A Mourning to Forget

This is the second (and technically third and fourth) entry dealing with how music is consequently tied to memory. Today's song, since it isn't directly mentioned in the piece, is what was on the radio the morning in question. It is the Carlos Santana/Everlast collaboration "Put Your Lights On." Also, please excuse the fact that this starts of well written and kind of goes to seed before the conclusion. The reason why it turned out the way it did, will be explored in part two, which will be posted tomorrow night provided that I get some well needed rest.

My first thought upon waking up was being glad the sun was shining; it would make the day go by a lot easier. The sun managed to peek its way through the dirty nicotine stained windows and curve its way through the corners of the dingy alleyway to shine directly onto the side of my face. It was a nice and early wake up call on an important day.

The bed was a mess but served its function as a place to lie down. To the right of me was my phone on the charger; still trying to regain that power it lost the day before during it’s marathon of usage. The top sheet in a heap to the left of me from being used as a security blanket; the real blankets and the fitted sheet normally used to cover up the mattress remained in a pile beside the bed where they resided for most of the summer.

The room itself was cluttered with wardrobe boxes and garbage bags full of clothes that had done virtually untouched in the past year or so. All of it belonged to my mother who continuously used my room for storage despite having a room of her own. It was so cluttered that only a small strip remained to walk from the door to the bed. As such, I never cleaned my room very often.

On the dresser next to the television that was in dire need of a dusting was my mother’s nebulizer. Despite my mother’s need for the machine, it ultimately contributed to my complete lack of piracy. She would walk into my room all hours of the night, often drunk and trying to sneak a smoke despite constantly telling her not to smoke in my room and reeking of stale urine from never cleaning herself moaning and wailing about how no one ever loved her.

There was nothing I could ever say to convince her that she was loved. Once she said that if I really loved her I would buy her beer and cigarettes. When I asked why she wanted me to contribute to her killing herself, she scoffed and said “Oh please. You did just enough by being born.”

Then my mother walked back in to apologize and plead fro help. When I offered to call an ambulance, she refused on the grounds that they would just tell her she had a drinking problem. Even on her death bed she insisted that she never had a problem.

I thought about that night while staring at the bedroom’s ugly and tar stained fake wood paneling. The sunlight accented the nicotine stains that ran like an extra pattern atop the grain that already existed.

I arose without making the bed or even bothering to go to the bathroom to wash up before getting dressed, but I did have enough strength in me to turn the radio on. I planned on leaving the house before any one arrived. I put on my black work pants and the cleanest white shirt I could find. I had the tie on before the shirt was even fully buttoned. I slightly adjusted the tie, checked my hair in the reflection of the television set (after brushing away a thick layer of dust with my hand), grabbed the guitar case and headed out into the kitchen.

Unfortunately, my quick getaway was thwarted by my uncle Eddie sitting in the kitchen counting a large stack of money. It is not mincing words when I say that fat ass drug dealing white trash douche bag was one of the last people I wanted to see upon waking up.

“Hey. Hey you.” He never even bothered to stop counting the money, look at me, or take the cigarette out of his mouth.

“I have a fucking name Eddie.”

“Oh, big talk from a little man. Who the fuck do you think paid for everything today? I even bought fucking flowers you ungrateful piece of shit.”

“You booked the fucking church. Other than that you didn’t do shit. And I’ll believe the flowers when I see them.”

I went to pour myself a cup of coffee since a pot was on that I figured my aunt Lillian, who owned the house I was living in and that her brother Eddie occasionally hid large amounts of weed in, had made one like she usually did upon waking up.

“Don’t you fucking touch that god damned coffee pot! I put that shit on.” Eddie pointed at me when he said this as if it were a life or death situation.

“Listen you fat fuck. I bought the god damned coffee and you come in like you own the fucking place.”

Eddie threw a twenty dollar bill at me. “Well, go buy yourself a fucking can of Maxwell House, why don’t you?”

“Look at you trying to be the fat Boston version of Scarface

“You aren’t going to be laughing in a minute motherfucker. I’m moving in tonight. So that means it’s my rules. So you can just get the fuck out.”

The coffee mug I was holding caught Eddie square in the jaw, and luckily for the both of us the mug only had sugar in it. Within seconds Eddie’s fat ass was on top of me and pinning me against the kitchen wall.

“You are fucking lucky you are my sister’s kid. God rest her. I would fucking bury you with her if I had my fucking way you little shit.” Eddie punctuated the end of his sentence with a slap in the face.

Instead of dealing with conflict, Lillian simply turned up the volume on her Catholic mass that she watched religiously every morning even if it was a repeat. I could hear the hum of her oxygen tank turning on (yes, Eddie was smoking in a house where there was a fucking oxygen tank, but then again so did my mother, hence why she always snuck into my room to do it). When the tank turns on, quite often, it means she is stressed.

Eddie slapped me again. “Now look what you did.”

I sucker punched Eddie and quickly grabbed a chair to keep him at bay like I was a lion tamer. “I don’t give a shit what you do Eddie. I really don’t. Throw me out. I didn’t give a fuck. But the only thing I owe you motherfucker is not turning you the fuck in.”

“What the fuck have you ever done that was so fucking special? What do you contribute? You never paid any rent here. I keep the fucking lights on here and I don’t even live here.”

"I have a legitimate fucking job Eddie. I don’t use my fucking family to hide his fucking stash every time the cops get too close. And if I had a sister I sure as shit wouldn’t guilt trip her into... wait. You’re moving in? You have a wife and fucking kids. Why the fuck are you moving in?”

“I don’t have to explain jack shit to you. The truth is, that to me, you are not family. Not here you aren’t. And the one person who ever linked us together is dead.”

At that moment the door opened and Beto, one of the six people who lived on the third floor walked in. Beto was there to meet me and follow me through the neighbourhood so no one tried to rob me for the guitar. He was a half cousin of mine and a Crip to boot. The neighbourhood knew exactly what he was capable of, but at least I was cool with him. No one ever gave me any trouble if they knew who he was and how we were related. In my neighbourhood if you wanted to walk down the street in a shirt and tie carrying a musical instrument, having any sort of back up helps.

Beto never liked Eddie; even though they were in the same line of elicit trades. Eddie always brought undue attention to the house. If the police showed up, nine times out of ten it was because Eddie was caught doing something incredibly stupid like speeding the wrong way down a one way street or trying to coax money out of some insurance scam.

Beto was smart enough not to keep anything in the house and always worked far away from where he lived. “You don’t shit where you eat,” he once told me.

“What the fuck is going on in here? I’ve been waiting outside for you and all I hear is Eddie fucking screaming.” Beto glanced at me with a grin and a nod as he said this before turning his gaze to Eddie, who was still defiant. Eddie thought he could take anyone based on his weight alone, but clearly as I showed earlier, he couldn’t.

“I’m kicking this piece of shit out tonight. The fuck are you going to do about it?”

Beto probably would have made a few calls and had seven or eight people show up then and there to dump Eddie in the woods (something I know Beto had been dying to do for as long as he had known Eddie), but I just wanted to leave. I didn’t plan on spending the night at home anyway.

I walked passed my Aunt Lillian’s room and asked her if she was going to come to the funeral. She shushed me and said that mass was still going to be on. Lillian watched roughly six hours of Catholic mass per day and spent an extra two hours praying the rosary.

“You know, it’s going to be in a church, and she is your sister. She only lived with you for the past year.”

Lillian didn’t respond. She just quivered with a simple “I’m not going” escaping from her mouth.

Beto and I walked out into the morning and made our way towards the funeral home.

“What’s the guitar for?” Beto asked as we rounded Piedmont Street and made our way onto Main South.

“I’m going to play it today at the funeral.”

Beto nodded. “Hey, I know it doesn’t mean much to you now and we never, you know, hang out and shit, but your moms was pretty cool.”

“Yeah, she was.”

Beto said he would come to the funeral, but he had other business to attend to. When we got to the funeral home he said he would come back later to check on me, and he started on his way back.

The last thing I remember clearly that I did not want to go back into that funeral home. So I stayed a moment longer in the sunlight; soaking it up like it was the last chance I was ever going to feel that warm inside again.