The following morning I woke up at a much more reasonable hour. We were going to meet everyone for breakfast but, per usual, Dave was running late. So far, 40 minutes late. I ran out to a vending machine and bought some food in the form of a Twix bar; deciding not to spoil my appetite with any real food, I had candy, instead. Tasted great.

We had one of those fancy breakfasts (eventually, when Dave showed up) of eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, and pancakes topped with fruit and whipped cream. Extra whipped cream. Mmm—right out of the can is so good. One day, I'm going to take a bath in the stuff.

"So, how's grandma?"

"The usual—kinda loopy. She thought it was Sunday."

Sunday? But it was Thursday.

"Are we sure she doesn't have Alzheimer's?"

"Probably just the stress."

Amy glanced over at me after a bite of food. "She said Danny isn't coming back from England. I can't believe any bar owner over there would be so cruel as to force a son to work when his dad's died."

"Can't trust the British; all the guys are gay, you know," Bob said wisely.

I nearly choked on my chocolate milk (with whipped cream). Had he really just said that? "Um, Uncle Bob, how is that possible? The whole nation would cease to exist."

"Well, y'know, that Prince Charles is. Said so in the newspaper that he and his butler were…y'know…like him and that bowel lady."

Ay, yes. The Enquirer. Because inquiring minds are really stupid. I didn't say anything and mom just rolled her eyes.

After breakfast we were off to Wal-Mart to find some decent viewing clothes. When I die, if anyone should choose to view me, I'd like it to be naked. That's how I came into the world and that's how I'll go out.

The only problem was, when we got to the store, my stomach began to ache. Obviously, I'd been pretty foolish in my breakfast choices, but this was different. This was bad.

Sitting in the Wal-Mart men's room, my thoughts began to pound furiously. Worries, fears, and tension in my mind descended into my stomach, and an overwhelming anxiety threatened to swallow up my sanity. Perhaps this sounds melodramatic, but let me be the first to tell you that a panic attack is a dramatic thing. No matter what, I just could not quell those nameless fears. In desperation, I pulled out a single prescription form from my wallet.

I made it outside to my mom and begged for a pen.

"Are you okay, sweetie?"

"Mm…no. Here, take this to the pharmacy and have it filled; bring it back ASAP."

She looked down. "Xanax?"

"Please just do it."

"Okay; I'll be back."

I raced into the bathroom again and waited. And did other stuff, but that's not polite conversation. Amazingly, mom returned with the drugs and walked them into the men's room.

"Whoa, lady, y'know this is for guys only, right?"

"Oh, calm down; it's nothing I haven't seen before—maybe a little smaller, though. JD, honey, where are you?"

I heard myself answer. Why did I sound so meek? "D'you get it?"

"Yep." She handed the pill bottle and a cup of water under the stall. "I hope this'll help. Your Uncle Dave and the rest went back to your dad's apartment. We can join them whenever."

Join them? No! I couldn't leave the bathroom. The only other place that sounded reasonable to what, I must say, was a very troubled mind, was home. "I just wanna go home."

"Home?"

"Please, mom. Just home."

"Okay."

Five minutes later and I could leave the bathroom, but only to wander the aisles. My gut feeling told me to walk around and burn off some of the extra adrenaline from that lovely fight or flight instinct. After another twenty minutes of pacing the home and garden section (which, in retrospect, seems kinda stupid since I don't own a home or garden), I decided I could leave.

Sadly, even the ride home was eventful. Mom, in her rush, ran a yellow light at a busy intersection and promptly got pulled over. I thought she might kill the cop.

"License and registration, please."

"Officer, my son is sick and I'm trying to get him home."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but that's a very dangerous intersection you just ran. You were going too fast and the light was yellow."

She grit her teeth. "You don't understand; my son's stomach is sick and his father just died. All he wants is to get home. These are special circumstances," she argued while handing over the registration papers. He didn't even bother to respond, but went back to his car. A few minutes later and he returned with her information and a ticket.

"Look, ma'am, safety is important no matter what. I'm sorry your son is sick and his father died, but you could have caused an accident. It was reckless driving."

Uh-oh. Now he'd pissed her off. "You listen here, officer—" she checked the ticket for his name "—Zloblatski: My son is ill. We are grieving. This ticket is both unfair and uncompassionate. I realize that may be a troublesome intersection, but I know your actions are unwarranted. Your chief will be hearing from me!"

He nodded and walked away, but obviously didn't care. And why should he? I'll bet his dad was still alive.

Mom drove away angry—righteously so, in my opinion—and I started to nod off. Xanax is a hypnotic and will send anyone off to La-La Land. Unfortunately (fortunately?), it's also an amnesic, so I have only the vaguest memories of speeding onto the highway and no idea how I got into my bed. But that's where I found myself some eight hours later as the voices of two old high school friends called from my doorway.

"JD?"

"Hey, you awake?"

I stirred from my dreamless sleep. "No."

Suddenly, an extra two bodies jumped onto my bed, so I opted to face them instead of pretending to sleep.

I'd known Luke and Simon since freshman year of high school, but I didn't remember either of them being psychic. How did they know I was home? "What are you doing here?"

"Your mom called us." Simon pulled some stuff out of a bag as he talked. Were those…? They were! Candy necklaces, the eight-ounce cans of Coca-Cola, and miniature Reese's peanut butter cups (they have the perfect ratio of chocolate to peanut butter). He handed everything to me. "We're really sorry, man."

They knew. Of course they knew. Mom had called them to comfort me. The only problem was, I didn't know if I wanted that comfort. It seemed too much liked pity. Then again, at least she'd call exactly the right people; Luke's mom died his senior year of high school, so he could empathize.

I sat up. "Thanks, guys." Silence ruled for thirty seconds before I couldn't stand it anymore. "This blows."

Simon bowed his head, but Luke looked me right in the eyes. "Yeah, it does."

"How d'you do it?"

"I don't know. You just…do."

We talked about nothing very important—our days in school, the stupid things we'd done during those days, the stupid things we'd done after those days. Of course, I put all the necklaces at once and they dug into the peanut butter cups. My friends didn't stay long.

"How d'you guys know I like candy necklaces?" I asked as they were leaving.

"Are you kidding? JD, you wore one to school every day our sophomore year. Half the school thought you were gay."

"Really? Maybe that's why I couldn't get a date that year."

The day of the funeral. Deep breath. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and wondered if I were too casually dressed. Dark jeans and a black shirt. Dad'd never been real big on dressing up and, frankly, why wear uncomfortable clothes for an eight hour viewing of his corpse?

Oddly enough, we were the first to arrive (mom being chronologically challenged, it was something of a miracle). Paul greeted us and seemed less like a used-car salesman. He led us into the viewing area, already laden with flowers and some portraits and—BAM! There was my dad peacefully lying in a coffin.

"Fuck."

It just came out of my mouth as I turned away. Paul stepped aside and apologized for the suddenness or not preparing me or whatever he'd done wrong. But I wasn't listening—I was too busy walking out and being shocked.

How could that be my dad? It looked just like him, only serene. I'd never been to a viewing before. They suck.

The problem, I would later discover, was that the image of him dead in a casket conflicted with the image of him not dead and not in a casket. I closed my eyes and imagined him reading the paper, channel surfing, joking around, or behind the wheel. Then the thought of him in the casket returned and ruined every other memory. I tried again, recalling the last time I saw him, playing catch as a little kid, and even his aloof patheticness when he had to bum off me. Yet, when I was done, my mind flashed right to the viewing of his face. That peacefully dead somnolence his sealed eyes conveyed. I started twitching again.

Paul led us to their basement lounge where mom and I sat down. "You okay?" she asked.

"It's just too real. Or unreal? I wasn't ready."

"Yeah, that was a…shocker."

"Viewings suck; and dad's family is insane to want one." A disturbing thought occurred to me. "You don't think that insanity is genetic, do you?"

After a few minutes composing myself, I decided to head back up. I couldn't just spend the next eight hours hiding in a basement/kitchen/lounge/smoking room. Someone was bound to get suspicious I'd gone off to play dress up with the stiffs.

Composure, it would turn out, came pretty readily for most of the day. Mingling, thanking people, accepting condolences—I did it all without shedding a tear. In fact, I smiled quite a bit. Oh, not a real smile; a funeral is kinda like a hospital: You do what you have to do, when you have to do it, and you don't give it a second thought.

But before the guests came, as I wandered the viewing room looking at pictures, I took some time to think. There was dad at Dave's first wedding. Dad at his own. Dad playing with a baby—my cousin, I think. Dad bowling. Dad knocking back a beer. Oh, one with me! I vaguely remembered that trip to the carnival. Didn't he lose me there…?

Ah, and flowers. Flowers from his work, flowers from Aunt Amy's jerk husband who opted not to come (even though dad had been the only one in the family who could tolerate Uncle Jeff), flowers from Uncle Dave's work and his first wife. All of them were pretty and expensive. I wish dad had liked flowers.

I finally stopped in front of him and stared at his face. Down to the neck, arms, chest. There were his hands, big and strong. Or maybe they weren't. I only stood an inch lower than he, but always felt knee-high. Were my hands as big as his now? I wasn't about to find out.

I looked at his face and head for a long time, noticing with great sadness the stitches. Suddenly, the knowledge of what the doctors had done with his body struck me. And autopsy.

Clean. Photograph. Jab syringe into femoral artery and jugular for blood samples. Y-incision. Tear back skin. Cut away muscle and fat. Break ribs. Pull out organs. Weigh, cut, study, and take samples from the organs. Cut scalp and place over face but do not remove from head. Saw off exposed skull cap. Remove, weigh, cut, and study brain. Replace skull cap and pull scalp back on. Take plastic bag containing brain, heart, kidneys, liver, spleen, small and large intestine, stomach, gall bladder, etc., and place into chest/abdominal cavity. Suture. Put body in cooler. Wash up. Crack a few jokes to ease the sense of mortality.

I wanted to find the doctor who had done all that and hit him. My dad was not just another dead guy; he was my father, you bastard!

"JD?"

I jumped, surprised by my uncle's presence. When had he shown up? "Hey."

"He looks pretty good, huh? Nice make-up job."

"Yeah." If you don't mind the fact that he's dead, you freak! "Where's Aunt Brenda?"

"Bringing your grandmother, so it could be a while. I wanted to get here before and make sure everything's in order. You gonna give a eulogy?"

"No, I don't think I can."

"You should."

I looked at him, but couldn't find the guts to say, "No, you controlling know-it-all; you can take your advice on what to do at my own father's funeral and shove it up your ass."

Bob and Amy joined us and also commented on how nice their dead brother looked in his realistic make-up. Was I honestly related to these people? As they talked, though, I realized they weren't seriously impressed with dad's new Estée Lauder look; they didn't have anything else to say. This was their way of coping, just like mine would be disappearing to the basement lounge once an hour.

To my shock, people were showing up. And not just a few. By the end of the day, as I would later learn, over 100 people sighed the little people-signing-book. But none of them were the person for whom I was most concerned: Grandma Dorian.

Dad had never been the best dad by any stretch, but Grandma Dorian was one of my favorite people growing up. Feisty, opinionated, stubborn—your non-traditional grandmother in a nutshell. How would she handle this? After all, dad was her baby.

I wandered outside, lost in thought, only to find Aunt Brenda helping grandma out of the car and into her wheelchair. I forced a smile on my face and made my way over.

"Hey, grandma. Nice make-up."

"Oh, thank you," she said, patting my hand.

I turned to Brenda. "How's she doing? She looks pretty together."

"Yeah, not too bad. Took her forever to get ready."

We talked and pushed her into the funeral home. For a July morning, the weather had turned cool. We stopped at the door to the viewing room. I didn't want her to go in. I didn't want her to see my father—her son—in a casket. More than anything, I didn't want to see her seeing him.

We wheeled her up and as soon as she saw his face, she let out this sob that almost tore my heart out. Agonizingly arthritic, she nearly jumped out of the chair and reached for him, kissing his forehead. I had to turn away and wipe my own tears, unable to look any longer. There are some things even doctors can't handle.

Dutifully, I stayed by her while people gave their condolences. Once I knew she was comfortable, though, and others had their eyes on her, I went back to the basement. Surely it couldn't get any worse.

Right. That's like saying a thunderstorm can't get any worse before a tornado hits.

My uncle gave the eulogy to a packed house. Where had all these people come from? Did it matter? It's not like I knew my dad well enough to know his friends. Besides, those people were of no concern. All I could think about were my dad in the casket and my family next to me. And Dave's eulogy. I remember sobbing while he spoke and wishing I could run back to the basement. I remember Grandma Dorian weeping at the loss of her son. I even remember Aunt Amy holding my hand and Grandma's hand the entire time. But what I don't remember are Uncle Dave's words. Maybe, at times like that, it's not what's said that matters, but who's there. And who isn't.

I miss my dad.

Afterwards, everyone filed out. Some passed his casket and crossed themselves, which I found odd, since dad was about as interested in religion as a piece of broccoli. Eventually, the only people in the room were Dave, Brenda, Amy, Bob, Grandma, mom, dad, and I. We sorted through flowers—so and so wanted this one and another person wanted that one. I didn't want any. Dave handed me a folder with envelopes in it. Apparently, people had been putting condolences in a little box, some with money. The generosity and kindness wasn't lost on me, but it felt too much like a birthday than a funeral (although I'd never grossed that much on a birthday).

I wish I could say I took a few minutes to say goodbye to him. Alone. Look at his body one last time. But I was only too happy to get out of there. It was scary, unpleasant, and painful. The reception afterwards, at one of dad's oldest friend's, consisted of fried chicken, potato salad, chips, beans, and beer. A lot of people smoked. We didn't stay long.

And while life was about to go back to normal, it would never be the same again. As a great artist once sang, "I'm never gonna be the same again; I've seen the way it's got to end." My dad introduced me to that song.