A mentor of mine left me a voicemail this morning, suggesting days and times for arranging a meeting, some life detail we need to discuss. Then his tone switched.

“Now, Edmond.” he began with a new sharpness. “I want you to consider this. And reply in an email to me.”

I stopped what I was doing to listen closer. He has that kind of voice.

“What’s your legacy?” he asked. “What are you leaving behind in the world? Think about this.”

I love this man, this mentor. I don’t think I could say that a few years ago, not without blushing furiously and feeling kind of…you know…queer. You’d think it would be easier for me, actually being queer and all, but it’s not like that. Men don’t say things like that to their men friends, the men they lean on. You don’t just go around expressing love and gratitude like it was easy.

“What’s your legacy?” he asked me in voicemail.

Instantly, I pull a Tom Sawyer: imagining the funeral, the long black velvet drapes, a tasteful brass urn, the weeping figures mourners unsure they will able to go on living now that their beloved – me – has departed this earth. It’s really quite gratifying. You should try it sometime.

I herd these imaginary mourners into a tasteful, expansive setting, comfy plush chairs and couches that have the swirly pattern that seems to show up in everything I pick.

Is this my future house? Is it a glamorous hotel lobby? I’m sure the oceans of grieving parties wouldn’t all fit in my current living room. They must have rented a hall or something. There are large bay windows and its green and lush outside, late Spring maybe, and a breeze comes through every now and then, just the way I would have wanted it.

“He always loved cheese fries.” says my sister Eileen, uncomfortable by the weight of silence.

Several people would murmer their assent and it would get quiet again.

“He was obsessed about them, actually.” Ann says from across the room, staring at Eileen, the two of them having a moment together.

“Well,” interrupts Brian Mangin, “Not just cheese fries. I mean, he had other weird obsessions.”

“Spam.” someone volunteers.

“Girl scout Thin Mint cookies.”

“The last episodes of TV series.” Alesia remarks. “He never watched a single American Idol, but he still managed to catch the very last showing.”

“And leaving his pants on the dining room floor.” Dave Rak volunteers with an edge to his voice.

He grips his partner Don’s hand. “It’s not like it’s challenging or difficult to just put them away in a drawer, but nope. Not Edmond. There were always pants in his dining room. You could just stop by and there’d be pants.”

Mom would nod at him gratefully, for the understanding.

My father would stand soon after, figuring he should go first. Something serious.

“I never thought,” he says, his voice trembling. “I would ever have a child…quite so…irritating.”

His mouth clamps shut in a firm line and he is overcome with emotion. It was the beginning of a good story, a really good story, actually, but he can’t finish it just now. Mom reaches up to put her arm on his and he gradually sits.

I was a difficult son.

It’s different now that they’re the age they are and I’m the age I am. I am quite sure that with their youth restored and the supernatural ability to pick from any number of possible sons, they would debate pros and cons of the different models and then eventually settle on me, exactly the way I am.

The energy shifts as a result of my Dad’s eloquent non-story.

“He was funny.” says Sam, a former Allen Interactions’ coworker. “He shot Nickelson in the neck with a nerf blow dart once and it left a red circle right on his neck. Nickelson had to go home and explain this hickey-like thing on my neck was from a male coworker.”

“Actually,” says Nickelson, “it kinda hurt.”

A number of stories crop up: the blow up doll named Plastiqua, waking everyone on a NWTA with silly string, strange packages arriving mysteriously in the mail, cereal box postcards and such, and foul-mouthed poetry found in glove compartments.

“And don’t forget all the internet porn.” Stephen says with a certain melancholy. “Man, did he have a lot of porn.”

First of all, that’s not even true, but geeeeeeez, Stephen! My family is sitting right there!

Aw, hell. I sigh with acceptance because this kind of honestly, this freedom is one of the great things about Stephen. He goes on being himself everywhere, always himself. It’s a trait I find common in fellow warriors. The male warriors and the female ones.

“Okay.” says Ron Morris, standing up, tired of the delays. Ron gets frustrated by conversation that doesn’t cut right to the heart of the matter. His discernment is that sharp.

“We all know that he sparkled.” Ron says, blanching everyone with his ominous shouldn’t-you-be-studying? eye contact.

“So let’s just say that. He sparkled. There.”

“He could be angry with you,” Ron continues, “he could be laughing, telling you work stories or things he observed about his basement sink and you listened because there was always more to the story. More to it. Another layer. And he made sure that everyone in his life knew they were loved. Whether you knew him a little or a lot. And that’s his legacy.”

Ron nods briskly and sits quickly.

“Would you like to speak?” my brother Matt nudges the woman next to him.”Oh no.” she blushes furiously. “I’m just an oncology nurse from the hospital. I’m only here because he told me I should come.”

Matt nods and says that it’s very kind of her.

She hesitates but says,”He said that there would probably be cheese fries.”

“Oh.” cries my Mom, eyes filled with anguish. “I’m sorry…we don’t…”

“No, no.” the nurse protests and blushes redder. “It’s fine. Really.”

Matt touches her hand and then seems to notice her for this first time. And this is good because, really, she’s quite smokin’ hot.

She looks at Matt.

Excellent. They can talk later at the buffet.

“He had this yellow and blue shirt.” says Perry mournfully.

“I HATED that shirt.” my first boyfriend cries passionately. “I fucking hated that FUCKING shirt!”

He realizes that everyone is staring. “Oh. Sorry. It’s just…he just wore it all the fucking time. Also I don’t normally swear this much at funerals.”

Perry nods in sympathy. “He had no sense of style. We know, bubala. But he was tenacious and he didn’t give up on things. He never gave up on me.”

“Or me.” someone else says.

“Or me.” says another.

And I think that might just be my legacy.

“He did give up on me for a few years,” says someone else. “But we worked it out eventually.”

Hey, nobody said I was perfect.

“Speaking of shirts, can I have his red shirt?” Eric Lucas looks guilty for asking this. “The one with the white 87 stitched on it? Wore it like…every time he staffed?”

“Dibs on his comics.” quips Mary-Scott before anyone else can respond.

Steve Grechis walks into the expansive setting, my first boss and owner of the Dairy Mart. He’s wearing a burgandy apron with dried mayonnaise smears, and he’s grinning cheerfully, which is how I remember him and this is my funeral euology, so I couldn’t be more delighted he’s wearing a dirty apron. His hair is grayer than when I first met him as a 15 year-old boy.

“Hey everybody.” he waves and drops his demeanor to a little less cheerful. “I hope I’m not interrupting. He placed an order at the Dairy Mart to be delivered here after he died. Before…”

He trails off and everyone notices the four or five metal catering tins being carried in by industrious teenagers, also in burgandy aprons.

Steve carries the first tin to my parents, and Mom, with a shaking hand, lifts the top.

Cheese fries.

There are probably about 18 or 20 styrofoam containers in this first pan, the cheese still hot and steaming.

Andrea and Eileen stand to help distribute them, which seems kind of natural because the three of us used to work at the Dairy Mart all through high school and even through college.

Ann distributes the small plastic forks solemnly, like communion at church.

Everyone loves cheese fries.

Especially at a funeral.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 13th, 2008 at 1:03 pm and is filed under Warrior. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.