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wasn’t friends with a single person in band when we were in high school in the first place, and he was never a fan of our alma mater’s fight song either, which I guess is on the program for today’s scheduled and outrageously micro-managed outpouring of support for the St. James family.
    Then it was suggested that a coffin be present. A fucking empty coffin…
    Evidently a secretary at one of the elementary schools had informed a local pastor that a lot of small children had started asking their teachers questions about cremation and they were starting to compare it to being burned at the stake. I guess there were some kids also asking if the people who work at crematoriums make s’mores with a dead person’s body and if there’ll be any at Holden’s funeral. So, the coffin will be there in an effort to keep at bay any possible unpleasant visual images of Holden’s body burning and any kids from making awkward or inappropriate snack requests. And I sort of get it, but come on. I know I’m not a child psychologist or expert, but even I know good parenting isn’t using a coffin to mollify the kids who are confused or afraid of cremation; talking to them is, you know?!
    That was where I decided to draw a line. When the captain of this year’s varsity football team approached me last minute yesterday about being a pallbearer, I flat out refused to personally take part in this borderline offensive spectacle. I mean first of all, the guy is a douche and Holden was seriously disappointed that our coach named him Holden’s replacement after we graduated. Second, the douche told me the captains of all the boy’s varsity sports were already signed up to be pallbearers, but he was supposed to extend the opportunity to certain alumni so that no one would feel left out or have hurt feelings for not even having been asked. Basically, the people running the show were practicing a very small ounce of CYA.
    I blow out a breath and decide to just suck it up when the light turns green and cars start moving forward again. Just as I’m about to clear the intersection though, I see Holden’s parents trying to make it from their reserved spot in the parking lot to the football field. They’re practically being molested by cameras and news people shoving microphones in their faces. Then I get a text from Jake asking where I am and informing me that I’m about to miss out on witnessing the craptastic in person. It’s accompanied by a short video of the varsity cheerleaders—minus Erica—in full cheer uniform, climbing on each other as they take their positions in a human pyramid while the band plays an off-key rendition of Elton John’s “Candle In The Wind,” making this probably the only time in my life someone would catch me saying that I should’ve listened to my dad and gone fishing with him instead.
    Fuck. This. Shit.
    I finally pull into the jam-packed parking lot but instead of combing the aisles looking for an open spot, I decide to do a burnout, making sure I flip off the news cameras that turn my way when the sound of my tires screeching and the sight of smoke from them laying down rubber takes some of the attention away from the harassed service attendees who’re only trying to get past them without having their faces and tears filmed for tonight’s broadcast of the six o’clock news. About forty-five seconds later when I’m tearing ass out of the parking lot, I get two more texts. One from Jake with only one word: Classy. And another from Brett telling me that our old auto-shop teacher, Mr. Dryden, clapped and is still smiling.
    I feel like pounding my fist against my heart, making the peace sign, kissing my fingers and then raising them to the sky while declaring, “For you, bro. Peace out.” Because seriously, that shit was probably the only thing at his funeral that Holden would’ve actually enjoyed, or hell, even approved of.
    I find out my public and disrespectful statement of disapproval was