Life Sparks

I waited around until the taxi arrived to take Winnie to the airport. I sat in her tiny living room while she packed. Her place was neat and tidy, as I expected, and I was pleased to see books on a shelf and in little stacks on a couple of flat surfaces. I liked it that Winnie was a reader.

She emerged from her bedroom looking small and fragile, holding a single bag that held enough belongings for her trip. The taxi arrived seconds later and I walked her outside. She turned to me and thanked me for hanging around with her, and started to step into the car. I touched her arm and turned her around and hugged her again, telling her to call me if she needed anything. I gave her one of my business cards from the newspaper so that she would have my cell number. I watched as the taxi disappeared down the street.

The next morning I showed up at The End of Time as usual. The Forb was already there and was talking with Mirna when I arrived. Limerick Bill was nowhere to be found, but Father Gene was there and in deep discussion with someone who I assumed was from his church. The Forb nodded at me when I came in, and Mirna left him in order to tend to other customers. I went to his booth and told him about the death of Winnie’s mother. He motioned for me to sit down with him.

“Maybe a few of us here could chip in and send flowers or something,” said The Forb. I was touched by his uncharacteristic thoughtfulness and told him I thought that was a great idea and that I would be glad to organize the donations.

“I imagine Winnie was fond of her mother,” said The Forb. “She seems like the type of person who would love her family.”

I agreed with him and shared my own impressions based on Winnie’s response to the phone call from her aunt.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve seen a lot of death over the years, and sometimes I’ve been sad and other times I’ve wondered why the grim reaper took so long to show up.

“I had this uncle—a vile, cloven-hoofed bastard of a man—who managed to hang on until his late seventies. He outlived two ex-wives who left him long ago because of the beatings they endured, as did his abused kids who left home as soon as they could and never looked back. Out of some perverted sense of family loyalty, I looked in on the old villain once in a while at the veterans home where he lived.

“When he died, I had to take care of wrapping things up and seeing to it that he was planted. After cashing in a couple of measley life insurance policies and clearing out his savings account, I was able to get him buried with enough left over for his bus fare to hell.

“The crazy thing is: I was sort of sad when he died, even though he was the president of the sons-of-bitches club. I kept thinking about how a life sparks up and burns out so quickly that you wonder why it came about in the first place, except to cause pain or bring happiness. Mostly these lives of ours just get by and don’t do much of either one. So there was my uncle, living three-score and ten of a miserable life and then, poof—gone without the world even taking notice.”

I didn’t go to my regular booth that morning, but stayed there with The Forb while he read his newspaper. For some reason I wanted some company at the moment, and The Forb’s philosophical musings got me thinking about my own life. My singleness (which allowed me to stay as disconnected from people as I wanted to be), my routines, my job—none of it seemed like anything more than getting by.

I drank a cup of coffee and then left the café. I called Winnie on my way home and asked about the details of the funeral service. She seemed happy to hear from me even though her voice sounded thick and weepy.

When I arrived home I opened my computer and went to the airline website. I bought a ticket to the town where the funeral would be held. I didn’t know whether or not Winnie would even notice my presence, with her immersion in grief. But at least there would be a moment when this life would do something more than just get by.