Altered Prose at Pif’s Corner

Several people walk into the frigid room,
black jackets and black dresses sucking up
yellow dim light over static flower arrangements.
They come in with straight faces and cast
slow moving looks into the casket.
They all kneel before him, even the agnostics
assume my grandfather’s religion.

They form a line before my father,
these same people in bright clothes last
October lined up after my sister’s wedding, and ask
my father how he feels, like family media moguls.
Some cry and I wonder if they cry
for Grandpa or my Dad or themselves.

I hear muttered sniffles around me as they take
their seats in the middle of the cold room,
cold best for preserving the dead
flowers arranged above my grandfather.
These people then relax, like last Christmas Eve
at Grandpa’s house in Malden where martini
smiles spread on everyone’s face while voices buzz
with the latest news of Betty and John’s new house.
Laughs ring out, to me nails on a blackboard
and horribly misplaced in this dim lit room,
as someone relates a story about how old
Mike stowed away to America with toy snakes
to scare the immigration officers.
“Poor Mike, he’s with Francis now” they say
to ease their own souls.
I do not understand these people
how they mix death and life
like gin and vermouth; to laugh
in someone’s death is a sin
in my atheist mind,

so I stay staunch. I will not give up my vigil
for my grandfather, I will not smile
nor talk nor cry. I will respect that man who gave
my father life, who voicelessly caressed the old
tired skin of a wife who could no longer recognize
him. I will not forget him like all these
people around me must have, talking about
dinner tomorrow and next summer’s vacation.
I will stand here and give respect for them, even
though they laugh when they should
cry.

I walk to my father and see the redness grow
around his eyes, his swollen damp nose.
“I miss him Dad.”
He takes my hand and looks
into me. Two days ago I saw him
cry for the first time in my life.

In memory Michael Pifalo, 1901-1993

The man sitting at the bar motions for me to give him another drink. He is drinking whiskey and water. He has been here since my shift began two hours ago. Every once in a while he looks up from his glass to watch the people coming in or to look at the television.

Alex Trabeck is introducing the contestants. Before Alex it was the news about a murder and an accident on the interstate and a battle somewhere over there where apparently a lot of people died. The newswoman, the one who wears too much make-up, said the fighting was the worst since it all started. I guess that makes sense. The only good news was that the rain was going to end tonight.

Every once in a while the man at the bar would look up, but mostly he would stare into his glass, which I just now replaced with another whiskey and water, and mumble. I think he was talking to himself but to me it sounded like mumbling.

I try to talk to all of my customers ever since John told me that he never saw any people walk into a bar, just problems. He said that he likes to talk about his problems, and so don’t people in bars, at least always after they have drunk a little. John told me that problems walk in, but people walk out. John minored in philosophy so he gets like that sometimes.

I asked the man at the bar where he was from and he said “away.” Just like that too. He didn’t look up when he answered, so I guess he was expecting me to ask him. I didn’t say anything else immediately, and soon he raised his head to stare at me. He had a far away look in his eyes, as if he was already a long distance away from the bar.

“Thanks.”

“Uh, sure.” I started to wipe down the dry counter. “So, you need anything else?”

“Time.”

I gave a little laugh, trying to be non-committal without the rudeness. “Yeah, don’t we all, huh?” The man sighed. Slowly he stood, wobbled a bit and steadied himself by grabbing the seat of the bar stool.

“You don’t get it.” He then walked, three steps-pause, three steps-pause, and left the bar.

“Who was that?” John asked coming behind the counter carrying a rack of mostly clean glasses.

“Just some man who left with a problem.”

I looked up from my newspaper and glanced upon a dark man in a dark overcoat. Our eyes met and we stared at each other for a few seconds. I looked away self-consciously, but I still gave several furtive glances at him as I pretended to read my newspaper. He lit a cigarette and peered into the bank’s window. For an instant our eyes caught again in the window reflection, and I turned immediately back to the newspaper.

Finally, he flicked his half-spent cigarette onto the sidewalk and faced the doors. A woman exited the bank and joined him. Comfortable at last, I began to read my newspaper in earnest.