A Song for the Wandering Dead

Originally published at Apropos Literary Journal

It all started with the phone call.

It's like a mini-movie, playing back in a constant loop.

Putting my bag in the tiny cabin of the newest Carnival cruise ship I ponder why they’ve named it The Wonder. Eating, exercising, reading, watching television: the film repeats and repeats. The phantom phone call wakes me up, like an alarm warning the audience that the show is about to start. The cruise liner is painted in the red, white, and blue just like all the other Carnivals.

Jimmy Fisher has already dropped his bag off, claiming the other bed. He took shit, I surmise this because of the fog I walked into that made me pull my shirt above my nose. It's still there, slipping every few minutes, annoying me because I have to pull it back up. I think he had bacon at some point in the morning. He also doused himself in half bottle of cologne in an attempt to cover the fecal smell, I'm sure. Now he’s on the prowl for pussy. I’ve never been one for cologne. I prefer to smell like nothing, even if that runs the risk of BO. Jimmy won’t be that bad of a cabin-mate. I could think of better guys. I could also think of worse.

I’ve assigned different scenarios for my mind's movie. In some, it was all a conspiracy and the cop murdered him in cold blood, others had Bryan actually outrun the cop and living on the lam. I'd take him in and protect him like Anne Frank.

I’ve had to piece it together by what his family told me when I got to their house that morning, leaving room for exaggerations. Their details were vague, with less than concrete facts. He was drunk, got pulled over, the cop tested him, he punched the cop in the face, got in his car and made the getaway. In the process he was killed. I can’t explain why he did what he did from his actions.

I lift my bag off the rocking floor and sling it onto the unclaimed three-by-six foot bed. My three-by-six foot bed. There’s a TV screwed to the wall. I turn it on with hopes of killing the week by killing brain cells. Maybe satellite TV with porn or music videos. Instead, the cruise director is giving an orientation. He's telling me which levels have what. There is a mini-golf course on the highest point of the boat. And I shouldn't miss the amazing discotheque on Wednesday or Thursday night in the nose of the ship. There is no such thing as time here, expect a good time, of course! Check the form laying on your bed to find out when your dinner will be served as there are two rotations.

I look at my bag on top of the bed. Unpacking on trips always seems counterproductive to me. You’ll just be repacking in a few days anyway. I will always opt to live out of the suitcase before I temporarily put my travel clothing into an unfamiliar dresser or closet. It gives me the uneasy feeling that I’ll be staying for longer than I would want to. It doesn’t matter if it’s for one night, or one month; as soon as these clothes hit the drawer, I’ll be searching for an escape plan.

I’ll see people we graduated with and they’ll latch on for an ungodly amount of time and when they loosen they’re all teary eyed and I know a long speech about how sorry they are is on the agenda. I’ll stand silent and think about the things I need to do that day while they talk for their benefit. We both know they’re not talking to me. They didn’t hug me. They’re trying to say goodbye through me.

Dinner is at 5:45. Why not just make it 6:00 or 5:30? These are cruise people, a breed of their own. I check my watch and its face tells me 3:07. I have no idea where anybody in our three-family group is hiding. My parents rattled off all the different room numbers. I still had to check my own key card to find my own room's number.

I take my jeans off and put them on top of my bag. I pull shorts out of the bottom, but this proves difficult with the piles of clothing that occupies the bag. I’m able to get my shorts without disrupting the other contents too much. I put those on and now I’m all set for Christmas in the Mexican Riviera.

I didn’t want to come. My mother forced me because she didn’t want to have to explain my absence. Funny since the Emmers are here and everyone already knows how close Bryan and I were. I never quite understood why his family decided to come, probably to surround themselves with friends in attempt to lessen the pain for a week.

I start walking towards what I think is the back of the boat and feel like I’m walking on a Tilt-O-Whirl. No wonder pirates were alcoholics, it was the only way for them to stay balanced on these fucking things.

When I arrive at some stairs there is carpet with all kinds of fancy flowers printed on it. They’re really going all out for the classy look. The carpet extends from the hallway to the stairs going up. I notice that there are no stairs going down. One stair at a time.

The lights flash red and blue behind the sky-blue, two door Honda Civic. Questions are being asked. Answers are being thrown away. No one is getting anywhere. And when no one gets anywhere in these situations the lesser of the two humans usually gets taken to a cell.

Bryan is doing his best to pass the sobriety test. The only problem is that he is not sober. The five beers and four mixed drinks in his stomach continue to happily enter his bloodstream as the cop goes through the motions. The cop already knows this twenty-year-old organ donor is going to be taken in tonight. He is required to prove that this kid is under the influence, though. Innocent until proven guilty. Officer Troutman hated that aspect of the law. It allows guilty men to go free and innocent men to go away.

After ten minutes of questions and testing, Troutman makes the call he knew he was going to make the moment the Civic swerved to miss a shadow in the road. His shift had just started at one and not twenty minutes later he found this kid going home for the night. Some nights he wished that he could just drive around and not deal with the young kids killing their future with stupid decisions.

Seeing my mother is the last thing I want to do right now. It was supposed to be an in and out operation, but as I was climbing the stairs I heard her voice call me to the living room. She was reading. I just went there to grab one fucking simple picture.

“They decided the funeral is going to be Thursday,” she said.

I nodded and turned for the stairs that would release me to the outside where I could smoke cigarettes.

“They told me to tell you that if you wanted to say anything you could,” I stopped with my back facing her.

“Did you want to say anything?”

I faced her. She had laid the book she was reading down on her chest saving her place. I shook my head, “No, not really.” Camels. Turkish Gold. I left a pack in my freezer.

“I would think a best friend could think of something to say,” she said.

Biting my lip, I nodded and walked up the stairs.

I read a eulogy that Thursday.

“Okay, Bryan, I’ve come to the conclusion that you are inebriated this evening,” Troutman begins. “You have the right to remain silent,” he pulls the handcuffs from his belt, continuing the Miranda Rights.

This kid has been polite all through the questions, answers, and the useless tests. He said all the right things, he just didn’t have the right physical responses. Troutman hated doing these things when the kids seem so normal. What are his parents going to think when they get a call in the middle of the night? They would be disappointed in their son, but maybe this will be a turning point in his life. He might give up smoking pot, drinking and the general act of fucking around because of this night. See that this isn’t a life that’s worth living.

Nine floors later I see sunshine. My cabin is in a prison. I walk out an automatic slider and start wandering. My hair ruffles in a salty breeze. Not a minute out here do I hear my mother’s voice shout my name. As soon as that sound hits my eardrums. The movie interrupts for a quick word from its sponsor: Camel's Turkish Gold.

“Hey, where is everyone?” I try to sound happy.

“Over here. We thought we’d check out the main swimming deck—the Lido deck is the proper name—before dinner.” She sounds like a shotgun in my ear. “Come on, it’s awesome.”

I feel like a trapped animal as I follow her to the full group. Why can’t the bars be open now? A light drink. Or some gin. A screwdriver, even. As a substitute I deny my mother’s wishes and pull my pack of Camels out.

“Edmund, do you remember?”

“Yeah, I do,” I take a long drag off the Camel and exhale the smoke as slowly as my lungs will allow. “But you should try looking at things from my point of view.” Always be the first to walk away. You'll look victorious.

I don’t make it fifteen feet before she grabs me by the back of my arm. Letting out a deep sigh I turn around to face the woman.

We stare at each other for longer than necessary.

She breaks the silence.

“They’re scattering the ashes tonight. After dinner.”

The officer takes Bryan by the forearm and starts to turn him around. Bryan doesn’t allow the cuff to wrap all the way around his wrist. Instead he rips his hand back and punches Officer Troutman in the face. Blood pours from the officer’s nose as he loses balance and drops to one knee to prevent from falling to his back. Bryan stomps the man in the collarbone, knocking him all the way down to the pavement. He kicks him a few times before he runs back to his car, buying himself a few minutes before Troutman fully understands what has just happened.

Bryan reams on the key after he slides it into the ignition and his car starts right up. He puts the gear into drive and puts the pedal to the floor. He hadn’t ever floored his car before, but it has more pick up and go than he anticipated. He blows through the first light, as it is turning yellow, not that it matters what color it is. Bryan is out of this situation and on his way to his girlfriend’s house. He had told Amber he would be there ten minutes ago.

We met in fifth grade. Soccer. I decided I needed to be better friends with Bryan Emmers when he called a sixty-year-old man a bitch. Think of the best friend you grew up with. The one who laughed at all the same jokes, who told you the day after he first had sex, and made you promise you’d call him the night after you first did. The guy who understood your mumblings, and you, his. No one could decipher what the conversation was, but you two knew exactly what was being said.

My mother didn’t call me until 8:00am. They had found out three hours earlier. Would the sleep have mattered? They thought it was a gift.

My phone shouted at me and I thought it was my alarm. I didn’t fully realize I hadn’t set one because it was Thanksgiving. The caller ID box held a picture of my mother. I answered with a groggy, “Huh?”

“Allen and Howl doted a car accident lost naught.” She said, trying to sound calm.

“What?”

She paused a moment trying to collect herself. “Bryan Emmers died in a car accident last night.”

I heard it that time.

The sound I made wasn't literate.

“Bryan Emmers…” she began again.

“Are you fucking with me?” I shouted.

“No. Listen, Jimmy is coming to get you to take you to the Emmers house. Stay there.”

I ran across my apartment and opened my roommate’s door with a slam.

“Edmund, what the fuck?”

“Bryan’s dead.”

It’s 5:30 and I’m in a line to get into the dining hall. We were told that we’ll be sitting at the same table each night with the same waiter, and the same group of people. Our group was so large we knew everyone at our fifteen person table. It was a way to build relationships on the vacation. Sounds a lot like high school leadership camp bullshit to me.

I’m standing solo, but our room keys are marked with the table number we were to sit at. The line moves, but we're edging by a bar. Stepping out of and back into line for no more than thirty seconds I have the addition of a White Russian in my hand. Tonight has started looking up.

The glass is empty by the time I sit down and I instantly get the attention of the cocktail waitress and order another one. Just as I stood in line alone, I now sit at the enormous table alone. The dining room isn’t too full just yet and Nadia is able to get my drink before her order list is too large. I keep ordering, giving her my dad’s ID number.

Family and friends arrive just before my third drink does. First the Fishers, the all-American family. Picture the perfect family, then add a little, you’d get the Fishers. Two kids, both married to wonderful Christian women who know how to stay kid-free. They're the kind of people who should have kids because you know they've thought about the decision. They answer the phone with a smile, all of the. They make the Cleavers look like the Mansons.

Then Bryan’s parents enter with my own, they look like they were having a nice talk. Thank God I've been drinking. Andy looks down at me.

“Your mom tells us that she’s let everyone know about tonight?”

I nod to confirm that she had performed her duties and that I’d be there. Momentary silence. Before the lack of sound became any worse, Bryan’s sisters saunter in. The whole family.

“Steph, Emily, come over here, please,” Bryan’s mom asks, standing up and pulling Andy with her.

“Karen, could you?” She asks holding out a digital camera. My mother nods and takes the camera from Ann’s steady hands.

The four of them stand arm in arm for their first newly formed family portrait. I leave before my mother puts her index finger on the button.

Troutman sees the red taillights speed into the distance, but he isn’t about to let this kid go and kill someone. He needs this kid to be safely in the backseat of his cruiser. He tries to wipe the blood from his lip, but it does nothing other than smear it across his cheek. He gets to his radio and calls for backup. As Troutman puts his own car into motion he is still able to see the red lights in the distance. With his training he will be able to catch up within minutes. He flips his lights and the siren on and lets the cruiser accelerate up to an adequate chasing speed.

The Civic picks up speed as Troutman begins to close in, but it was still no match for his cruiser. That’s the thing that these young kids don’t seem to understand. Cop cars may look like they don’t have the guts, but there are people who put the guts in there. It’s all about appearance. This way they can trick people into thinking that they’re on top when the officer is really just biding his time. Troutman is about to get on his loudspeaker to tell this twenty-year-old to pull over when the Honda swerves a bit and the front right tire clips a curb and blows out.

People opened the paper that day and read about a kid who punched a cop in the face and died in the process of trying to get away. They didn’t care, some of them were even happy or pleased. Don’t fuck with the good guys, or you will get fucked up. Something like that.

People fail to realize that this wasn’t just some twenty-year-old drunk college student. It’s never like that in any case. This is the guy that would be in my room an hour within life going sour.

His laugh, it was one in a million.

It hasn't made an appearance in the movie.

Why get over it, when you can adapt to it?

Rubber is flapping on the right side, but Bryan is able to tighten his grip on the steering wheel and keep the car from spinning out. There is a momentary lapse in speed, but he isn’t going to let that stop him from getting away. He presses harder with his foot, but his car doesn’t respond like he hopes. His eyes are fixated on his speedometer, which is slowly declining from the 70mph. It is only at the last second does he look up to see that he is about to miss a shallow curve.

Troutman witnesses the sky-blue Honda Civic attempt a last minute turn and drive up and over a mound of dirt and then a curved guardrail. The sparks sizzle from the rim on road. The car is airborne for a moment before disappearing from his eyes.

A knock comes from outside my cabin door. It wakes me up from the dream, before the dream could wake me with a phone call. I open the door to my mother standing in the frame.

“They’re going to be scattering him in about twenty minutes. We’re all meeting at the courier’s desk.”

I nod and start to walk away to the bed. I will be able to sleep for another ten minutes before I need to start my futile search for the meeting spot. But my mother has stuck her foot in the door and is preventing the reassuring click.

“Where’d you go at dinner?”

I put my arms out. “Here. Where else would I go?” I didn’t even get back to my bed.

“That was embarrassing, leaving your father and I to explain your behavior.” She looks hurt.

“I didn’t ask you to explain. You don’t have to get involved.”

“I am involved, Edmund. My friend’s son died. I’m here.”

“ ‘Your friend’s son?’ How about your son’s best friend?”

She wants a suitable retort.

“He was your friend, so you should know how to get along around other people who are mourning,” she says.

“Ah, fuck you, mom. You have no clue.” She doesn’t quite gasp, but she doesn’t keep quiet either. Her reaction lingers in a haze. “I should know how to act? How about you?”

“Pardon?” It sounds more like a statement.

“You don’t realize that people deal with shit differently, that you haven’t made losing my best friend easier, you’ve made it harder. You think I wanted to come on this cruise and see his face in theirs? Great vacation! Thanks!”

I grab the shorts off the floor and start tugging them on.

“How have I made it harder? I’ve been here for you, no matter what I’ve been doing, everything I’ve done has been a sacrifice for your benefit.”

“Fuck, go do your thing. I don’t care. Just don’t drag me on a boat after something like that. Because you quit your Bunco group for a month doesn’t mean you’ve sacrificed. I don't care if you turn your phone off to watch a movie. I'm not calling anyway.”

“You said I made it harder.”

“You’ve never taken my side on this. ‘You should do this, they were trying to protect you, I would think a best friend could think of something to say.’ Are you trying to make me feel bad? Stop trying to explain other people’s motives to me.”

She says nothing.

Grabbing my wallet off the dresser I brush past her into the labyrinth of hallways.

Troutman stumbles down the embankment to find the car had rolled to a stop. The front end is looking up back to the road it had just disconnected from. He gets up next to the front passenger side window and sees the body laying in the back seat. Both seat belts hang intact in their respective areas. The officer looks at the open dead eyes of the young man lying in his death.

It’s a good thing that I left when I did. Even with the twenty-minute head start I am the last one there and late.

They’re standing in a large group, murmuring about what they plan to do for the rest of the week. I join them, but not in the conversations. Andy is the only member to notice my arrival. He motions to the ship representative and the group moves on in a muddled herd into more hallways that look like the same hallway my room is set in. Flowers hang in crude paintings.

It seems like we’re walking for ten minutes before we go through a glass door and come upon the moon’s reflection on the Pacific in the ship’s wake. The quiet is taken away out here and we can hear the boat’s motor working hard to get us to Mexico.

Ann walks up to me and rubs my back. “Bryan liked it when I rubbed his back like this. If it bothers you, just let me know.”

I allow her to rub.

“How are you doing? Doing okay?” She asks. It sounds sympathetic because it is. “Yeah, it stinks,” she continues without my help, “I know.”

“Shit happens,” I respond.

“Yes, it does,” she leaves my back and goes to Andy.

The motors shake my ears as Andy and Ann embrace each other to keep from crying before they let their son go. No one talks of the week’s itinerary out here. The motor kicks water into the darkness.

Andy sets a backpack on the deck and removes a container about the size of a shoebox. I take a step closer to the railing that is protecting us from falling off and drowning in the Wonder’s wake. This doesn’t stop people from jumping.

I climb over the railing and dive in, watching the boat sail away. Alone in the middle of the ocean. Peaceful, yet terrifying. The water is as dark as the air and there is no bottom to this sea. The salt is the taste of dehydration, coating my mouth. I can wait until the cruise is gone and enjoy the lonesome quiet before I allow my body to sink.

Thinking is as far as I get in this daydream.

Andy opens the box and pulls out a clear bag of Bryan. He doesn’t say a word. No one says a word. He opens the plastic and we watch as the ash falls into the wind to be thrown about, half of it shoots back towards us, but no matter where it flies it ends up resting in the water.

He taps the bag and the last particles drift out, but the gust of wind brings it back into our group, again. A piece of ash flies into my eye and I turn away to get it out. It feels like a small, fine grain of sand.

As I probe my eye trying to get Bryan out, his mom starts singing “Silent Night.” It was his favorite Christmas song. As her voice grows, others join in. Within the first twenty-five seconds, the whole rear end of the ship sings in chorus. Except for me. I am busy trying to get the piece of ash out of me.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my eyelid down and keeping my hand steady, I move my right middle finger into the corner of my eye. When I think I have him I take my hand back and find relief. I pinch the grain of him and the film stops.

 I lean over the rail and roll the ash off my finger and it falls into the sound—I can almost hear the sound of that soft giggle—of voices singing to another wandering dead.