The drive home is a rabies shot, agitated, you twitch from state line to county line to places in between, the coordinates slipstream daydreams — You remember the road numbers: 145th, 194th impossibly lengthy, made of pulverized bonemeal and crunch coat, those steel-cut graveled byways
You remember the inhabitants rendered from bacon fat and ham hock tourniquets and night shift salt licks Or those pubertied boys and their percussion kits behind the old band shell, blasting canonfire flams back there on Thursday nights, before the sweating, stinking performance
of pops classics, patriotica, the flags swatting the air, or was that the yellowed sheet music, free from clothespin bondage?
Uncle Leroy’s bare arm was pressed against the vinyl seat cushion for so long that when he unstuck himself to stand and deliver Cousin Darryl’s eulogy, the creases that remained were shaped like the design on a fresh-opened pat of butter. But what could you expect, wearing a cutoff shirt to a funeral? We tried telling him each time we had one of these damn things (the number was getting up there now) that they were supposed to be places of respect, but he always responded that Cousin Darryl (or Sister Patricia or Grandma Diane or Toothless Jim, whoever might be sunnyside up in the casket that week) wouldn’t have gived one fuck what he wore. He had stumped us there, so we let him dress how he pleased.
Hell, he’d likely be laid to rest sleeveless—and soon, by the look of him—so we took the whole ordeal as a premeditated dress rehearsal. Today, for added style, he wrapped a tie around his neck (knotted that fucker, all right, just like you’d tie a noose) and let it hang between his apish tits like a pendulum counting down his final days. It featured a selection of music notes cascading out of a trumpet, overlaid on a pastel gradient. Nobody knew where the hell he got it, but there was something about how it clashed with the dirt and grease stains on the rest of him that made it work.