Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [107]
“Hello?” I answer. This seems to me more acceptable than “What the fuck!?” Which is my first thought.
“Augusten, Jim.”
“Oh, hey. What in the world are you—”
“Pighead died. I just got the call.”
In an effort to wake from the dream, I speak out loud. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m so sorry, Augusten. He was pronounced dead forty minutes ago. Heart failure.”
“Wait.”
“We’re handling the arrangements. I recognized his name. We’re always the first to know. I’m sorry.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yeah, he’s dead. I’m so sorry, kiddo. Want me to come over?”
Why didn’t his family call me? Why didn’t his brother call me? Why did he die? And why is the undertaker telling me this? “I have to go,” I tell him and hang up. I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror. “He’s dead,” I tell my reflection. “Do you understand? Pighead is dead. You will never see him again. How does this make you feel?”
My reflection says nothing.
The wake is at four. I arrive at one. It’s impossible for me to see people right now, anyone. Especially his family. It seems hardly possible that I am even capable of walking, having consumed nothing but alcohol for the past thirty hours. Which may explain the frown I get from the woman who answers the door of the funeral home. “No, Jim is not in at the moment. But you may view the body if you like.” View the body. As if he’s a Fabergé egg.
I walk into the viewing room. Harps gently play “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” through discreet speakers in the ceiling. Banquet chairs with padded red vinyl seats face the front of the room. There are flowers everywhere, an extravagance of blossoms. The aroma is Grandmother’s Powder Room on steroids. He, I feel certain, would approve of the casket. It’s a solid walnut Batesville with an ivory crepe lining. Jim suggested it personally. This is the first time I have ever seen, firsthand, how exquisite the undertaker’s taste truly is in these matters.
I peer into the coffin.
So still. No heaving chest. No shaking. No sweating. No face winced in pain. No hiccups. No diarrhea. And a tuxedo.
“Hey, Pighead? Are you there? Pighead?”
I guess not.
I look at his face a while longer. I want to touch it but am afraid. I think, Now I can remove your number from speed dial on my phone. I can forget your birthday. I don’t have to put rubber gloves on and inject you with medication. I don’t have to worry about getting stuck with a needle. Or fill your humidifier. Or change the lightbulb in the kitchen. Or answer the front door. I don’t have to wonder how long you’ll live. I don’t have to tell you I can’t see you today. I don’t have to ever put more ice in your glass or pick up hot dog buns on the way to your apartment.
In my head, I go over all these new benefits.
Days pass. They come and they go and I drink. This is all that happens. I suppose the mail arrives but I don’t check. Greer leaves a message to see how Pighead is doing. She deliberately does not mention anything about work, so I know this is probably the real reason she called. I send her an e-mail saying just, He’s dead. On my list of priorities in life, Greer is at the bottom along with vacuum cleaner bags and my career.
Jim calls drunk and leaves a weepy message. Something about how he did the best he could. How he prepared “the body” himself, as a favor. How Astrid left him because she thinks he’s a drunk. “Ain’t that a pisser,” were his exact, slurry words.
And I can’t stop thinking about Pighead. I wish I could talk to him and he’d talk back. Use some sort of spirit-world sign language. Make the lights flicker, or if that’s too hard, he could cause a draft in my apartment. Or maybe it’s easier to come back in a dream. Maybe he could visit me there. The only problem with that is that I’d always think it was just a dream. So maybe he needs to learn