Scumbag

I fear I am writing a requiem for myself.

-Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

The tall man lights the pipe in his palm and puffs the tobacco to life. He hands the book of matches down to the short man and he retrieves them gratefully with his free hand that is not clutching an umbrella. The tall man hums as the short man lights the cigarette dangling gently between his lips. At the crescendo of his hum he speaks, “I’ve always heard that Rufus Mann was a real scumbag.” He says.

“Ah yes,” The short man nods in agreement. “Real scumbag,” He says, “Everyone always said so.” The tall man takes the pipe from his mouth and crosses his arms around himself holding in the warmth as a sudden chill breeze wafts through the courtyard.

“Aye,” he utters in response to the short man. “Can’t say they were wrong, sorry to say.”

“Aye,” the short man repeats, “Sorry to say. Sorry to say.” Both stand in silence for a few moments allowing only the rhythmic beat of rain drops falling onto their umbrella as well as my own to be the only sound. The short man nods in my direction during their moment of silence to offer some measure of sympathy and I return the nod.

“Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” The tall man declares, “But I suppose a man reaps what he sews.” The short man nods and excitedly draws from his cigarette and exhales.

“Of course,” He says, “You get out what you put in.”

“Aye,” the tall man sighs, “Not a damn thing we can do about that.” The short man lets the smoke trail up in his face and breathes in the wisps. He examines the red cherry at the end of it, “Not a damn thing,” He says in a hushed tone, “Not a damn thing.”

I lean against the limestone gargoyle that sits perched on the handrail at the base of the stairs. There’s another one at the opposite end of the stair case that the tall man leans upon. His hand that holds the pipe rests gently on the crown of the gargoyle’s skull. He places it back between his teeth as he speaks again.

“Miserable weather today,” he says, “Grey skies and I think the weather reports mentioned lightning storms.” He puffs on the pipe and his face is obscured by the smoke that pours out of it. He doesn’t inhale at all.

“Perhaps thunder as well,” he says.

“Ah yes,” The short man says in agreement, “Always a chance of thunder.” The tall man stands from his leaning position. The short man strains to hold the umbrella high enough to cover the both of them and protect their overcoats from the rain.

“Appropriate maybe,” He says gazing up at the grey clouds that turn dark as they grow heavy and swollen with rain. In the distance there’s a rumble that rolls over the gravestones that stretch out further than anyone can see. The grass couldn’t be greener.

“Stuff of campfire stories,” He says, “Dark and stormy night.” The short man nods and gazes out at the early afternoon sky in the same fashion as the tall man. He draws on the cigarette till the halfway point and comments on the weather. “Not too humid though,” He says, “Thankfully.”

“Aye,” The tall man says in agreement, “Nothing worse than a dank humid rain,” He says, “A nice cool dry rain is always preferable.”

A car carrying mourners is parked in the nearby car lot and a man and woman exit the vehicle. The man pulls his overcoat up over his head and begins to jog towards the steps the two gentlemen and myself are standing in front of. He urges his wife to hurry and she attempts to shield her made up hair from the rain with her hands. The gentleman nods to me as they climb the stairs and enter the building.

“Two hundred and seventeen,” The tall man says, “The two hundred and seventeenth guests by my count. The newspaper predicted roughly three hundred give or take a dozen here and there.”

“Excellent turn out,” the short man declares, “Outstanding,” he says, “Tremendous.”

“Aye,” The tall man agrees, “Reminds me of my school days.” He watches and keeps careful count of several more mourners who arrive and make the journey up the steps. “Packed lecture halls for lessons on history and literature and the such.”

“Ah yes,” The short man agrees, “The such. Quite right.”

“Perhaps that is what will be in store for, depending on those providing the eulogies. Pity they will have a difficult time finding pleasant stories and anecdotes about this man Rufus.” He says and the short man lifts himself up a step so to make the job of holding the umbrellas over the both of them easier.

“A pity,” he says, “Don’t envy those poor souls. Having to speak highly of such a scumbag.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” The tall man says nodding to another three mourners (A man, a woman, and a small child of three of four years of age) he keeps silent count and continues with his declaration. “No easy task indeed.” (He mutters the word scumbag under his breath).

Another vehicle approaches the building, this time a stretch limousine of the highest quality. It bypasses the car lot and pulls up to the base of the stairs. The car had been freshly washed despite the weather being quite miserable the last week or so. The top shelf wax treatment gave the paintjob a sheen so brilliant that I could clearly make out the reflections of the two gentlemen and myself from several yards away.

The gentlemen to my right perk up at the sight of the vehicle and both men take a moment to straighten up their appearance. The short man quickly puts out his cigarette and disposes of it as the tall man asks for a match but waits to strike it.

The driver of the vehicle exits his seat and hurries around to the back of the limo. He’s careful not to kick up any gravel or debris onto the immaculate rims of the tires or the chrome accents at the base of the body of the car. He pulls his sleeve up over his hand before grasping the door handle careful not smudge it with his fingerprints. He opens the door and holds it open while standing to the side of it looking straight ahead motionless like an English Beefeater standing guard before Buckingham Palace. The absence of a large fuzzy hat and a rifle makes his task appear absurd.

One at a time a dozen people climb out of the car each wearing extremely fine and expensive clothing. They grimace with their white smiles artificially brightened by the finest dentists and shield themselves from the rain as they wait for the rest of the party to exit the vehicle. The last man in the vehicle slides from his seat and stands at the precipice of the stairs. He stands tall (six foot four by my guess) and buttons the middle button of his suit jacket. He places his hands on his narrow hips firmly and looks skyward. His broad shoulders catch many drops and his dirty blonde hair begins to frizz with the moisture. His suit begins to grow small dark spots as each rain drop meets him. He grips the leather belt that perfectly matches his chocolate brown Italian shoes and adjusts himself a bit as the car ride may have pulled at or wrinkled his outfit a bit here and a bit there.

“Damn it all,” He exclaims speaking with his hand while the other remains on his hip, “This is some miserable weather.” The party in tow all express similar feelings on the horrid weather and patiently wait for him to speak again. “Somebody really ought to do something about it. Unacceptable,” He says, “Unacceptable.” The party behind him repeats him, paraphrasing his sentiments about stopping the weather and changing it to something far more tolerable. He dismisses his driver for the time being. The party he keeps in tow follow him up the steps, he nods at me as he strolls by. The two gentlemen nod and the tall man raises his pipe but his actions go unnoticed. The three of us watch subtly as they crowd travels up the steps and disappear inside.

“Duplass,” The tall man says, “Timothy I believe. Difficult to tell him from Blake but the fanfare and entourage are dead giveaways.”

“Definitely,” the short man agrees, “Has to be Timothy, no doubt.”

“Surely only the first half of the set,” the tall man says finally striking the match and reviving the tobacco in his pipe. “Blake shall be around shortly I reckon.”

“Aye,” the short man says, “Any minute now, surely.”

The rain begins to let up for the first time in several days. The sun even manages to find a gap in the clouds a half mile or so north but the warmth that breaks through escape the gentlemen and myself. The car that was left behind by Timothy Duplass has been driven away and parked in the car lot with the others. The driver remains in the car behind heavily tinted windows waiting patiently for his cue to retrieve his employer and his loyal followers. The rain that remained on the car beads off and dries almost instantly.

The gentlemen both look up, admiring the break in the rain. The short man is not confident enough to close the umbrella and instead lets it rest on his shoulder and relaxes it back.

“Oh good,” The tall man says, perhaps today will be a more clear day than predicted. He places the pipe firmly between his teeth and crosses his arms while puffing away. “The Cubs may even resume play. If it had rained any longer they may have had to schedule an extra double header in order to make up the lost time.”

“How do you like their chances?” The short man asks, “The paper reports that their pitching has improved but their offense is struggling more than usual.” The tall man scoffs and then sighs woefully.

“The game will end in one of two ways as they always do.” He shrugs and uncrosses his arms to brush away stray rain drops that had not yet absorbed into his wool coat. “Either they will lose in spectacular fashion and the game will effectively be over by the fifth inning or they will be spoil a lead in dramatic fashion in the ninth.”

“They also could win.” The short man says.

“Aye,” The tall man says, “They could.”

“The young shortstop they called up from the minor leagues has been impressive.” I say. The tall man nods and so does the short man. “Ten extra base hits in as many games.” I add, “And no errors yet.”

“Aye,” the tall man says, “A damn fine ballplayer that young man is.” He adds, “It will be a damn shame when they trade him to the Yankees for pitching.”

“Aye,” the short man says, “A damn shame.”

I light a new cigarette as I had finished the last one. The sulfur from the match head ignites and for a moment it masks the scent of the rain soaked concrete. Another brisk breeze wafts over and I shiver as I watch the wind roll up and over the grass covered grave sites.

Additional mourners begin to arrive and the tall man takes a head count as they leave their cars and make their way up the steps. He shakes his head in disgust and crosses his arms again. He leans his back against the gargoyle and waits for the last straggling mourners to make their way out of ear shot.

“Two hundred and forty seven people,” He says, “Two hundred and forty seven mourners attending a funeral and not one of them has been crying. In fact I’ve seen a great lot of them smiling and laughing and the such.”

The short man finishes his cigarette and stomps it out in the wet concrete. He reaches for another but pauses to speak, “Aye,” He says, “Every one of them carrying and all that.”

“Speaks to the kind of man this Rufus was,” The tall man explains, “A tremendous turnout of mourners in a terrific mood.” He holds the pipe and speaks clearly, “Happy to see him go I reckon.”

“Of course,” the short man agrees, “No tears shed for a scumbag, god rest his soul.”.”

“Aye,” the tall man says, “Waste of time I reckon, god rest his soul.”

I glance at the watch on my wrist and quickly calculate how many more cigarettes I can smoke in the next couple of dozen minutes. I draw a bit from the one already in between my lips and decide not to get ahead of myself or think too hard.

Another brisk breeze. A sudden flash. A clap of thunder.

“Oh damn it all,” the tall man exclaims, “The bastards in the paper were right after all. Lightning,” He says, “Right on cue.”

“Aye, and thunder as well as you predicted.” The short man answers,

“Aye,” the tall man agrees begrudgingly, “Thunder too,” he says, “Thunder to beat the band.”

Another vehicle appears no more than a quarter mile away and the hum of its twelve cylinder engine follows it shortly. It follows the same path as the car that delivered Timothy Duplass, The model was far older and more ornate than that of its predecessor, clad in gold accents and a gaudy hood ornament in the shape of Poseidon clasping a trident triumphantly. The gears turn and grind and it conjures the image of turn of the century factories and steam engines and a grand push to the future.

Just as before the driver exits first and opens the backseat door. The first passenger lazily stretches out an arm and the driver clasps the pale wrinkled hand gently and assists in pulling the elderly gentleman from his seat.

“Ah, there we are James,” He exclaims with a curt raspy voice, “There’s a good chap. I’m lucky to have you help me to me feet. If people learn that you’re old and feeble they take you and send you off to be chummed and fed to the fish as you know.”

“Yes, Leftenant,” The driver says helping the Leftenant up and standing. He leans on the gold end of an antique walking stick and bends at a near forty five degree angle at his waist. He is clad in his finest handstitched royal uniform. His long white hair is up in a carefully made bun just behind a hat fit for an admiral. The ring on his middle finger displays the Union Jack with pride.

James reaches into the car, looking to help the second passenger to their feet and the Leftenant places a hand on his shoulder. “Please, James,” He says, “Allow me the honor.” James nods and steps away from the door. A second pale wrinkled hand is extended from the back seat and the Leftenant takes the hand in his own and helps the Commodore to her feet.

“There we are my dear,” He says placing his other hand on her back, propping the small elderly woman to her feet. “Feels grand to finally stretch one’s legs.”

“Yes it certainly does,” The Commodore says taking her hand back. She runs both of her small hands over her bodice and dress frills attempting to smooth out any imperfections that may have been created from the car ride. “God save me I hope there’s a bar in this bloody place so that I can find my land legs again.” The Leftenant laughs with the rhythm of a malfunctioning locomotive engine and gently pats the Commodore’s back in agreement. He reaches into one of his pockets and produces a bill and places it in James’ hand.

“Do go and enjoy a meal and buy a lady a drink,” He says with encouragement. He sends James on his way with a pat on his ass and a snap of the fingers. “There’s a good lad. The show shant go on long and we should be ready by sundown at the latest.” James takes the bill and nods with a smile. He checks the watch on his wrist and quickly calculates how many drinks and how many women could he manage in the next half dozen hours.

“Ah!” The Leftenant exclaims again, and beats his chest with the palm of his right hand. The numerous medals and awards that hang from the breast of his jacket jingle like a wind chime and his chest expands with a deep breath.

“Smell that damp air,” He says, “The brisk breeze that cuts through to the very heart of you.” He extends a hand and rubs his first and middle finger against his thumb. “The occasional rain drop and the promise of lightning and the weather carrying on and all that. It’s almost as if we never left home.” He says, “Like we never left at all.”

The Commodore takes him roughly by the arm, wrapping her own around his and taking him along like a distracted child who had fallen behind the rest of the class.

“Stop your foolishness and your carrying on about the weather and home,” She says, “If we wait to see your reminiscing to the end we will have missed the great speeches and the burial of the poor lad and all.” She pulls him along and he keeps pace with his walking stick. Flinging it out and pushing off of it most flamboyantly. Meeting my eye at the steps they both pause and offer nods of recognition and I, of course, return them.

“Ah!” The Leftenant exclaims (as he does) “Ms. Rubidoux I was certain to make your acquaintance once again and looked forward to it greatly.” He pauses and lifts the finger next to the one with ring of the Union Jack. “As much as one can look forward to such a solemn occasion of course.”

“My husband speaks well beyond the point that anyone cares to listen,” The Commodore says, interrupting. “With that said it is lovely to see you again dear.” I lower my cigarette in an almost flamboyant manner that catches the attention of the Leftenant,

“Thank you,” I say, “And of course it is wonderful to see the two of you again. I’ll join you inside once I’ve finished indulging in this filthy, sophisticated, habit of mine.”

“Yes! Yes!” The Leftenant agrees, “Please take your time and meet us at the bar in this bloody place and we shall indulge in another filthy sophisticated habit.” I nod, almost bowing in agreement and the Leftenant continues on with the Commodore up the steps, swinging his walking stick and exclaiming huzzah as he does.

“Leftenant D. Cornelius Carewe,” The tall man says, “Surprised to see him on dry land as they say he never sets foot on it.”

“Aye,” the short man says in agreement, “A rare sight. Very rare.”

“Must be a matter of life and death.” The tall man asserts, “Death I’d say if I had to put my money on one or the other.”

“Aye,” the short man says, “A matter of death.” He says, “Surely death.”

“And the woman with him,” The short man adds, “Who is she I wonder?”

“The forth or possibly fifth wife of the Leftenant,” The tall man responds, “Depending on who you ask.”

“What could that depend on I wonder?” the short man asks rhetorically.

“The fourth wife by law,” the tall man answers, “The Leftenant asserts that the sea is his first love and therefore his first wife. So the fourth by law and the fifth by love.”

“Aye,” the short man says, “Fourth or fifth,” He says, “Surely one of those two.”

Another rumble of thunder is followed by another icy breeze. I hold the collar of my coat to hold in the warmth and draw on the cigarette between my lips down to the filter. I dispose of it and find another to replace it.

“The Leftenant makes an excellent point, however,” The tall man says, “This display shouldn’t last terribly long and I haven’t the foggiest idea of what to do with the evening.”

“Aye,” The short man says, “Neither do I.” Another party of mourners arrive and brief handshakes and nods are exchanged between the gentlemen and these new folks before they take the same path as the others who came before. Up the stairs and out of sight and mind.

“I suppose we can catch a film after the dirt is tossed on the scumbag. Perhaps even a matinee if they don’t drag this out dramatically.”

“Taking in a film would be a marvelous idea,” the short man agrees, “There are a half dozen or so playing at the multiplex just down the way and over a block or two.”

The tall man takes the pipe from his teeth and uses it to point vaguely in the direction of the cinema down the way and a block or two over. He crosses his arms and strokes his chin in thought.

“Aye,” he says, “But what shall we see?” He asks, “Perhaps a good comedy would hit the spot and cleanse the palate after such a dreary affair.”

“Aye,” the short man says, “Get our minds off the subject of death and all that.”

“On the other hand, perhaps a drama would be more appropriate,” The tall man says having a change of heart. “It is bad form to make light of death and all that.”

“Aye,” the short man says, “And all that.”

“Maybe find a compromise and take in a double feature,” The tall man says, “Insist on the best of both worlds.”

“Aye,” The short man says, “I believe there’s a double feature that starts at six or seven. Should fit the bill nicely.”

“Aye,” The tall man says, “It’s settled then. Best get there early and find good seats. Nothing ruins a day at the movies like sitting behind someone with a hat or next to a screaming child.”

“Aye,” the short man agrees, “Nothing worse at all. We can leave early if need be.” He says, “Ensure we get good seats.”

“Aye,” the tall man says, “There’s enough folk here that it wont be noticed if we left early.” He adds, “At least not immediately.”

“Aye,” the short man says, “Nobody will be the wiser. The living or the dead.” The tall man nods and taps his pipe on the skull cap of the gargoyle. He uses the tip of his pinky to remove the remainder of resin and tobacco residue from the bowl. The short man stamps out the cigarette he recently finished and both men prepare to climb the steps like the others had but pause when they spot yet another party of vehicles approaching. They stop their action and instead pretend to busy themselves with this or that to invent an excuse to stick around and discuss the latest arrival. The first car is an expensive luxury model that is followed by two others of slightly lesser quality. They each park in the last few available spaces.

The lead vehicle falls silent after the other two and the party of mourners exit their vehicles just as another clap of thunder is heard in the distance. There may have been a flash but I blinked my eyes and very well may have missed it. The party waits patiently by the lead vehicle as Blake Duplass exits it. Like his brother before him he stands at six foot four inches with broad shoulders and that narrow down to a slender waist. He buttons the middle button of his suit jacket and begins his stroll to the staircase with long confident strides leading his entourage without saying a word.

I feel several raindrops as they approach and the folks who follow behind him begin to audibly complain about the quality of the weather. The rain begins to fall again as it had before and the short man was secretly glad since he had continued to hoist his umbrella all this time.

“Gentlemen,” Blake Duplass announces to the tall and short man. His green eyes matched his brother’s perfectly and his hands sit perched on his hips in much the same way.

“Have the proceedings had a chance to begin yet?” The tall man and short man both shake their heads in reassurance.

“No, mister Duplass, you’ve arrived just in time.”

“Excellent,” He says taking the first step up the staircase, “I can’t stand waiting in the slightest. And my brother,” He adds, “Has he had a chance to arrive?”

“Yes, sir, mister Duplass,” the tall man says, “He arrived not long ago.”

“Aye,” The short man says, reinforcing the point, “Not long ago at all.” Blake Duplass nods and continues up the steps without a word and leaves the gentlemen and myself behind. I draw on my cigarette and await the pearls the wisdom the tall man will surly bestow on us. He takes the pipe from his mouth and crosses his arms.

“Looks like rain again,” the short man says after a lengthy lull in the conversation.

“Aye,” The tall man says placing the pipe back between his teeth. “It certainly does.”