My Funeral Friend(S)

By Joseph Bertalmio

Hitchhikers can be an unpredictable lot, to say the least. But if they share one thing in common, it's that they're all desperate. And it's that very notion that drives Mitch Harpring to seek them out. You see,
Mitch doesn't care where you are, how you got there, or where you're going. He'll take you as far as you need to go. All he asks, all he wants in return, is that you go to his funeral when he dies.

The only catch is, Mitch has worked in a stock room and locked himself up in his apartment at night for abouta decade. That isnt the interesting part of his story, mind you. Its merely a means of illustrating just how physically and mentally unprepared Mitch is to take on a street gang, a semi-truck, multiple stabbings, and the worlds most frightening spider. Ever.

But hes willing to risk it all so long as he can get somebody, anybody, to come to his funeral.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452085586

Joseph Bertalmio

Joseph Bertalmio lives most of his life based on a dare that he made with himself a long time ago. And he’ll never let that good-for-nothing fiend prove him wrong. Ever.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

TO SAY NOTHING OF the boy would be remiss, as his role in this story was an integral one. But it is a role that is often overstated. The truth is that he could have been anyone, anywhere, and the end result would have been the same. If anything he was just a consequence of my life. Another left by the wayside in my whirling dervish of a journey. But I didn’t put him there. He was like that when I found him.

I swear.

Standing over a prostrate form, trying to decipher whether the darkness and rain are simply playing tricks on you, one’s mind wants to dismiss the worst-case scenario. Undoubtedly, I feared for it. But the truth of the matter was that I hardly even considered the notion that the soil on the young boy’s shirt could have been blood. I assumed anything but. I told myself it was mud.

When I shook him he did not answer. And this troubled me because I had been hoping he could tell me what to do next. We were all that each other had. Nobody else had bothered to stop. They simply zoomed passed, their headlights lighting my task for a little while before they inevitably faded out, leaving me to decide for my own. I suppose I should have considered that nobody was stopping to help because anybody of sound mind would dial 9-1-1 and wait out the storm inside the comfort of their heated seats and mp3 serenades. Knowing what I know now, I can finally admit that nothing about my mind was sound.

But I had pulled over. I had peered down the ravine and seen the body. And I had acted. Whether my actions were right or wrong, I no longer bother myself with. All I can do is remind myself that of all the people who drove by that tragic scene, I was the only who had actually tried. That is my redemption.

The boy’s t-shirt could only do so much to hide what had happened to him. Once I realized it had been sliced through, I lifted a corner of the shirt to look underneath. It didn’t require the mind of a surgeon to diagnose that the boy was in awful condition. The wound ran straight from his armpit to his belly button, cutting deep and mercilessly. Unless I acted post haste, he would have bled out right at my feet.

Chapter 2

14 years later…

I SUPPOSE IT WOULD BE best to start off by saying something wise and beautiful. But it was times like those that made even the most boisterous man speechless. Nowhere was it written how to act or what to say. Still, humanity had long ago become ingrained with respect for a passing soul. And though none of them knew the old man, each of them saw their same fate in him. It left them riveted.

The communal reverence only lasted as long as it took for the sirens to fade from earshot, the lights to vanish out of sight. Before I knew it, the moment had passed. Routine returned. My morning commute reverted back to normal. But where all of the others had moved on, I remained. And while the answer is now painfully obvious, at the time I could not figure why. Not for the life of me.

An hour earlier I had left my suburban apartment, descending the stairs with the caution attached to my oafish weight. Somewhere up above, the sun was trying in futility to penetrate the autumn air with its warmth. But I was headed for the comfort and security of my car, for the warmth of the artificial heater.

Once I was inside my car I was safe. I had protective glass and metals on all sides. The radio was mine to manipulate. Most importantly, though, the road was at my disposal. I cranked the heat and threw my right arm behind the passenger seat to allow maximum visibility. My right foot worked in perfect synchronization with my hands to steer the course as I backed out of my parking space and began my drive to work. The whole way, from my apartment to the scene of the interstate tragedy, I had been in perfect control.

Now, just one hour later, that feeling of stability had vanished entirely.

I wasn’t late to work that day, I can tell you that much. Yet it seemed like days had passed, light into dark into light into dark, and all that I could do was wait in the parking lot and pity myself. My reflection tried to fix itself, wiping at inexplicably tear-stained eyes, pudgy hands rubbing against weary skin. I was a mess, and nothing I could do would fix me.

I remember that I tried braving the day anyway. I remember telling myself the best thing for me to do was to put the whole ordeal in my rearview. I had to accept that it was all out of my hands. I think I had even succeeded for a while, shaking hands and exchanging smiles. But when something so cancerous as sorrow is eating away at you, sooner or later it’s going to show.

Somebody made a quip about that morning’s traffic. I remember it quite clearly.

I had my car in PARK on the INTERSTATE for THIRTY minutes! He’s just lucky he died, or I’d have done him in myself!

It was a joke. Not only that, it was a socially acceptable joke. But I wasn’t in a very jovial mood that day, I remember that specifically.

So I guess I overreacted…or so they tell me.

I’m not saying I don’t remember it. It’s just…a little hazy. Like a waking dream.

They tell me that I started to cry at first, that I had retreated into the stock-room and hidden myself behind a closed door. Pretending to work. I wouldn’t accept calls or visitors. I just sat, huddled into my workspace, indecisive hands pulling at dirty-blond hair.

At first they had decided to let me be. They were treating my anguish like it was the flu. Eventually, they assumed, it would simply run its course and I would become healed. But when I hadn’t come out for lunch, nor moved from my seat for five hours, they started to become worried. And I am ashamed to say that I became angry at them, because the truth of the matter is that they did try. They just didn’t try hard enough.

It’s human nature.

Around two o’clock, according to official company records, the same man who had made the quip about the dead man on the interstate arrived at my stock-room door. He knocked, and did not receive a reply. He claimed he didn’t think it would be a big deal if he walked right in. But when he opened the door, he noticed that I was visibly disturbed. He had passed along a few words of encouragement, and he remembered specifically that as he turned to leave the room, he had said let us know if you need anything.

Then, according to official company records, I had grabbed a pair of scissors from my desktop, and lunged across the room like a madman. They say that I had stabbed out, screaming something indecipherable and irate. The scissors had landed three inches from the man’s ear, three inches from making him just another office statistic. Three inches from ending my story. Instead, the scissors had punctured a framed newspaper clipping on the wall, breaking through glass and drywall. There I had remained, one hand still gripped to the scissors like they were all that was left of my existence.

And I had spoken.

"You cannot even begin to comprehend what it is that I need right now."

The man had fled. I could not blame him.

It wasn’t until after the stabbing incident that my memory of that day starts to become clearer.

Tensions had grown a touch high. Something akin to a hostage situation had developed, except that the hostage was myself. After the man who’d had the audacity to wish me well had departed, more than likely because of the stabbing incident, he must have gone and told somebody about it. Because the next thing I knew I was in a panic, a catastrophe in the midst of a meltdown.

My job was most certainly lost. The hard work and long years I’d put into it, down the drain. There could be criminal charges, gossip, fines, etc. And I had barely even thought about the fact that I might have to uproot, leave town for good and never come back. Somewhere between an ambulance and a bad work day, I had lost all sense of stability.

There was no way for me to lock my stock-room from the inside, so I’d just made everybody in the office promise not to come in. It didn’t take a whole lot of convincing, on account of the whole stabbing incident. Nothing in the stock-room was important enough to die for, not even the copy paper. So after I was certain the room was secure, I huddled up in a corner, brow furrowed in both worry and deep thought.

Nearly an hour had passed and there was no sign of police, something I could only be optimistic about. Whether my coworkers felt unthreatened because my murder weapon was stilled lodged in the drywall, or because they believed in general that I was not a violent man, remained unknown. Regardless, it was only a matter of time before somebody broke the pact. Sure enough, eventually a knock came at the door.

It was my manager, a good man. He was asking permission to come in. This man didn’t want to talk, nor did he want to stay. He was simply a harbinger, delivering his message via cellular telephone.

We called Foreman, he said.

But this only irked me further.

Why did you call Foreman? This has nothing to do with him.

Then, answered through the door.

On the day that Foreman retired he told me that if anything ever happened with you, I should contact him first and foremost. So I did, and he wasn’t very pleased to hear from me. Turns out it’s his ‘happy hour.’ And the longer you let me wait out here, the longer he’ll be on hold. All alone. With nothing to occupy his time.

Then…ok…come in.

The transfer was nothing less than monumentally awkward. Both of us knew exactly what was happening on the other end of the line. Add to that the whole stabbing incident, along with any preexisting neuroses that I may have had about people coming into my stock-room, and it was easy to see why my manager was eager to expedite the process. He said not a word as he strode across the stock-room, but the sound of a jackhammer, or maybe a faulty washing machine, could be heard coming from the phone the whole time. The cell was handed off, and I watched as the messenger left and shut the door behind him.

I can tell you honestly that I do remember every word of my conversation with Foreman. In fact, I can remember almost every word he ever spoke to me. His was an opinion that I cherished above all others. Whether right or wrong, I knew from the very depths of my soul that Foreman only wanted the best for me. That was all he had ever wanted. So I listened, despite my mental disarray, and despite the fact that Foreman was obviously masturbating on the other end of the phone.

Forem- I started, but before I could finish an irate reply cut me short.

Shut up and listen, Foreman commanded, the incessant beating sound neither slowing nor speeding. You’ve really gone and done yourself this time, Mitch. Trying to stab somebody’s not a minor offense.

But I was argumentative.

I didn’t try to stab him, Foreman. I was going for the newspaper clipping…he just…he just gave me the impetus.

A pair of scissors missed his ear by a finger-length! Don’t go getting into semantics with me here, you’re in real deep. The only reason we’re having this conversation is because I know who you actually are, Mitch. And I know who you aren’t. You’d be in cuffs already if you weren’t a good man.

Ok, was all I could manage.

But don’t you go thinking that it doesn’t mean something, you landing those scissors on that very newspaper clipping. That’s a sign, Mitch. That’s a sign that you have to get rid of that part of you.

I have to get rid of it!? I nearly shouted into the phone. You’re the one who put it there.

I put it there for the right reasons, Mitch. You made them the wrong reasons. And just what made you go all stab-happy anyway? Did the commute finally get to you?

Three years earlier the office had changed locations. It used to be a brisk jaunt down the road, with time to take a coffee break and still make it to work in ten minutes. Then property values had shifted, and the whole operation was forced to shift with it. The commute changed from ten minutes to an hour with the interstate dictating whether or not that hour spilled into a second. I’ll admit that the whole thing had been stressful, but nowhere near the point of causing a breakdown.

It’s not the driving, Foreman. I like being in my car.

So? he prodded.

Something happened, I tried to tell him, even though I figured he wasn’t paying much attention anyway. On the way to work, an old man crashed…he died.

That’s all? Foreman knew how to make a man feel stupid.

It’s just… I was attempting to put it all into words. "You see, there were two guys in the ambulance. One was the old man, but there was a second guy. He was the one who rode along with the old man. And before they closed the doors, I saw it. I saw the second