he ended the year third overall in scoring.”

I was on a roll. “Come on, Tom, you know that the Chiefs’ offensive line has been the best in football for the past five years. Priest Holmes isn’t a Hall of Fame running back, it’s the line that kept him from being touched for five yards. You have to consider the OL in this situation.”

While in fantasy football it’s all about the skill players, or the guys who score points, not considering the guys who set the table for the scorers, aka the offensive line, is not smart.

“Are you talking about the OL that’s lost its top two tackles this offseason?” Tom had a good point. While the Chiefs have been great, their two starting offensive tackles had retired in the past month.

“Hey now, Willie Roaf hasn’t officially retired yet,” I said, desperately reaching.

“Spoken like a true scared shitless Larry Johnson owner,” Tom paused, and I could predict his next sentence. “Willie Parker is the future, mi amigo.”

Willie Parker starts for the. . . well, you’ll see in a second. “You’re such a homer.”

“If I were a San Francisco 49er homer, that would be an issue. Since I am a homer of the World Champion Pittsburgh Steelers, the issue is moot.”

“Vince was young, Tom.”

“Everyone dies too young, Larry,” Tom said. It was time for my friend to display his great and unfortunate knowledge of death. “Imagine that you spend the night with a beautiful woman, a woman with whom you might have a future. You can never tell from one night, but you’re feeling chipper about life.”

“I’d feel chipper even without the future.”

“That’s because you’re a whore,” Tom said without pause. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he continued, gesturing with his hands. I didn’t say anything. Tom’s look turned serious. He was in a galaxy far, far away.

“The more you think about this girl, the more you like her. You’re starting to wonder why you don’t just turn around and go back to her place. The desire to boast to your good friend, your best friend, is slightly higher and, more importantly, you’re home.

“Only thing is, when you open that door a knife ends up in your throat, and you can’t even say the woman’s name before you die.”

Trust me, it’s better when you don’t know the story behind the scars.

“I want to do something,” I said after a ten-second pause.

“Get your suit dry cleaned.”

“I have three suits.”

“Well, then, go for the linen one. It’s going to be hot.”

“It has the tendency to wrinkle.”

“You should have gone with a wool-cashmire blend. Can’t be wrinkled in my line of work.”

“Does anyone really care how a CPA dresses?”

“People who pay 300 bucks an hour do. How much are you billing these days?”

“It depends.”

“Exactly, you wrinkly sonofabitch. Listen, Larry, there isn’t much I can tell you about funeral etiquette. You’re going to see Carol and the boys. They’re going to be somewhat distracted, so your expression is as important as what you say.”

“How old are Dylan and Thomas?”

“I’ll say this about Vince, he was good at naming kids,” Tom said. “Three and one. Come to think of it, I doubt they will be there.”

“I want to say good-bye.”

Tom looked me over again. The scars made him look like a scary bastard.

“I don’t think you want to say good bye. You want to change things.”

“Why would I want to do that?” I said, never so blatantly lying in my life.

“When’s the last time you traveled?”

“Last week. I go every week.”

“How do things work out?”

“Never quite the way I’d like them to.”

“My point exactly. You can go back and you can avoid what happened to Vince, but you can’t control what happens after that. And you know that you have to come back.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m deadly sure about breaking the rules. If you go back in time and change things, you always come back to your original present. No one breaks that code. You know what might happen.”

“It’s been two days. I can relive two days to save Vince.”

“You can save Vince, but he’s always dead here and that can’t change. Get over your God complex and start grieving.”

“Don’t be jealous just because you can’t do it anymore.”

Tom stared at me. He looked mean. It passed a few seconds later. He put up his hands as if surrendering, and reached behind him into a small fridge. He produced two sweaty bottles of Newcastle.

“Want one?”

“Are you serious?”

“What the heck? Carpe diem and all that shit.”

“But I thought…”

“You’ve been thinking way too hard, my brother,” Tom said. A moment later his expression darkened. He shook it off. “Oh man, I’m being really inconsiderate, aren’t I?”

He turned his back to me. Ten seconds later he offered me the same beer, this time topless and wearing a koozie that looked like a Steelers jersey. I took a pull. It felt good.


“So what would it hurt if I went ahead and did it?”

We were downstairs. Tom normally greeted me in his bedroom/study and we ended up at his kitchen table. I had just killed my third beer, which was impressive considering that it was ten in the morning. Tom told me to offer a second-round rookie pick for Bennett, which seemed like a good asking price. A second-round rookie pick isn’t a king’s ransom, but it’s a lot.

Our social group isn’t exactly social, because most of the members don’t like each other. This tends to be the case when a group of highly intelligent people gather and only one can be in charge. I wouldn’t call it a secret society, but we don’t exactly advertise.

I got in the group the same way that Tom did. We took Brian’s Stand-up comedy class and he must have seen something that he liked. I just thought that Brian liked teaching, but he had an ulterior motive.

I read, as most people do, but I tend to stick with mystery and non-fiction, yes, sometimes even involving football players, instead of science fiction or fantasy. I never got into Harry Potter, but if there were fantasy Quidditch I’d consider it. Some geek probably has written a story about the Stud Chaser Theory.

Everyone thinks that time travel is all fun and games until they try it once or twice. Knowing everything that’s going to happen can be a blessing, but it makes watching sports very boring. The gambling side can be quite lucrative. The downside is that you can’t take it with you. When you travel through time, you only get to travel through your own life, and eventually, you have to go back.

All boys go through a self-discovery phase during the early teen years, and this new skill wasn’t much different. The possibilities seemed endless, and every once in while, especially when stuck in line at the DMV, it was nice to escape and, say, re-experience the night that Amy Berger and her drunk roommate decided to have a contest, and I was the only male around.

A perfectionist should not be allowed to play with anything when there is no possible perfect solution. Sure, getting the prom queen to agree to do certain unspeakable things with me in the back of a limo was a lot of fun, but her football team captain boyfriend didn’t like it very much. Why did I care, I was already back in line, stuck behind someone who didn’t speak English and wasn’t too good with Spanish.

Unlimited time travel is a bad thing for a person with an obsessive personality. I didn’t care to see Nicole again, but Brian and Tom’s continued pestering had me ripping off the band-aid more than once. I decided to replay the weekend once, to see how it would go if I avoided all of the things that made her mad. My carefully calculated weekend went up in smoke, and I was determined to get it right. I relived part or all of that weekend 512 times. Did I mention that the leader of this society is an accountant, and we have to log all of our travel?

In short, the weekend never turned out well. Sure, I smoothed out some of the wrinkles when I discovered the key to the weekend. Do everything that she wants, and avoid football, especially since I knew what was going to happen. The weekend would be excellent then she wouldn’t call me after we returned to Atlanta. The reason why was simple: I did everything she wanted, and despite what Oprah Magazine says, that’s not the way to sustain a relationship. The alpha male type, on the other hand, clashed with her alpha female personality. We had countless fights, unlimited sex, and absolutely no intimacy. The worse it got, the harder I tried to make it work.

A few weeks ago we met at Modern Drunkard and I told him about my problems with Traveling and he told me his. My problem was that I couldn’t stop going back and his problem was that he couldn’t do it at all.

The reason why Tom couldn’t go back? He accepted the quantum universe concept. There are infinite universes in which every decision has been made in every way, from what you’re going to have for breakfast to whether you’re going to ask the bartender for her number. Tom understood that things could turn out differently. It’s quite possible that he tried it and didn’t like the results. I like to think that his pain was better than the pain of knowing what might have been but couldn’t last, at least not in his reality.

If I quit, Tom would be my sponsor in our bizarro world version of AA. Now I had a real reason to go back. I never felt the urge to travel as badly as when I found out that Vince died.


July 25, 10:22 a.m.

I parked at the funeral home. A few of my fellow mourners did the same, so I thought I was in the clear. A guy at the door of the funeral home told us that the service would be across the street. We walked. It was a hot summer day and everyone wore what seemed to be heavy clothes. My suit was pressed and immaculate when I put it on in the morning, but after 90 minutes in a car I might as well had left it in a carpetbag for the past month.

I would describe my fellow walkers but I didn’t know any of them and felt awkward talking to strangers who I’d never see again. I don’t always play well with others. Because of this I picked up the pace and walked into the church ahead of the crowd.

I entered the vestibule or whatever it’s called. The room was small, maybe ten feet across, with a sloped roof. Inside a box of glass to my right was the story of the church. It was originally built in 1841 but the roof came off during the Civil War and had to be rebuilt. In the United States, any building more than 20 years old is practically a national treasure.

There was a man there, probably a rep of the church, who nicely ignored me while I stalled for time. Who wants to be the first person at a funeral?

Someone else entered and asked about a restroom. The nice man pointed him in the right direction and I followed. There was an adjoining building, constructed much later than the 19th century from my point of view, to the right. I stayed outside on the quasi-porch that joined the two buildings. I suppose there was no law mandating handicapped entrances in the 1860s, although there were a lot of people who could have used them.

Phil joined me a few minutes later. It was relaxing to see a familiar face. Being a lawyer, he was a natural in a depressing but stylish grey suit.

“How about Michael Bennett for a second-round rookie pick?” I asked as we shook hands.

“You do realize that we’re at a funeral.”

“Do you want to make the deal or what?” I’m convinced that the Herschel Walker trade happened in similar circumstances. I won’t go into detail, other than the deal made the Cowboy mini-dynasty of the early 1990s. I was hoping for similar results.

“I used to wonder whether you were sane.”

“Just say yes.”

“OK, you win. I would have done it for a third.”

“Bastard.”

We eventually talked about the normal things that two supposedly mature adults would discuss. Vince’s name never came up.

Carol arrived with various family members about fifteen minutes later. I’ve always been a little uneasy around her, but that goes for most of my friend’s wives. They seem to have a certain radar that always goes off in my presence. It’s the “if my man spends too much time with Larry, he will be drinking shots of tequila off a stripper’s boobs in fifteen minutes” instinct. It could be just me. She’s always been very approachable but we’ve never talked at length.

It made perfect sense that he would die less than five years after getting his life together. In that time he married Carol, had two kids, ditched the crappy job and found God. He had, by all accounts, a perfect life. Look deeper, as they do on those crime investigation TV shows, and it’s still pretty darn good.

It was hard to see Carol. She met Vince at a Salsa dancing social. Vince had never tried Salsa dancing but assumed that the women would be caliente. Carol wasn’t his first dance partner that night, but she was his last. Rumor has it they spent the next 12 days together without leaving each others’ sight. Jobs were lost. Friends were alienated. Eventually they won a local Salsa dancing contest. Vince kept the trophy above his fireplace, right next to the Colt .45 bottle that goes to the team that finishes dead last in our local fantasy league. He only joined for the social aspect, I reckon.

When she approached I went for the hug and the kiss on the cheek. She smiled, nodded and moved on. Vince’s father had a hand on her shoulder. He also smiled at me in a vaguely friendly way. Family of the deceased are probably relieved to know that there are people who will share their pain.

Phil and I entered and sat, like everyone else, at least seven rows from the front of the church. Maroon banners declaring “reserved for family” were in the first six rows of pews. In the end only two rows were full, adding to the isolation.

I’d go into detail about the ceremony, but religion isn’t my bag. The Episcopal Church likes to switch between a hymnal and the Book of Common Prayer during their rites, or ceremonies, or whatever they call their time with the Lord. After struggling through a couple of transitions I put the books down. Vince picked this church for a reason, even though from what I knew of him, he was a Presbyterian.

After the rite was over the congregation filed out of the church and into the adjourning meeting hall. The meal was a simple Southern lunch: Fried chicken, casseroles of many shapes and sizes, and sweet tea by the gallon. I sat down with Phil, my buddy for the day, and some other friends. Desmond was there, minus his partner. Joseph and Natalie walked by. I waved at Joseph and Natalie gave me a look with her cold eyes, pale green this week. I thought I saw Brian before but he disappeared after the rite.

“I need to get back pretty soon,” Phil said, echoing our thoughts.

“Maybe we should talk about why we’re here,” I said casually. I don’t know why I said it.

“How’s Carol holding up?” Desmond asked.

“John and Anne are going to stay a while,” Phil said, referring to Vince’s parents.

“Aren’t they divorced?” Natalie asked.

“Perhaps a little louder next time,” Phil said.

She pursed her lips “Oops.”

“They were divorced, but they decided to give it another shot,” I said.

“How do you know all this stuff? You didn’t move here until 2002.”

“I listen,” I said to Phil.

I saw Tom approaching. He had a girl who couldn’t have been older than 22 on his elbow. Black suited her.

“Sit with us,” Desmond said. None of us had met Tom’s date before, and he didn’t introduce us.

“Thanks,” Tom said, sitting down. His date disappeared.

“It’s nice of you to bring your niece,” Phil said.

“Ssh. .. God’s listening,” Tom replied.

“We were talking about Vince,” Joseph said, his first words of the day.

“He was a good man,” Tom said. Everyone at the table nodded solemnly.

“He also was a right bastard.” Mouths were agape. “Remember when he broke his leg riding his bike and we all met him in the hospital? He was out of surgery and in a lot of pain. The nurse told him that he couldn’t have any more medication for three hours. She looked really busy and haggard.

“I tried to distract Vince, to make him think about something else besides the pain. He told me that he wanted some pudding. Well, I didn’t have any so we got a nurse to come in. It was the same nurse who refused to help him earlier. Vince started jabbering at her. He was not speaking English but he was clearly upset. The nurse backed off. When she brought in a doctor he sat up in the bed and threw off his gown. There was Vince, stark naked, rambling on in Pig Latin for all I could tell. The doctor asked me to calm him down.

“Obviously there was a delayed reaction to the meds. Let me tell you, Vince was hung.”

“Like a mouse,” Phil said, getting in on the joke. The table clearly relaxed after that story.

We traded stories for a while and then went our separate ways. Natalie was nice enough to discretely wipe a tear off my cheek. I said good-bye to everyone and waited awkwardly for a moment with Carol. She saw me, excused herself from whoever she was talking to, and walked my way.

“Hey Larry, thanks for coming,” she said. We hugged.

“Are you still doing the classes?”

“Thursday nights,” she said with a smile. Carol now teaches Salsa in addition to her day job as a legal secretary.

“This has to be ridiculously hard,” I said.

“It’s not easy, no,” she said. Great, I just made the widow cry. “Take care of yourself, Larry. Find someone.”

I had to leave immediately. I used the bathroom as an excuse. After doing my business I stood at the entranceway to the main room. Tom’s young date was talking to Carol. I heard Carol mouth the words “thank you” and give the girl a hug. Tom looked around like he was a Secret Service agent. He saw me and tugged on his shirt. Tom was the right bastard. Stupid wrinkly suit.

Carol’s words echoed in my mind all the way home.


Friday, July 21, 9:14 p.m.

“That’s the story,” I said. It better be. I spent twelve hours working on the speech.

“Well, you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about,” Vince said.

We were at Everybody’s Pizza on the Emory campus. I drew Vince away from a family night. He spent most Friday nights with Carol and the boys. They’d get the kids to bed and most of the time fall asleep to a movie. Friday was usually date night for me. I had a date, although it wasn’t until later.

“There’s nothing to think about. Don’t go on your ride tomorrow.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Vince said. “Come on, Smoltz.”

The Braves were winning 3-2 against the Phillies in the bottom of the seventh.

“He’s going to blow it,” I said.

“No way, man. The pen blows it, not Smoltz.”

“Dude, I just told you that you’re going to be run over tomorrow morning. Don’t you think that I might know how the game turns out?”

“OK, OK. It’s the playoff streak. You think that you’re invincible.” The Braves had been in the playoffs for 14 straight years and a 15th was looking iffy.

“Tell me about it.”

“What would you say if I want to go on that bike ride anyway?”

I was speechless. In the background Jimmy Rollins hit a homer to dead center.

“He got all of that one,” the bartender said.

“Dang, Larry, you sure know how to bring a man down.”

“Vince, don’t get on that bike tomorrow.”

“What if it’s my time?”

“You’re 32. It’s not your time. You have the boys. You have Carol. It’s not time.”

“If God wants me, then I have to accept that.”

“Forget God,” I said. I know Vince too well to say Fuck God. Also, it’s bad restaurant etiquette.

“Larry, I have to accept my fate.”

I wanted to punch him. You bastard. You selfish bastard. “Any last words?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything, Larry. I know you’ll keep an eye on Carol, Dylan, and Thomas. Give my love to everyone.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s family night, Larry. According to you, I need to make the most of it.”

“I guess so.”

Vince left without leaving any money. His last joke.

I finished my beer. The Phillies led 6-3 by then.

Vince seemed content with his fate. I, on the other hand, had some tires to slash.