By David Riessen
Larchmont, New York – a sweet Westchester suburb 25 miles north of New York City. I walk into Bango Bowls, a small acai, pitaya, and poke bowl restaurant on the Boston Post Road. I have no idea what acai, pitaya, and poke bowls are, but it doesn’t matter because I order a Bango Mango, the same delicious smoothie I always order. There are so few things in life that you can count on; why mess with what makes you happy?
“I’m going to go down the street to pick up my son,” I say to Belinda, the pretty young woman behind the counter. “I’ll be right back.”
“That’s cool,” she says with a fetching smile. I’m pretty sure she finds me attractive. By the way, I’m 62, so I’m also sure that I’m delusional.
A few minutes later, I enter the John J. Fox Funeral Home and find Ed Fox waiting for me. When we had first met, Ed proudly recounted the four-generation history of the family business, which began in 1893 as a horse and buggy livery service. “Someone had to transport the bodies, right?” And Great-Grandpa Fox made the most of the opportunity.
“Hi, Ed,” I say to my new friend. But Ed doesn’t give me his usual warm smile in return.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “They’re backed up over at the crematory. I’m afraid it’s going to be another few days.”
“That’s okay. There’s no rush.”
“It was a beautiful service,” Ed says with kind eyes.
“Thanks.”
“I’ve never seen so many people at the Temple.”
We look at each other for a long moment.
“I thought it was called a crematorium,” I say.
“It still is, but crematory is a little more modern.”
“Like funeral home and funeral parlor,” I offer.
“Exactly.”
Ed reaches out his hand, but I move in and give him a long, loving hug. The truth is that I barely know this man, but I hug everyone these days. I hold onto Ed way too long, waiting for the sobbing to subside.
Back at Bango Bowls, I pay for my smoothie and leave a generous tip. I always leave generous tips because it makes me feel good, and I want people to like me. (Shouldn’t generosity be a little more selfless?)
“Where’s your son?” Belinda asks.
“What?”
“You said you were going to pick up your son.”
“Oh, . . . right. Yeah, he’s not ready. I’m gonna go back and get him in a few days.”
She looks at me quizzically, but I just smile and walk toward the door. I no longer think that she is attracted to me. I feel a little foolish, but mainly I feel loss.
I step outside into the cool autumn air and drink my Bango Mango. Lost in timeless thought, I look up and see the sun slide behind a Cumulus cloud. Or is it Cirrus? Why is my brain jumping all over the place these days? I remember worrying that I might have gotten that cloud thing wrong on my 9th grade Earth Science final. Like a mistake on a stupid test would be the end of the world. I didn’t know then what the end of the world actually feels like.
I look down to discover that I have finished my smoothie, and I’m already beginning to forget its deliciousness. And really, isn’t that just like every experience? By the time you are aware of anything, it’s already a memory threatening to fade.
David Riessen has been writing plays, screenplays, novels, and TV scripts on and off since he was a teenager. In the wake of his son’s sudden death, he has found a home in creative nonfiction, which seems to suit his new reality. Some of these stories are featured in Defenestration, Bright Flash Literary Review, Cool Beans Lit, and bioStories Magazine. David lives in Larchmont, New York with his wife Debi and dog Raven. DavidRiessen71@gmail.com
MoonPark Review 