Saturday, September 08, 2007

Going to a funeral (prelude, adagio)

Harry's dad died. The guys went to the funeral together. Weird? Indeed. After all, in the past few months they hadn't really been close, you know. Actually you might say they never really were that close. Okay, back in 19-- when they moved in together they might have been, or they thought they were -- which is the same most of the time, right? Anyhow, when Harry's old man passed away someone, a brother? his mother? ...well, some family person called. At that time Harry hadn't been too involved family-wise anymore, for a few years already. When you become more or less financially independent, visits boil down to once a year -- and before you know it, you don't even make Christmas. "Sorry, Ma, can't make it this year -- really I'm sorry." That kind of thing. And usually it's not very helpful when, as soon as you show up on the doorstep, your folks moan about how you waste your life away, not working in a decent job and all. "Your younger brother, so successful... he'll be made partner in no time. They love him up there. And he comes over to visit us every other---" Fuck it. Let's just start this story at the beginning.

"Yup..?" -- it was Mark who answered the phone. In his usual monosyllabic fashion. The guys were just smoking some weed on the back terrace, watching the sun set on their lovely industrial district, which offered affordable housing with a very bohemian chic to it. In a few years they'd probably have to move, because of all the posh Sex-and-the-City-style bars and restaurants that would open and flood this nice part of the city with, well, women who think they look like Sarah Jessica Parker while it's actually even worse. And what's more, they all behave in a way that silently screams: "Yeah, I'm miserable, but that doesn't mean I can't get wasted and feel free!" or something. Damn! I always get sidetracked by stuff like that... So. The sun was setting, drenching the red brick landscape in some kind of orange (color wise, not as in fruit). Distant traffic provided an atmospheric soundtrack. Sitting in his deckchair, John was rolling a second joint on his copy of the 10th anniversary edition of Stephen Hawking's Short History of Time, in his lap. Harry finished the first one and as he threw it off the roof with the flick of a wrist he said something like, "You know what? You're probably not the first one to roll a joint on that book." John continued his work, without even looking up. Harry rambled on (that's his usual stoned behavior). "And you know what else? I was probably not even the first person to witness somebody rolling a joint on that book and commenting on the fact." Having finished his job, John lit up. He tilted his head only very slightly, turning in Harry's direction. Obviously, he disapproved of Harry's obnoxious dope talk.
"Actually, I wonder if..." Harry paused, breathing audibly. "I wonder if the first person to witness somebody doing what you just did, commented on the act just like I did. I mean, saying-- saying it was not the first time, though actually--" Again, he paused, but this time, apparently, for effect: "...it was!" Mark answered the phone which had been ringing. "Gentlemen", Harry concluded, when Mark returned from the living room, "We have a chicken-or-egg situation."

As the title suggests, this will be continued.

No comments: