Dark Suit

            I own only one suit. Just the one. Black. The pants that came with the jacket no longer fit around my waist and upper legs, so I’ve since bought some pinstriped charcoal slacks that don’t constrict my thighs. I like to think my I’ve simply grown stronger and my leg muscles have thickened with maturity since the spring I begged my mother to buy the suit in time for my senior prom. If you ask me after a few pints, though, I’ll probably own up to being fatter than I was those mere three years ago. Odds are I’ll be fatter still in another three.  So it goes.

            I have three ties, two are black; one is skinny, one is standard width.  If I’m looking to win over the good will of parents, I wear the former.  If there are grandparents involved, the latter.  I only bought the third, a red skinny tie, to match my date’s cherry red dress at prom.  It hasn’t seemed appropriate since.

I’ve worn the ensemble maybe twelve times.  Like I said, Prom, which fortunately fell close to my cousin’s wedding, and then three other weddings to follow—one of which ended in divorce a year later, my brother Mikey and his disproportionately nicer and handsomer girlfriend married young, and never seemed especially fond of each other to begin with.  At least, that’s how it seemed to me, even as I was pulling my tie off after the reception.

I’ve heard that one in two marriages fails, so I like to think that they were doing other married folks a favor, statistically speaking.

Beyond that, I’ve worn the suit on three Easter Sundays, my mother’s funeral, and maybe a handful of other occasions whose details escape me.  My job requires that I wear a button up shirt to match the look of the predominantly overweight forty-somethings with whom I share cubicle pods.  But the job, even at meetings and holiday parties, never requires a full suit.  Suits are only for the management guys upstairs.  In fact, for those of us in the cubicles, our dress code all but explicitly tells us to leave the suit jackets home. It’s never said outright, but there is a reason I don’t get to wear the jacket.  While I own a suit, I’m not supposed to wear it.

My job is essentially glorified data entry, operating system maintenance—occasionally typing the same codes and passwords I’ve typed hundreds of times before, making sure servers don’t crash—“the higher-ups” as they are mysteriously known, tend to think that we in the dimly lit basement must be some kind of mystical-goblin-wizards.  They have as little understanding of what we do as we have for their—judging by their BMW’s and Mercedes Benz’s—substantially better-paid positions.  They usually tilt their heads, grinning a little smugly, offering a “good morning” when we enter our red brick building at dawn. They rarely complete the ritual though, pretending like they don’t see me or the other techs when we all abandon ship at 5 o’clock.

I get it.  I understand.  I really don’t take it personally.  While they’re probably rushing home to their families in the suburbs, I’m just walking across the street to my studio apartment.  As we push open the big glass doors, heading toward our contrasting residences and our real lives, the disparity becomes vividly clear.  The suit, just like the physical locations of their offices, higher up, is supposed to remind us that these people and my people are fundamentally different.  To someone who wears it every day, the suit is the uniform of a leader, a drape of authority. The president wears a suit every day because he has to.  It isn’t a costume for him the way it is for me.

This is why I slow my pace to stay behind them when they leave, knowing they’re trying their damndest to make a silent escape.  Sometimes I’ll stop off in the bathroom and just sit in the stall, waiting until they’re all gone.  I always hate myself for it.

Today, a Saturday, I’m wearing my suit.  I’m going to a wake.  I really didn’t know the kid who died, not all that well.  Chris Chun and I went to the same high school, but he was a few years my junior, so we never talked much past a few sophomoric jokes here and there when I’d see him in the courtyard at lunch. Sometimes he’d bring leftover Chinese food from his parents’ restaurant to share with whoever sat nearby.  We had a few mutual friends, my brother included, but beyond the time it takes to eat an eggroll and some lo mein, we never spent much time together.  He sure wanted to be my friend though.  I know it sounds lousy to say in light of his passing and all, but to be completely honest with you, he always seemed way more excited to see me than I was to see him.

After I graduated, I ran into him on The Loop from time to time, and he was always eager and beaming, like we hadn’t seen each other in a lifetime.  He’d usually invite me to a party or some other event about which he had apparently not been properly informed.  One time in particular he was “pretty sure” it was on the East end of town, that apparently it would be “a rager.” He wasn’t sure when it was supposed to start but maybe I could give him a ride.  I told him I had plans but that we should, in fact, hang out when I wasn’t so busy.  I think this is when I gave him my phone number, feeling guilty for putting the guy off yet another time.

He text messaged me probably twenty times that first week he had my number.  At first, inviting me to join him at the movies; I politely declined.  After a while—along with requests to “hang out or something”—he started telling me more and more about himself, his girl troubles, his asshole teachers, how excited he was about starting trumpet lessons.  Thinking about it now, that’s when I really started to like the goofy guy.  I admired his persistence.  Most of all, I felt sorry for him, and I really started to feel worse for rebuffing him every time he asked to hang out.  Even so, he persisted in offering the invitations, and I persisted in putting him off.  I wish I could say why.

 The last time he asked to hang out, he only wanted to “grab a bite to eat, “ or “maybe grab a coffee.”  I told him I had to pick up my friend from the airport.  I didn’t.  I played video games for four hours straight.  This was about a year ago.

So when my brother called me at work last Wednesday to tell me that Chris had apparently died from a brain aneurism at a comic book convention, of course I felt immediately very sad, and I also felt like the biggest scumbag on the face of the earth.  

“Do you want to go to the funeral with me?” he asked.

“Is it open casket?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I dunno.”

“Yeah,” he said, “it wasn’t a fucking car accident, you idiot”

“Hmm. Alright, I’ll go.  Is his whole family going to be there?” I asked, wincing at my own stupidity.

“My God, are you drunk?  Yes, his family will be at his funeral.” he said.

“Yeah, I know, sorry, I just, you caught me off guard.  I didn’t even remember what an aneurism was until just now. Maybe I’m having one too.”

“It’s okay, man.” his tone gentler,  “Think can you pick me up? It’ll be Saturday.  Do you have anything to wear?”

“Yeah, email me the details.  I’m at work.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “Later, Greg-o.”

“See you Saturday, Mikey,” I said, and heard what was either a scoff or the click of a receiver.

So, today, I drink a tall mug of black coffee and get dressed for the funeral; every part of the suit feels different than I remember, too starchy, hotter.  All the garments are the same as I’ve worn to formal events before this; the wool jacket with slightly padded shoulders, which makes me look freakishly wide when it’s tossed over my already broad frame; the white button-up shirt I never wear by itself because of the red wine stain on the inner elbow—from my brother’s wedding, I think; those pinstriped slacks; my loafers, creased badly enough at the toes to be both comfortable and embarrassing.  I try to cover the creases up with shoe polish, but it doesn’t help much.  Last, I tie on the wide black tie as I’m pretty sure grandparents will be at this funeral, watching their grandson being buried.  Their grandson.  It doesn’t seem right.

The coffee begins to churn in my stomach, and I realize I need to eat something.  All I find in my refrigerator is a bunch of week-old grapes.  In my pantry, I see a can of kidney beans and a box of mac’ and cheese.  I decide the grapes will have to do, and take them one at a time.  Some are sour, soft, and deflated.  I pick around them, selecting the firmest and brightest of the failing bunch.  The cold juice seeps out as they give way to the pressure of my closing jaw.  I’m struck by the floral aroma of my childhood.  I remember walking around the garden my mother so dearly loved and meticulously cared for.  I remember when I was too oblivious to be anything but happy and hopeful.  Like her.

Like the grape, the memory soon breaks down and disintegrates to mush.  I try not to think about her these days, not like it changes anything.

I’ve heard somewhere, from some comedian on TV, I think, that grapes are the fruit of opportunity.  Where some are mealy or overripe, and some never really develop—like miniature off-color imitations of the real thing—there is always a chance for redemption somewhere in even the sparsest of clusters.  I can’t remember where the joke went after that.

On my way to pick up Mikey, I don’t know if it’s all the caffeine or what, but I start to panic, breathing erratically.  I pull over and call to tell him I don’t think I can make it.  I could have told him I got a flat tire, feigned food poisoning, I could have said it felt too familiar, too much like when Mom died, anything.  Instead, I say, “It’s just too weird, I didn’t even know him that well.”  This is the only excuse I can muster.  Pathetic.  Mikey tells me to suck it up before he finds me and breaks my nose. 

“Fine.  See you in ten,” I say.

So we drive to the funeral home in silence—not intentionally, mind you; I just forget to turn on the radio.  I’m not thinking about music.  I focus on the road and Mike just stares out the window.

When we arrive in the parking lot, he springs out of the passenger seat, having caught the eye of a very emotional Courtney White, who I think he dated for all of 3 months back in eighth grade.

“See you in there, Greg.  There’re some people I need to talk to.”

I snort disapprovingly as the door swings closed, but I’m half-relieved he’s gone. Beyond cracking jokes, Mikey and I have often had trouble talking to each other one on one.  With Mike, if it’s not fart jokes, it’s uncomfortable silence.  Dad’s even worse.  He doesn’t even laugh anymore.  He just talks about his damn sailboat all the time.  It was easier when we were kids, when Mom was still helping us all get along, and Dad was still interesting.

 I sit in the car for another fifteen minutes, trying to work out what I’ll say to Chris’s parents, to his younger brothers, to his five-year-old sister.

“Hello, Chris’s family.  Nice to meet you.  I’m some asshole that treated your saint of a son like garbage for the past few years.”

Or, “Hello there, adorable little girl.  Death sucks, huh?”

How about, “Sure is stuffy in here, eh guys?”

 I keep at this until I resolve to let myself off the hook, and go with a simple, “sorry for your loss,” which is about as honest as I can be.

I dig up all the courage I have to climb out of my weary Corolla, and walk into Cypress View Funeral Home.  I notice the lights in the entry are very low and that a purple carpet leads to the room where Chris’s body is probably laid out.  I follow the carpet to the room—which is packed full—and find the blown up photo of Chris just inside the double doors; it’s surrounded by flowers, and is draped in a banner that says, “Our beloved son.”  

The funeral home guy greets me, and points to the guest book, somehow managing to smile amidst an enormous crowd of lamenting friends and family.  I walk to the guest book, sticking to, “I’m sorry for your loss,” struggling to make my handwriting as tidy as possible.  I read some of the other entries.  Most are directed at Chris, “We’ll always have Pikowa Creek, dear old friend,” “You meant the world to me.  I love you, Chris.”  

Some are geared towards his parents, “He is the sweetest boy I’ve met.  Take care of yourselves.  You’ll all be the center of our prayers.”

All but mine are personal.  All but mine are sincere.

I attempt to draw a silhouette of a trumpet next to my name, but I have no idea how the valves are supposed to look.  It turns out terrible, like a confused cobra or something.  Before I can fix it, another group of mourners enters behind me.  Three girls I recognize from Chris’s class at school.  They’re wailing and sobbing uncontrollably.  I turn the page to hide my entry, and get out of their way.

I approach the viewing room and hover over his casket.  My stomach flips and I feel hot.  Chris is very pale.  Hollow.  This doesn’t even look like him, and he’s not smiling the full, goofy smile I remember; this smile is more restrained.  The mortician didn’t know him either.  I wince, and I feel the tears beginning, though I can’t say what it is that exactly is making me tear up.  Shock?  Guilt?

Well, it’s guilt that finally makes me turn and walk away from the casket toward his family; they’re all smiling the same toothy smile I recall so clearly.  They wear his smile—on all of their faces—even as they are breaking down, weeping, even as their lives become objectively worse, forever.  Through the tears, and with glistening wet faces, they smile.

When I step to her, Chris’s mother gives me a hug.  She says in her heavy Vietnamese accent, “thank you for being a part of his life.”

All I can think to say is, “I’m sorry.”

She hushes me, hugs me again.

I walk to a pew and sit there for a while, feeling a little dazed.  I barely hear Mikey when he tells me he’s going to catch a ride with Courtney.

Just “being a part of his life?” How is that enough?  She must be saying that to everyone.

But she wasn’t saying it to everyone.  I could hear what she was saying, and she wasn’t saying that to anyone else.

Then, I notice that Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” has been playing on repeat since I arrived.  I look down at my watch to see that I’ve been sitting in the pew for an hour.

I stand up to leave.  Crowds have come and gone, and still more are coming to see Chris, to say good-bye.

I look over at Chris one more time, and see that his suit is grey cashmere and perfectly tailored.  He has a royal purple tie.  In death, in silence, he commands the attention of the room.  His smile no longer looks so affected; it looks deliberate, thoughtful even, calm and forgiving.  I whisper how sorry I am, how I wish I had at least grabbed a coffee with him.  I tell him sorry I never told him much about myself.  I whisper that I, too, wanted to learn to play an instrument, just maybe not the trumpet, and then I tell him I’m sorry for making a joke about the trumpet.

I leave the building still whispering at Chris.  I suppose you could call it praying.  I tell him about my mom, and how I haven’t felt right since she got sick.  I tell him that my dad has been building a sailboat since she died.  I clarify that I know it’ll never be finished because dad’s afraid of the water.  He’s afraid to leave his garage.  I tell him my brother doesn’t look me in the eye.  I explain that he’s the bravest of us cowards.  One day, he’ll muster enough courage, or selfishness, or sense of self-preservation to move away, leaving my father and me to our dim devices.

I take off my suit jacket.  I don’t deserve it, not here.  I weep into its wool as I stumble to the car.