It was about as far from that "Cheers" bar as one could get, but it still made Rick sometime think of home. Maybe that’s
because he had probably spent nearly as much time there over the last decade as he had in any other one place.
His bleeding was very nearly stanched as Rick trudged up to the bar. Sure, it was the fact that he preferred to spend a
lot of times in bars such as the International that got him in this predicament, but he knew the morning bartender. He made
good coffee. He made a great Irish coffee. Rick was practically tasting that morning’s first drink, which is why he
probably didn’t notice that the gate was down.
He knew it had to be after eight in the morning, so why wasn’t the bar open yet. In a world that was making less
and less sense to Rick, this was unfathomable. He peered through the gates. The International was always on the dark side,
that was one of its finest features actually, but this was a different kind of dark. The stools were not up on the tables
so Rick thought it just might be about to open.
That was before he saw the sign.
It was hastily scrawled and taped to the window. It wasn’t until Rick let his tired head drop against the cool, metal
bars that he had even spied it. "BAR CLOSED FOR MARY’S FUNERAL" read the largest bits in black Sharpie. Rick’s
breath caught in his throat. Sure, he felt bad for Mary, even worse for her family, but he was really looking forward to that
Irish coffee. In smaller print below the sad proclamation, was written, "Take the F to King’s Highway." Someone, probably
another early morning drunk with a bad memory had ripped off the rest of the sign.
"Shit," said Rick to himself and to the torn sign. He pushed himself off of the cooling and calming metal gate and shrugged.
After all, he really didn’t have anyplace else to go. Why not continue an absolutely perfect morning with a Brooklyn
funeral? Why not, indeed.
Rick turned around and started walking in the direction of the Second Avenue subway station.
The morning commuters gave Rick a wide berth and all the seats he needed. Could have been the look in his eye, could have
been the forty-ounce malt liquor just barely hidden in the brown paper bag or it could have been his breath. As the F train
emerged into dazzling autumn sunshine, Rick dropped his sunglasses down over his bloodshot eyes and slumped down further in
his plastic seat.
He was the only one to get off at the King’s Highway stop. He paused on the platform to light a cigarette, take another
healthy pull of the rapidly emptying bottle of beer. He wondered if there would be beer available at the funeral and probably
thought not. Not even in Brooklyn.
As he started walking down the platform towards the stairs, he finally took a moment to take in his surroundings. Gravestones
as far as the eye can see. Rick had never gotten off at this stop before. It was magnificent in a certain depressing way.
And, as far as he knew, the only stop in the multitude of New York City subway stops that dumped you off right smack in the
middle of a cemetery. Rick wished he had brought another beer.
Wandering thought the cemetery trying to find his fellow mourners, Rick now wished he had been a little better dressed.
He looked down at himself and was fortunate that he wore black for just about any occasion. Never knew when you’re going
to attend a surprise funeral, now did you.
Finally, Rick found the rest of his party and all thoughts of being inappropriate attired and carrying his forty were quickly
dispelled. He sneaked into the back of the small gathering. The ceremony was winding down. The assembled were stepping from
foot to foot. Rick took a quick peek towards the priest and the casket before looking around at his fellow mourners. Pretty
much everyone had a beer or a pint of something cheap and nasty in a crumpled paper bag. Rick started feeling a little better
about himself. At least he was in black. The tattered and filthy clothing of the other mourners made Rick sparkle in comparison.
Of course, most of the other mourners were bums and bag ladies. Then again, so was the deceased. Despite somehow owning the
International Bar & Grill, Mary was a bag lady. She had her own little corner of the bar where she kept her piles of decades
worth of accrued possessions, but if you really wanted to get right down to it, Mary was a bag lady.
The priest, who looked like he had been plucked right off of the Bowery, to perform the service was winding up. He kept
eyeing the mourners’ bottles with a thirst that made him speak quickly. "Our dear sister, Mary," he intoned, "has packed
her bags off to Heaven".
There were a couple of sniffles, of course that could be the constant nose run that most of the bums and bag ladies had
from mid October to early May. A few filthy rags were brought up to a few dirty noses. Rick knew the phrase ‘nose gay’
and wished he had one. He pretended to wipe his nose as well, but just kept his hand up to ward off the stench that was starting
to disagree with his hangover.
"We, here in Brooklyn," continued the priest, "cry for ourselves – not for her. Mary has found a warm safe haven
where there are no Transit Police Nazi’s." There were smattering of amen’s from the group and the priest paused
for them, licking his lips in anticipation of his next Irish coffee. "She has a home finally in our Savior’s arms. She
leaves behind, beside her bags, a son, John, a wayward lad and our prayers go out to him…"
But Rick had tuned out the ceremony as soon as the priest mentioned Mary’s son, John. A light bulb – dim, but
there all the same - went on over Rick’s tousled head. He thought and he schemed as he finished his beer. As dirty hands
tossed dirt on Mary’s simple pine box, Rick headed for the subway. There was no way in hell that he was going to get
stuck in a subway car with this bunch. He had once been trapped on a PATH train car with a bunch of dirty hippies reeking
of Patchouli oil right after a Grateful Dead show had let out of Madison Square Garden. He simply couldn’t risk such
an attack on his olfactory system again.
