“Being remembered means being missed, and that’s a notion I can do without.” An offering of flash fiction that invites you to an event billed as: “Not Your Old-Fashioned Funeral“…
by: Foster Trecost
The words were so overly scrolled, they verged on caricature. I’d never known a funeral to be invitation-only, but someone died, and my presence had been requested at the service. I returned the card to its casing and placed a call, asked the answerer if he’d been invited. Continuing his role, he said he had. Then we swapped roles and he asked if I planned to attend.
I didn’t respond.
“You know, I introduced them,” I said instead.
“So much for your perfect record,” he pointed out, and asked again if I was going.
I unsheathed the invite and lingered on the last line: Not Your Old-Fashioned Funeral. “I’m somewhat befuddled,” I said, “but I’ll be first in line to figure it out.”
Seasoned socialites filled the parlor, mingling with newly minted A-Listers. I claimed neither title, but a shared curiosity landed us in the same place. That, and the open bar. Some guests, mostly the younger contingent, were eager to be seen, but I follow the rules of invisibility, a practice that allows attendance at such events to be recorded only in the register. It’s bad enough being noticed, but remembered? No. Being remembered means being missed, and that’s a notion I can do without.
The lights dimmed to a point just past dusk, the hour when everything softens. It always leaves me feeling like I’ve forgotten something important. Or someone. All eyes turned to the stage and our hosts appeared: Justin and Claire. Neither deceased. Claire spoke first. She thanked us for coming, and confirmed what we already knew: we were at a funeral. Then she added something none of us knew, at least not for certain: “But this one’s different. Nobody died.”
Relief. Confusion. And yes, disappointment. Just a bit, but some.
“I’m here to pay final respects, not to Justin, but to the relationship I had with him.” She looked to her right.
True to his cue, Justin said, “I’m here for the same reason. Claire lives on, but our relationship does not.”
After a brief stint of civility, the insults began, volleying back and forth like shuttlecocks. Claire’s bottom lip quivered. Justin’s voice cracked like an adolescent.
“He’s condescending,” Claire said, “and needs to feel smarter than everyone.”
“She doesn’t like to read,” Justin countered, “but wants everyone to think she likes to read.”
And with that, Claire crossed the stage. I imagine the acoustics made it sound worse than it was, but she struck him, and he seemed more surprised than anyone.
“I like to read,” she said.
He raised a hand to cheek as if checking for blood, then rolled his fingers when they came up dry. “I know,” he said. “I liked watching you read.”
Claire’s face softened, and her eyes welled.
“But I’ve got more,” he said.
“So do I. Let’s save some.”
“Save for what?”
“For the next time.”
She faced the room. “This funeral has been postponed to a later date,” she said, and pointed toward the bar. “But drinks, they’re still on the house.”
I sensed a man standing beside me, a fellow master of invisibility. “You made it,” I said. “Good. I was hoping to avoid a retelling.”
“I guess your record’s still intact,” he said.
To this, I only nodded. I’d said enough already.
A cluster of confused faces floated toward the bar, and we followed in their wake. Everyone had a theory: performance art, group therapy, some kind of happening. I had my own opinions, and no desire to share them, but someone wearing an unfortunate tie asked me what they were. Never Respond To Questions, a time-tested tenet of invisibility. His attire made for an easy escape, and my thoughts went back to the invitation: Not Your Old-Fashioned Funeral.
No, it certainly was not.
So I motioned for the barkeep and ordered one, heavy on the bitters. Funerals go down easier with cocktails, even when there’s no one to bury.
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in A-Minor, Flash Boulevard, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.
