[Marvin's] World of Deadheads

by Paul Atreides

  Tommy’s face broke into a grin. “Far out, dude. Thanks. So, what do ya say — dinner? It’s my treat.”

  “ ‘Far out’? I might have to rescind my offer.”

  “Sorry, man. I try to keep up with things, but the lingo of the sixties creeps back in along the way.”

  Marv laughed. “You’re forgiven, but I’ll take a pass on dinner anyway.”

  “Gonna go home and mess with Jenna’s head?”

  “She’s got a lot to do here now; relatives to call, blah, blah, blah. I gotta make sure she keeps this real for me.”

  Tommy whistled and shook his head. “That funeral’s gonna cost her a bundle! Did you guys have that much put away? Or did you have insurance that’ll cover it?”

  “Mmm…there’s some savings. No life insurance though. No, wait… I think the company has a policy.”

  “Does she know about it?”

  “Maybe.” Marvin shrugged in ignorance. After all, money sure as hell wasn’t his problem anymore. That was for the poor schmoes who, day in and day out, still had to rush from home to work, work to home, and off to do a hundred other things that, it turns out, really aren’t important. They rode in silence again, until Tommy stood up when the bus made a stop at 59th, tossed a casual “later, dude!” over his shoulder and jumped through the side of the bus to the sidewalk.

  Marvin realized too late he had no idea where Tommy lived — if that was the right word — and didn’t know how to find him. He wondered if maybe it was some astrological, Wizard of Oz, wishing-made-it-so kind of thing — you know, close your eyes, click your heels together three times, and repeat ‘There’s no place like Tommy’s.’

  “Whatever,” he said to the elderly gent sitting across the aisle and up one row. “But I’ll tell you one thing, I’m not gonna wear any goddamn ruby slippers, that’s for sure!”

  The elderly gentleman continued reading his evening paper.

  What Marvin heard as he began to push his body through the door at home stunned him and he stopped halfway: one arm and leg in the foyer, the others in the hallway; the door cutting him in half from crotch to crown. Jenna was talking, but the sound emanated from across the hall, from Mrs. What’s-her-name’s place.

  “…Maybe I should sell those stupid baseballs of his. The way he fusses over — sorry, fussed,” Jen changed to past tense and started to tear up, “fussed over them — did you know, he’s got them sealed in glass? — well, they have to be worth something.”

  “I’m gonna kill her!” Marvin howled. He stormed through the door and took an angry stance, cross-armed and threatening in front of her.

  “I don’t know Mrs. McClaskey,” Jen continued, sighing loudly. “I just don’t know.”

  Marvin slapped his forehead when Jen said ‘McClaskey,’ then shook his fist in Jen’s face. “Do you know, do you have any idea what it cost me to get those balls? No way. You can’t sell those! I about killed myself lunging across the bleachers for that Barry Bonds ball. And, Jesus H., Jen, you were with me the night I snagged the Griffey. And the hours I waited to get them signed. How could you even think about selling those?”

  “Well, have you asked them, dear?” Mrs. McClaskey asked, placing her teacup gently down on the maple table next to her, on a coaster, of course. ‘Don’t wantonly ruin what you have and you’ll never want for more’ was one of the mottos she lived by.

  “What do I say? ‘I really hate to ask Mrs. Broudstein, but we didn’t have an insurance policy so could you pay for his funeral? Oh, and by the way, it’ll be about twenty-four thousand.’?”

  “Nope, I take it back again. My mother’s definitely gonna kill her,” Marv said with certainty and he sat on the couch next to Mrs. McClaskey.

  Mrs. McClaskey let out a quiet sigh. “These are uncertain times, aren’t they? I never thought I’d live to see such days again. It’s bad enough for us old fogies, but I really worry about all you young folks. Now, I don’t mean to seem…insensitive, dear… but, why did you arrange for such extravagance?”

  Marvin turned to study her during the conversation and wished he had gotten to know her, rather than know about her; she seemed like such a nice old lady.

  “You know, Mrs. McClaskey, Marv may have talked a tough game, arguing with him was part of the fun of being with him. But he was funny, and smart, and kind. He was one of the good guys. No matter how much we might have argued about something, in the end he never denied me anything. I loved him. He deserves whatever I can give him — and then some.”

  “Well, then,” Mrs. McClaskey began, as she rose from the couch. “He should have it. I believe what goes around, comes around. In fact I live by it. Run along home now, Jenna, and let me think this over. If your Marvin was all you say, something will turn up to help.”

  Jen stood up, reached for the empty glass she’d drained completely dry of iced tea, and took a step toward the kitchen to put it in the sink.

  “Now, now, just leave it there. I’ll take care of it. What else does an old lady have to do?” She smiled and wrapped an arm around Jenna, leading her to the door.

  Jen felt a little bit like she was being kicked out, summarily dismissed as it were, but instantly regretted thinking that of such a sweet woman. “Thanks for listening, Mrs. McClaskey. And thanks for the tea.”

  “My pleasure, young lady. Now, you go and get yourself a good night’s rest.”

  “Good night Mrs. McClaskey,” Jen said, stepping across the hall to her own door.

  “Night, night, dear.”

  Marvin slipped through both doors as they stood open. It wasn’t that he minded the buzz or tingle of walking through objects, but why do that when he had not one, but two lovely ladies holding them open for him.

  He waited for Jen in the living room, since she announced, as she did so many times when they would walk in the door together, “I have to powder my nose.” Her comment made him realize how many things people do each day that simply become habit and how those routines had a calming effect. He was sitting in his chair when she came out, already changed into one of his t-shirts, and sat right on top of him in the chair. This buzzed and tingled too much for him. He stood and turned to face her.

  “Hey, do you mind? I was sitting there. Jen, you’re in my chair! What’re you doing in my chair? You hate that chair. How many fights did we have over that thing, and now you’re sitting in it?”

  Marvin had lived in the condo for a few years before he’d met Jenna. After he proposed and she’d moved in, Jenna wanted to add her own flair to the décor. Marv went along with some of the more subtle suggestions like repainting, some new artwork, and curtains, but drew the line when it came to the furniture.

  “Sorry, Marv. I hope you don’t mind, but for some reason, I like sitting in this ugly thing. I’m glad you refused to throw it out.” She pulled her legs up under her body and snuggled into the high back.

  Jenna hadn’t seemed to be affected by sitting in him; there was no surprised look on her face or anything like Marv noticed when people had walked through Tommy. She just looked tired and sad. He wondered if maybe she was immune or something. He would have to remember to ask Tommy about that.

  “You know, you look like shit right now,” he told her in a soft voice and smiled down on her. Her eyes were all red and puffy from all the crying. He followed the gaze of her eyes as they flickered over to the baseballs sitting on the shelf of the entertainment center. “If you don’t stop leering at those baseballs with dollar signs in your eyes, I swear I’m gonna kill you.”

  -6-

  Marvin needn’t have worried about how to find Tommy, because he burst into the apartment waving a newspaper in his hand. “Marvin, look!”

  “Shhh.” He was listening in on Jen’s phone call with his mother. The conversation had started out with his mother bellowing through sobs, ‘Morty! Morton!! …It’s that woman… The one who killed our son, what other woman is there?’ and had Jen in tears within seconds.

  “What’s going on?”


  “It’s my parents. Well, more precisely, my mother. They’re staying at the Hyatt.”

  “Yes, I promise, Mrs. Broudstein,” Jenna said, still trying to control her sobs. “I’ll pull his suit out of the closet now and meet you at the mortuary. Yes, a shirt and tie as well. Yes, Mrs. Broudstein.”

  She hung up the phone and pulled a tissue from the box that had been ensconced on the table next to Marv’s chair for the last two days. “Why has that woman never liked me; what did I ever do to her?” she asked, in between blowing her nose and wiping her eyes, and then headed for the bedroom.

  Marvin laughed. “You thought you were good enough for me. For my mother, that’s all it takes.”

  Tommy spun Marv around by the shoulders, held him at arm’s length and shook his head in a dour appraisal. “Do you have more than one suit?”

  “No, why?”

  “We have got to get you some clothes. Dude, you cannot go to your funeral looking like this. Trust me, man, I went to mine in ratty old fatigues. Very embarrassing.”

  “I understand why my mother wants me in the suit, even though it’s closed casket because of the,” Marvin made a circular motion around his head, “well, you saw my face; she’s my mother. If I didn’t have a suit and the relatives found out, she’d die of embarrassment. Outside of that, who’s going to care what I’m wearing?”

  “Believe me, the place’ll be packed.”

  “I don’t have that many friends or relatives, and they certainly won’t see me.”

  “Oh, no. Not them. Us. You wouldn’t believe how many show up.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Why?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly. With closed casket it’s even worse; they show up in droves. Maybe they just want to see what you look like. And, dude, with as far out as this shindig is going to be, you cannot go dressed like this.”

  “All right, if you say so.”

  “I definitely say so.”

  Marvin jutted his chin out to indicate the paper Tommy had tucked under his arm, “What is it you were waving around when you came in?”

  “Oh! Dude! Your obit! Very nice.”

  Marv took the paper from him and saw his name, first on the list, and started reading.

  “ ‘Marvin Eugene ‘Brody’ Broudstein,’ … Why did she put that in there? She knows I hate my middle name… ‘born in Westchester, New York, on May 15, 1981, passed away suddenly on Monday, November 30, 2009.’ ” He turned to holler to Jen, “Yeah, I passed away suddenly all right — you pushed me in front of a bus!”

  “No dude, I saw the whole thing. She wasn’t even there.”

  “Yeah, well… she may as well have shoved me under it. If she hadn’t been nagging me, I wouldn’t have been so eager to rush out the damn door.” He went back to reading, “ ‘After graduating from Harvard, he worked as an Assistant Manager and account rep for Saxton & Crowley Advertising until the time of his death.’ Felt like a hundred years working for that schmuck,” he interjected to Tommy, who was now huddled over his shoulder reading with him even though he’d read it on the way.

  “Dude, what are you grousing about? Mine should’ve been half that nice.”

  “You didn’t have a decent obit?”

  “Well, if you consider ‘Thomas Sinclair, age 19, died on — whenever it was. No services scheduled.’ decent, then yeah, I guess I did.”

  “Sorry.” Marvin went back to reading. “ ‘He is survived by his parents, Morton and Gertrude’ — my mother’s gonna kill her, she hates that name. She always went by her middle name, Madelyn. ‘He is survived by his parents, Morton and Gertrude Broudstein, brother David Broudstein, and longtime fiancée Jenna Wilson. Visitation will be at Davis Funeral Home on blah, blah, blah. Graveside service at King David Cemetery.’ Longtime fiancée? Jesus H. Jen, it was only eighteen months. I swear, Tommy, I’m gonna help my mother kill her.”

  -7-

  Later that night, when they stood in the empty parking lot of the mall, Tommy said, “You don’t strike me as a Walmart kind of guy. They wouldn’t have anything classy enough for this ‘do’ anyway. So, what should it be? Macy’s? Dillards? Nordstrom’s?”

  “Shouldn’t we stick to a rental place? I mean we can’t just walk out with new stuff.”

  “You ever hear retailers mention budgeted loss?”

  Tommy led him into Macy’s first. The men’s suits were in a little corner at the back of the store. “It’s a nice selection…” he mused. “Anything pop out at you?”

  Marvin gazed around. He didn’t quite know what to make of this whole midnight (well, it was more like late night — very late night) shopping thing; he’d never not paid for something and it felt wrong to him, though he saw plenty of other deadheads as he’d started referring to them, with apologies to groupies of the Grateful Dead. ‘Course, if you considered the doped-up ones, it may be closer to the truth than any of them might want to admit. They were thumbing through racks of clothing, trying on shoes, and looking through accessories like belts, wallets and even underwear.

  He was thinking a nice black pinstripe, but all he saw were grays and navy blues.

  “Maybe we should try Nordstrom. If I’m going to walk out with a suit, it may as well be a good one.” On the walk through the mall, it occurred to him to ask, “What the hell do I do with it after the funeral? I sure as hell don’t want to walk around in a monkey suit forever. And what do I do with the clothes I have?”

  “It’s no problem, man. The clothes you have on, you carry out with you and leave in a dumpster out behind the mall. And when this whole shebang is done, we come back, you pick out something comfy, and we leave the suit hanging on the returns rack.”

  Marvin felt a little better about the foray knowing he could bring back such an expensive suit; his mood brightened and he stepped livelier. Again, they had to make their way to the back of the store. He realized retailers weren’t stupid. Women did more than ninety percent of the shopping and they left nothing to chance; all women’s items were up front to assail the female senses as soon as they walked in the door. Though he thought black was appropriate, a nice charcoal-gray pinstripe about jumped off the wall at him.

  “Now, that’s a nice suit,” he said, pointing to the mannequin on a stand, high on the wall. “In fact, the whole thing looks great.”

  “It should,” a voice said from behind a rack of dress shirts. “Dolce and Gabana. You have good taste.”

  Tommy stood on his toes to peer over the top. “It’s for his wake.”

  “Well, in that case, you need to look your absolute best. Perhaps I can be of assistance,” the man offered as he came around the end, hand outstretched.

  “That would be terrific, dude. I’m not exactly a, what-do-you-call-‘em — a fashionista,” Tommy smiled.

  “I’m Davy. And you are?” He offered an outstretched hand to Marv.

  “Marvin,” he said, shaking the guy’s hand. “This is Tommy.”

  Davy ogled Tommy when they shook hands, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it entered his brain. “Nice to meet you. Now, Marvin, what size are you?” he asked leading them to the racks of suits, then turned to look carefully. “You look to be… oh… I’d say a 42 Long jacket. Waist: 34. Inseam: 34. Am I right?”

  “Everything but the inseam. I’m a 32.”

  Davy glanced down at Marvin’s feet. “No. You’re a 34. The drape of a pant should break just slightly above the shoe.” He thumbed through the rack and within seconds was holding a hanger in front of Marvin. “Voila! Try this one.”

  Marvin took the hanger and glanced around looking for the men’s fitting rooms. “Where are the —”

  “No need for that. It’s just us chickens around here tonight,” Davy told him.

  Still, Marvin wasn’t sure he was the kind of guy to strip down to his skivvies in public, even if it was a bunch of dead people. “Are you sure? I mean…”

  “What’s wrong, dude, are you commando?”

  “Even if you are — honey, tru
st me, we’ve seen it all before.”

  “No, I’m not commando! Jesus H., Tommy, what do you take me for?” Marvin held the suit out for him to hold while he kicked his shoes off and shed his pants. He slid the suit pants on and Davy helped him into the jacket. “What do you think? Is it okay?”

  Tommy liked it immediately, but Davy stood looking at him in a critical stance: one arm across his chest, his chin resting in one hand. “Mmmm. Nope, I don’t think so. The cut doesn’t drape properly around the, um… package, if you’ll excuse me for noticing.” Davy looked over at Tommy, “No, this one would be better suited for you. Don’t you need to dress for your friend’s occasion as well? For you, I’d say, 38 Regular, Waist 30, Inseam 32,” he said, as he pulled one off the rack and handed it to him.

  “Now for you, Marvin… Let’s see,” Davy mused, with a slow gawk around. “Yes! I’ve just the thing! Kenneth Cole. Kenneth knows how to dress a man. And nothing says masculine these days more than a vest. This is going to be the hottest new trend.”

  He held up a pair of black pants with dark gray pinstripes and a black jacket. He slid a leather-front vest inside the coat, then disappeared into the shelves of dress shirts, flipped through them and came back carrying a light pink shirt with pearlized buttons.

  Marv put the shirt on, tucked it in and pulled on the vest and jacket.

  “Lovely. Turn around for me,” Davy told him, one finger pointed to the floor and the hand making a circular motion. “Yes, that is going to do nicely, I think. Stay right here, don’t move. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Whoa. Very groovy, man.” Tommy stood in his new suit, looking at Marvin.

  “Very groovy yourself. What is he doing?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Hey, help me find a shirt and tie while you’re waiting.”

  Ten minutes later, Tommy had completed his new look. He’d even included a new belt and shoes. They stood another five waiting for Davy, who finally showed up with an armful of items.