[Rob Wright]

Version 2

Following the directions from the website, I turned into the parking lot of a Fresh Gardens grocery store. “This can’t be it,” Sharon said, and took the sheet of paper from the seat. I tracked past store fronts, dodged around a boy pushing a train of shopping carts, and passed “Kitty Corner”, “Just Jewelry” and a package-liquor store. “But it can’t be here,” Sharon said. “You can’t have a funeral in a strip mall!” Welcome to New Jersey, I thought, but said nothing.

The lobby was carpeted in deep red and the walls covered in foil paper. The usher had one ear plugged with an earbud. His bangs rested on the top of his glasses so that he seemed to be made entirely of cheep suit, hair, and lips. But programs he had by the handful. “Sorry,” he said, but it was not clear what he was sorry for. Our loss? The fact that we had to give up the first Saturday of clear weather in a month to be here? His head bobbed up and down to some private music, and we were in.

There was no casket, just a jar at the front between the organ and lilies the size and shape of a dachshund’s head. No one here was familiar to me. Even accounting for the ravages of age, the white-haired man with the walker could not be my Uncle Fred. A young, glossy woman beside him stared me right in the eyes, challenging, daring. I opened the program and saw that although the place was right, the time was off — we were an hour early. I pointed this out to Sharon and she became red— even under her salon tan — she was as becoming a deep red. She hissed something astonishing for that place and time and I knew that what I was hearing was only a sample of what was going on in her head, like an escape of gas under pressure.

Before we could contrive to make an exit, we were wedged in the pew by a weeping woman who knelt on the bench rail and was immune to any request to get past. The music started and the kneeling, rising and singing became general. I could not look Sharon who had passed from rage to laughter. I decided to put some spirit into the hymns, reasoning that, since I was captive, I might as well enjoy myself. But was relieved when the jar of ashes went by for its final trip down the aisle. This was the moment to flee, but before I could, the glossy woman who had been standing by the old man who was not my uncle Fred fixed herself at the end of the pew. She shook hands with a gray, fiftyish couple, but her eyes never left mine. I took her hand with as much warmth as I could, and gave a little comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry,”I said. “Are you Denise’s son?” she said. I nodded in a sort of round, uncommitted way. “I don’t think she told you we were coming.”


Version 1

Following the directions from the website, I turned into the parking lot of a Fresh Gardens grocery store. “This can’t be it,” Sharon said, and took the sheet of paper from the seat. I tracked past store fronts, dodged around a boy pushing a train of shopping carts and passed “Kitty Corner”, “Just Jewelry” and a package-liquor store. “But it can’t be here,” Sharon said. “You can’t have a funeral in a strip mall!” Welcome to New Jersey, I thought, but said nothing.

The lobby was carpeted in deep red and the walls covered in foil paper. The usher was young and had one ear plugged with an earbud. His bangs rested on the top of his glasses so that he seemed to be made of a cheap suit, hair, and lips. But programs he had by the handful. “Sorry,” he said, but it was not clear what he was sorry for, Our loss? The fact that we had to take off the first Saturday of clear weather in a month? His head bobbed up and down to some tune, and we were in.

There was no casket, just a jar at the front between the organ and lilies the size and shape of a dachshund’s head. No one here was familiar to me. Even accounting for the ravages of age, the white haired man with the walker could not be my Uncle Fred. A young, glossy woman beside him was staring at me eye to eye, challenging, daring. I opened the program and saw that although the place was right, the time was off — we were an hour early. I pointed this out to Sharon and she became red— even under her salon tan — she was becoming a deeper red. She hissed something astonishing for that place and time and I knew that what I was hearing was only a sample of what was going on in her head, like an escape of gas under pressure.

Before I could contrive to make an exit, we were wedged in the pew by a weeping woman who knelt on the bench rail and was immune to my requests to get past. The music started and the kneeling, rising and singing became general. I could not look Sharon who had passed from rage to laughter. I decided to put some spirit into the hymns, reasoning that, since I was captive, I might as well enjoy myself. But was relieved when the jar of ashes went by for its final trip down the aisle. This was the moment to flee, but before I could, the glossy woman who had been standing by the old man, who was not my uncle Fred, fixed herself at the end of the aisle. She shook hands with a gray, fiftyish couple, but her eyes never left mine. I took her hand with as much warmth as I could and gave a little comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry,”I said. “Are you Denise’s son?” she said. I nodded in a sort of round, uncommitted way. “I don’t think she told you we were coming.”

[Janice D. Soderling]

Far too often humorous writing is not humorous. But this is. Perfectly balanced, no attempt to guffaw or poke ribs, just an entirely credible, wry humor ending with that foot in the mouth that brings a broad smile. Love the idea of the funeral in a strip mall, the surreal description of the interior.

I'd lilke to see the quotations marks on the store name and around "Our loss?" removed. That our loss line is just too good for the quotes not to be mentioned.

I only have two stylistic items to mention. 1) ...and had one ear blugged with earbuds. If you mean what I think you mean, one of those little speaker gadgets, then I think that one ear had only one earbud and not plural.

2) I'd suggest replacing "the" in "the lilies" with "some" (or some other word: some, white, stinking, whatever) in this sentence: There was no casket, just a jar at the front between the organ and the lilies which were the size and shape of a dachshund’s head. It's too wordy to explain, but I think you will see what I mean. Or not.

A really good story. Much enjoyed.

(Can I be Ms. Overbearing for one minute? Pls label your story, Day 1, 2, etc. so we can keep track of what we have critted or not.)

Now I'm off to read Marybeth.

[John Riley]

Rob

Poor New Jersey. Now they even have a governor who yells at them.

"There was no casket, just a jar at the front between the organ and the lilies which were the size and shape of a dachshund’s head" is enough to make this story worth the price of admission. I wish I'd written that line!

I sense a serious undertone that works even better because it is under the surface. I sense a comment on the way families are so scattered and out of touch that it takes him some time to realize he's at the wrong funeral. The people are unfamiliar but not that much more unfamiliar than his own family would be.

"This was the moment to flee, but before I could, the glossy woman who had been standing by the old man, who was not my uncle Fred, fixed herself at the end of the isle." Another cool sentence. The "who was not my uncle Fred" makes it.

But . . . this is probably me being a dumb ass but the ending does leave me a little confused as to whether it turns out to be his own family after all? It's him nodding his head "in a sort of round, uncommitted way" when she asks if he's Denise's son that throws me. I don't know if there is a double flip in the story and it really is his family. I don't even know if there is a problem if there is, or isn't. I think it's the sort of thing that would need to be made pretty definitive if it's there. If not, maybe don't have him nod his head?

Well-done. I enjoyed this one a lot.

John

[Marybeth Rua-Larsen]

Rob,

I also thought the humor here was wonderful. In addition to "the jar" being sadly funny, it also reminded me of Wallace Stevens' "Anecdote of the Jar," with the strip mall, foil paper, usher, glossy woman and the old man who was not Uncle Fred the "slovenly wilderness." So, I thought the jar was doing a lot of work in this piece.

I read the ending, which I loved, as the speaker just going along so he can get the heck out of there. The glossy woman believes he's there for a reason, so he must be Denise's son. The speaker doesn't deny this because it's too much to explain at the moment and it's easier to go along in an "uncommited" way so he can leave.

Much enjoyed.

Marybeth

[Nina Schuyler]

I love the surprise of the funeral home in the strip mall. The boy who works there is well-drawn. When I think about the story, I see his bangs, like a dark curtain.

The major theme seems to be how distant families have become--how spread out, how mobile. Which made me wonder about the N's relationship with Sharon. I wanted some indicator of who she was to him--wife? friend? lover? And when her rage turns to laughter, is he surprised? Is this out of character? A relief?

In the end, the N pretends to be part of the funeral crowd. He finds a way to belong, to connect, even if it's done in jest. Might he wonder about his Uncle Fred? Who else might he wonder about?

[Seree Zohar]

Rob –
Love the escaping gas!
I enjoyed this comic situation [I once got to the wrong wedding 24 hours early ] and it uses the prompt well. No major nits, check a couple of grammatical fixes.
I need to ask about the earbud which in my parlance is a thingamy for cleaning out ears. Is this an over the pond thing for ear-plug?
The fact that we had to take off the first Saturday of clear weather in a month? – comes across as a bit of a dangler: can you clarify the close of that sentence? Maybe ‘take off’ is what’s misleading me, as you seem to mean ‘spend the first clear Saturday in a month on coming here?’
Consider : lilies which were the size
I really like the weepy wwww sounds in ‘we were wedged in the pew by a weeping woman’.

[Rob Wright]

Well this is my effort. I'm sorry that I've missed so much of this exercise, but what I've read, I've enjoyed very much. Thanks so much to Nina and Tim, a big round of applause for both and for my fellow Flashers.

Rob

[Seree Zohar]

I wd really love that jar to have initials on it, the first being a D, so that when the lady at the end says "are you denise's son" and N answers in a noncommittal way, it adds that extra bit of funny/macabre to the entire scene.
nice work, this.