A Pocket Full of Posies

The random facts and slightly frightening anecdotes were running rampant from his lips now and I only had myself to thank. I'd been the one making the drinks, asking if he wanted another whenever I saw that his mug was empty. Sometimes in playing host we tend to forget the difference in tolerances. My heavy-handed Canadian Club portions weren't cut enough by the ginger ale. I'd made a blubbering spectacle of a brilliant friend and was forced to face the consequences. In true runner-up form I tried to make the best of it.

"Do you know how many people I've dumped into the Hudson?" he said with devilish grin, not bothering to wait long for an answer that wasn't coming from his stunned audience. "Five."

"Jesus." The others and I looked at each other across my kitchen table in shock and awe. Those of us who had a drink in hand took a sip. The topic of cremation had come up and our pal had the perfect story ready. Anyone who doubted his skills as a conversationalist would've been silenced quite thoroughly after a few rounds in the ring with our buddy.

"So many people who sell the estates of the deceased to antique dealers include ancient urns. They're usually dustier on the outside than they are on the inside. 'We don't want Uncle Frank,' they'll tell me casually. So when I acquire the remains with the rest of the junk I walk out to the middle of the bridge and dump the ashes."

There was little left to say to such a shocking revelation. The image was complete: a humble, struggling man put in an awkward situation walking half the span of the river's width in order to do what seemed right, or best. Was pouring Uncle Frank into the center of the mighty Hudson any more sacred and respectful than bleeding his ashes into its rocky edge? I didn't think so, the water being the same. But then again I understood his reasoning. It wasn't the location that mattered; it was the effort made to put him somewhere else that his relatives wouldn't have put forth. The last act of honor in Uncle Frank's name was performed by a stranger too courteous to say No. In my contemplation of the circumstance I found its latent beauty. Still, the mood had to be lightened if possible.

"Remember in 'The Big Lebowski' when the ashes blow back into the Dude's face?" my roommate asked.

"Yeah, that's my favorite part." We'd played it well, or so I thought.

"That happened to me once!" our over-served guest interjected with zeal as if he'd been waiting for his cue all along. That was it, the final brush stroke to complete the picture: a puff of gray ashes that had once been the remains of a human being raining on his face and outstretched arms, stinging his eyes in spite of his glasses. "The nozzle of knowledge had been opened," as someone else present pointed out. People often fail to imagine the size of the other man's shoes. More often than not the discovery is appalling. We don't know. We really don't know. The shame in it is that most of us would rather keep it that way; but just like in the case of his walk to the center of the bridge, I can understand.

There was no turning back for any of us. I could only make the cocktails stronger. If my morbidly burdened friend could shoulder the weight of his load then I would do the same. Know your roles. Embrace them.