Cold Comfort 2.0 (Blogophilia 48.15)

 

Life is funny until it isn't. 

It seemed like yesterday Barry, Mark, Sam, and him were the Putzietones, at your service for Proms, Weddings, and Bars. They had started in Mark’s garage as an excuse to drink. One thing led to another and they found they played well together. Fun days or at least most of them were. The gigs paid for gas and some ass. Great when you didn't have responsibilities.

About the time the record company noticed, life intervened.  Mary got pregnant and she and Sam got married. Mark got bored with it all and went back to school. That left Barry and him and the sketchy contract they had signed. They recruited a couple of people to take up the slack and finish up the work. After a year the band was another tombstone in the graveyard of broken dreams.

Barry was lost without having an audience. He pissed off family and friends with his drunken antics. After one girlfriend kicked him out after a DUI, he found himself in a trailer outside of town. He missed a session gig and someone got the cops to do a welfare check. He was laid out in the bathroom. No trauma or needles, most likely a stroke. No surprise. Too many cigarettes, too much liquor, and not enough love had left him a shell of his former self.

It took a couple of weeks to get a service together. Jack cleared a couple of meetings and booked the flight to Chattanooga. 

It was raining as he approached Chickamauga. Ominous clouds in the distance promised more to come. Fitting weather for a memorial, he guessed. Mason Mortuary sat back off the road with St. Benedict's Emergency Room just beyond it. He made jokes about the convenience.  

The joke had aged like milk. Barry was the first to go. Who would be the last man standing? The thought drifted through his mind as he pulled into the parking lot. The parking lot only had a couple of cars in it. Was he early? He pulled the rental into a space only three away from the front door and dashed inside without bothering with his umbrella. The ponytail didn’t even get wet. The Concierge pointed him toward the chapel.

Hymns being butchered on a Hammond B3 drifted out of the opening. Mrs Austin, the organist at Memorial Methodist, was doing her improvisational best. How old was that woman, anyway? She was old when they were kids. And now she’s outliving all of us?  it didn’t seem fair. 

Outside of the door was the promotional picture made for the record. Jack smiled. The guy at the label suggested the aqua leisure suits. What were they thinking? They were hot and itchy under the lights, but they were as high as kites during the session, so they didn't care. Now, the feathered hair and fake grins looked ridiculous. The usher asked Jack if he was in the picture. He said nothing and took a program.

Sam was seated on the front row. They shook hands and briefly embraced. They kept up with each other over the years as they moved from place to place. Sam was a D.J. now, divorced and living alone. He said Mark had moved to Florida a couple of years ago, splitting his time between studio sessions and insurance. Sam mentioned Mark couldn’t come, something about a surgery although he sounded drunk when he talked to him. 

In hushed tones, the two of them looked around the room. Maybe twenty people had shown up, nobody they recognized. Stained glass windows of the Beatitudes splayed out on each side of the altar and above them the seven virtues on the left and seven sins on the right. The reminder of the windmills of your mind. A reminder of the yin and yang of life.

The Concierge came down the aisle and asked everyone to rise. “Wish You Were Here” seemed to drift up from the floor and the few family members who cared were led in. Not a surprising choice of hymn. When the band was on the road, the four of them would sing the song as a warmup before going on stage. Barry had asked Jack some time ago if it wasn’t cold comfort to exchange a walk on part in the club wars for the cage of a steady job. It was a question he couldn’t answer then and even now.

The service was blessedly short. The minister did his best to dress up the failed life, although it was apparent the two had never met. How come that is so often the case? Hell, they could have just threw him in a hole for the level of sincerity shown. I mean, Barry wasn’t perfect, but he was a man. 

Finally, it ended. Jack and Sam paid respects to the sister who had arranged the ceremony. Neither one of them could remember the other's name. They decided to skip the reception and go find a bar. It was a far more appropriate place to have a wake for their fallen comrade.

As Jack got outside, he noticed the rain had stopped. Maybe the exchange was the best. All he knew was he’d be dead and gone before he knew for sure. Putting on his sunglasses, he turned on the radio. The dulcet bell tones of Stairway to Heaven poured out of the speakers as he did the burnout out onto the highway