The Ruining of Old Parker.
We buried Parker
yesterday, and as usual in this town, the affair was flashier than a funeral
has any right to be. Small town living is strange in the way it creates its own
customs and traditions, and one of our many quirks was that regardless of how
you carried yourself in the town, every man, woman, and child would attend your
funeral. A body 6 feet underground, and nearly 100 people, all dressed to the
9s. I’ve always thought it an asinine tradition, but I suppose us good
Christians are supposed to celebrate life, afterall.
In all honesty, I
should feel bad for Parker. We sent a
small regiment over to Germany during the second Great War, and he was the only
to return (he was hit in the ass by a wild piece of shrapnel, and having
enlisted late in the war, sat the remainder out.) Coming back home, his wife –
whom had a stupid name: Maribell, or Marilanna, or the like – had left him for
a fella from up north, and fell deeply in love with his personality and good
looks, or rather “money,” as we all really knew. Shamed by his injury, and on account
of his wife just up and leaving him, Parker rarely spoke anything resembling
the truth. Every town has a man, who consistently, night after night, perches
over the counter of a downtown bar, and tells stories that change slightly with
each retelling, usually with a significant addition towards grandeur. All the
men of those towns may very well have been taught by Parker.
Even after a
lifetime of irritating habits, Parker was much more known for one specific
event, only several months prior to his burial. Like most lonely old men of a
certain age, he was prone to pinching the behinds of waitresses and other
working women, followed by what he assumed to be a coy pick-up line. I’ve never
seen a man slapped as hard as Parker, or one screamed at as much, yet is never
did a lick of good to change him.
More recently in
his life, Parker had even deluded himself into trying his games on those who
did not live in this town: the occasional woman stopping for a bite to eat on
her way off to someplace better. Eventually – as humans are wont to do – we
simply accepted it as a commonplace occurrence, much to the horrified
expression of any travelers that may be passing on through. No on in town gave
those wayward souls any mind anyway though, seeing as how nobody stayed in this
town. Well, except for us unfortunate souls born in this damn place, or the
occasional person who finds a way out such as Marielda – or perhaps it was Marilou
– did.
Back on topic,
the event happened one night several months ago. A particularly tough looking woman
– probably in her early thirties - rode into town on a beat up old motorcycle,
and sat down to drink like a local. Those that stay constantly on the road have
an insight to the clockwork of townsfolk, and know how to pick up local
customs, and blend in for an evening. Parker - never missing an opportunity to
ruin an otherwise merry night – decided on smacking the ass of the woman (who
gave several different names to several different people throughout the night,
so for the sake of continuity, let’s call her “Lady”) as she walked to the
restroom. “How about you and I get out of here?” he slyly – or so he assumed –
asked Lady, sending the wrinkles of his skin marching up his forehead.
Setting down a
rag being used to clean a glass that had long since already been cleaned, Sam
the bartender started to walk over to Parker, assumedly to toss his old ass out
into the most embarrassing place in proximity, hopefully a muddy pit, or somebodies
returned liquor and food after too much drinking. Holding her hand up, however,
Lady smiled, and slipped her arm around Parker, and stared down at him as
though a rattlesnake following the movements of a mouse that knew it couldn’t
get away. “Alright,” she said, her smile dripping with venom. Parker’s old eyes
opened wide, and he tried unsuccessfully many times to speak, but his mouth
only hung open, working noiselessly. “Come on,” she cooed, and plucking at his
sleeve, they walked out of the bar. I’ve often heard the expression
“slack-jawed yokels,” in reference to small town people such as us, but the
saying would really click with you if you saw all the open mouths of Sam’s
Place that night.
Walking to his
truck after he pointed it out, Lady opened the door, and gestured for him to
enter. Hesitantly climbing in, Parker stopped himself midway in, and turned to
apologize. “Listen, I’m sorry for what I did, you don’t have to-“. “What are
you going on about now? Are we doing this, or what?” she responded. Climbing
in, the sad curiosity of the bar managed to peak out from the nearby window -
left full of streaks from the half-assed cleaning of Sam’s lazy nephew of whom
he employed as a personal favor to his sister – and stared at the truck as
though vultures.
Jokes started to
nervously chirp into the quiet of the bar, as some of the older men made
half-hearted jokes about how long they thought he would last, and if anyone
would be up for a little sport – gambling mostly. The pressure of the room
reached its climax – in hindsight, at least something did – as Lady strolled
back towards the bar, sending us scrambling frantically to regain some sense of
normal composure, of which, as with 99% of situations of this nature, we most
likely failed. Strolling back in with what I could only call a triumphant
smile, Lady reached over the counter, grabbed a bottle of cheap Whisky, gave a
small salute to Sam – receiving a nod from him in return – and started to walk
back out of the bar. It was the nephew - who is 22 if I remember correctly –
that called out tastelessly “what happened?”
Stopping before
the door, Lady turned, and the smile finally reached her eyes. “He couldn’t
perform,” she said, and threw her head back laughing as she walked out into the
night. The sound of her old motorcycle roared up a few minutes after, and she
was on her way to some other small town, we assume. Parker sheepishly walked in
about half an hour later, and ordered a glass of water. I’ve never seen a man
look so distraught, and he was chased out as we burst into a unified plague of
laughter that swarmed around him.
I remember that
for the next few months, there was not a single pair of raised eyebrows from
one of Parkers sneak attacks, nor was there a joke passed where he was not at
the butt-end of it. He spent his entire life alone, eating at the diner and the
bar, that he didn’t really know how to prepare food for himself. Subsequently,
he still showed up at the diner and bar, but he no longer drank alcohol, and
ate his food slowly, never smiling. You’d think as humans – and as I recall
writing earlier, good Christians – we should have tried out best to warm his
heart, but we didn’t.
He passed away
from old age – again, several months after this event – and the elder folk of
town finally managed a successful campaign to stop the jokes and laughter. They
said that we should be ashamed of ourselves, to laugh at the deceased in such a
way, and that we should have been better to him prior to his death. Some tried
to convince themselves that they were laughing “with Parker,” or that they were
just laughing because everyone else was, but no, none of that is quite right.
No, we laughed right up until Parker was buried, and afterwards kept the
laughter locked behind closed doors, but it never truly went away.
I’d like to get
out of this town, but I worry if I do, I’ll just end up rotting wherever I end
up. Or perhaps that’s too melodramatic. Perhaps I’m just afraid to leave this
town the same reason as anyone else. I just have a better story for why I
don’t. Sure as hell helps me sleep at night, thank you for asking.
