Hot Tea (18 page)

I reminded myself it doesn’t do any good to have a really good idea if you aren’t willing and able to follow through on it and make something of it. 

If I’m not willing to take this step, write a few eulogies, a query letter of sorts, maybe make up a brochure, then I should just go find a job somewhere.

Normally, I’m the idea person, and Teagan is the implementer, but she went and abandoned me, right when I needed her, and I have to do this all on my own.

Fine, if that’s how she wants to do this, then that’s how we’re going to do this.  She can sit in that stupid office she works in, where she does all the work gets none of the glory, and they don’t pay her one tenth of what she’s actually worth, and I’ll become a eulogy writing phenom, and show her that I can do it alone.

First things first, I need to create a dead person.

That sounds a little ghoulish.  What I need to do is create a fictional character that I can write a eulogy for, as an example of my ability to do this work.

Piece of cake.

I sat at the computer for a while.  Had a couple of false starts.  I didn’t realize it would be so difficult to write for a fictional character.  It’s like writing a eulogy for a chair.

Brilliance struck.  I went to the obituary section of the local paper and picked out a couple of people.  I’d change their names.  I’d use their details as a foundation for a eulogy.  I’d try again. 

The first one I ran across was a guy in his 60s.  They had quite a write-up about him.  He was a nurse.  He’d been in the military.  He was preceded in death by his sister.  He left behind a long time companion.  They said he’d been taken quickly and young.  They listed off all the relatives.  No funeral arrangements listed, but they gave an email address to contact them about a future memorial service.

I thought about that for a second.  They said he’d died young, but he was 60.  60 isn’t young.  It is, however, young to die.  If I only live to 60, then 30 would be middle aged.  Damn!

The next one was short and rather impersonal.  The picture was of a very stern looking man.  Hair cut in an old fashioned flat top, not the newer more hip kind.  He pretty much scowled at the camera, pretty much daring you to say something.  Basically the obituary said that he died.  He had a wife and kids he left behind.  There would be a viewing on Tuesday evening and funeral Wednesday morning.

That one would be hard to write.  I wonder if his people would even want anything written, or just let the preacher do his thing.

Then a complete heartbreaker.  A young woman.  Early twenties.  Didn’t say how she died, but it said she was preceded in death by her teenaged brother.  Must be killing the parents.  What would I say if I were hired for that one? 

The last one I read was a typical grandma.  She was in her 80s.  It listed off a passel of kids and grandkids and in-laws.  She’d been a stay-at-home mom long before they used the term. 

I decided if I couldn’t write something fabulous about each of these people, I’d go beg for a job at McDonalds.

The grandma first – assuming her oldest daughter was presenting her eulogy.

When I was seventeen and thought I knew everything there was to know about life, a wise woman said to me, ‘Child, the measure of a person is not the challenges they face, but the way they choose to face those challenges.  See to it that you face every challenge with integrity and respect and you’ll live a life you can be proud of.’

Such old fashioned nonsense, I of course, let it in one ear and out the other.

When I was young, I’d hear stories about how Mom and her brothers and sisters didn’t have much.  A wooden car with the wheels borrowed from an old pair of roller skates.  A treasured marble, that not only looked good, but rolled straight every time.  I assumed the stories were to remind me that I had been very well provided for, by both Mom and Dad.  Since that was not something I wanted to hear, I pretty much let it go in one ear and out the other.

When I was a teen, Mom spent hours standing at the stove, with me standing in the doorway.  We talked about everything and nothing.  I was just avoiding doing my homework.  If she had anything interesting to say, it pretty much went in one ear and out the other.

It all started coming back to me as a young mother.  All those lessons Mom so generously taught me.

In frustration I pushed myself away from the desk.  There’s something lacking due to today’s technology.  There was a time when you could vent your spleen a bit by ripping the page out of your typewriter, then with great vehemence, ball it up and throw it across the room.  Now, unless you want to dropkick a rather expensive piece of machinery, your only option is to delete a file.  Somehow, it isn’t the same cathartic event.  Not sure I would trade spell-check for the luxury of a spontaneous childish outburst, but you would think with our advanced abilities, we could think of a satisfactory solution.

AJ walked in as I was stomping around the living room, trying for the physical release of an emotional constriction.

The left side of his mouth pulled up and made a cute little dimple.  “Was it something I said?”

“Sorry, I’m having a moment.”

“Is there something I can do?”

“How well do you take a punch?”

“Not well.  I’m against all forms of physical violence, at least in regard to my physicality.  Someone else wants to be violent, I’ll be happy to watch.”

“You like to watch?”  I blushed immediately and blurted, “Ok, that didn’t sound right.”

We both burst out laughing breaking the tension.

“So, what’s going on that causes you to want to punch something?”

“I thought that I’d try to write a eulogy from the obituaries in the paper.  I tried.  I can’t get anything more than one-dimensional.  Maybe this whole eulogy thing isn’t going to work.”

“Maybe the reason you aren’t yet getting there is because you’re trying too hard.  Or maybe it’s that you’re trying to write fiction.  Fiction is harder than reality.  Everyone assumes the opposite, but think about it.  Which is more difficult?  Describing a fruit, or making up a convincing new fruit?”

“That’s right!  You write!”

“No, I’m a photographer that sometimes gets stuck writing the article that goes with my images.  I take an image; I describe what I’ve taken an image of.  That isn’t exactly writing.  Besides, Suzi told me that you love to write.”

“I really need to start paying her to be my agent.”  I sat down at the kitchen table.  He took a seat across from me. 

I tried to explain,  “There’s a big difference between writing the occasional business letter for a friend, or reshaping a resume, or maybe creating a newsletter for my neighbor’s business so he can drum up some excitement in slow times, and being an actual writer.  Suzi makes my writing abilities sound like a bigger deal than they are.”

“She loves you.”

“I love her too, but that doesn’t mean I can write.”

“I’m sure you’re every bit as talented as I was told.  Suzi is very realistic, even about the people she loves.”

I had to smile, “Really?  She thinks you walk on water.”

He smiled the sexiest damn smile and said, “See, told ya!  She’s completely objective.”

I love to laugh.  I love the fact that my roommate makes me laugh.  He’s gonna be such a great brother-in-law.  Teagan has all the luck.

“Maybe the reason that you’re having problems writing the eulogy is that you aren’t writing it for a person that is real to you.  In your new business, you’ll be writing eulogies for either people you’ve met, or people that were loved by people you’ve communicated with.  I would think that makes a big difference.”

“Maybe.”

“As much as we, as a society, celebrate the disconnect we have created these days, preferring a text message over actual conversation or an email over a meeting, it is still a fact of life that we as a species need human contact.  I think that maybe that is your issue.  Maybe what you need is some human contact.  Shall we give it a try?”

For the love of Pete, I blushed.  What is happening to me?  I stuttered, “Us?  Try human contact?  What do you mean?”

“I’ve lost some people important to me.  You have never met them.  Know nothing about them.  You can interview me, write a eulogy for me, and I’ll let you know if I feel it’s up to snuff.”

“Up to snuff?”  I laughed.

“My grandma’s favorite term.  I went to visit her today.”

“You went to visit your grandma?  Be still my wee little heart.  There isn’t a female on the planet that doesn’t hold a soft spot in her heart for a guy that is good to his grandma.”

“Should I let it slip that I brought her flowers?  That I call her once a week, no matter where in the world I find myself?  Would you be impressed?”

If this were a movie, or even a soap opera, this is where the music would swell and we’d fall into each other’s arms and kiss and start a blessed life.

I reminded myself that this isn’t a soap opera.  Dammit!  I managed, “I’m impressed.  I’m sure Teagan will be too.”

Was that a flash of disappointment I saw run across his face, or was that wishful thinking on my part?  Wishful thinking?  I don’t steal boyfriends from my sister, even if I could, which, really, I doubt is the case, but still, there’s a sacred trust and all that stuff and even if I did have the ability, I don’t have the right.  Right?

With that thought I sent up a little SOS to the Good Lord in the form of a question.  I’m not sure it constituted a prayer, but it’s my style of prayer.  It went something like, ‘A little help here?’

I caught the phone on the first ring, giving AJ a little shrug as I lunged for it, silently thanking God for the distraction.

“Hello Love.”  Mom sounded terrible.

“What’s wrong?  Is Teagan ok?  Daddy?”

“The family is fine Love.”

“Mom, you sound terrible.  Who died?”  I was only half joking.