Dove Season by Johnny Shaw

Author:Johnny Shaw
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781935597643
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2011-09-12T23:00:00+00:00

He is survived by his son, James Veeder.

There were quite a few things that I quickly got tired of hearing at the memorial service. “I’m sorry.” “He’s in a better place now.” “Things happen for a reason.” “It was his time.” “At least he didn’t suffer.” “He had a good, long life.” “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” “He’s no longer in pain.” The fact was, there was nothing anyone could say that didn’t grate. The sentiment might have been sincere, but the repetition and execution was torture. I wanted one person to say something original rather than Hallmark me.

Bobby came close, keeping to a terse, “Fucking sucks. Shit, man.” What it lacked in delicacy, it made up for in profanity. He also handed me a flask full of tequila, one of the few quantifiable efforts to comfort me.

One old man that I didn’t know said to me, “I guess that means I’m next.” Which was pretty good. It got a smile, but ended up being a little off-putting because he appeared to be serious.

It was a decent turnout. Some empty seats, but after Red’s prologue, I hadn’t known what to expect. Too hot for a suit, slacks and button-up short-sleeve shirts were the uniform of the day. The flowers were beautiful. Aunt Phyllis’s Mexican connection had done her right.

Red spoke eloquently of Pop and his friendship. He told a hilarious story about the time they got stuck out in the Heber Beach dunes, abandoned their truck, and walked back to town with the worst sunburns of their lives.

I turned around at one point during his eulogy, craning to see any familiar faces in the crowd. I saw Bobby, Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Frank, Mike Egger and his family, Daniel and Marta Quihuis, Angie, Mr. Morales, Buck Buck, Snout, a few familiar faces from high school, some old men whose names I couldn’t remember, and standing in the back were Tomás, Little Piwi, and Yolanda.

Aunt Phyllis had arranged for a reception at the Elks Lodge. The food was great. Funerals and weddings were the only time I got to eat pit beef. The beans were always prepared in a certain way, too. It was like it wouldn’t have been a funeral without each specific menu item. The staples of mourning. I was sad, but I had seconds.

I kept to myself, occasionally shaking a hand or listening to a story. Bobby’s tequila kept me slippery. Before I knew it, the flask was empty and I’d probably drank another six beers on top of it. I tried to pass drunk off as grieving, but I didn’t really care whether or not I was pulling it off.

By the end of the reception, I was liquored. Mr. Morales suggested that anyone who wanted could continue the wake at his bar. What could be more convenient? Bobby drove, and the last thing I remember from that night was walking through the door into Morales Bar.

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