Killer Words & Kellerweis

He might have expected it from someone in a loud Escalade. Or maybe a punk kid wearing bejeweled sunglasses and supremely gelled hair. But he heard an entitled response from a skinny twerp squinting through the sun from his bird-shit covered Honda sedan.

This weekend is the Children’s Festival in our tiny town of Edgewater; concerts and vendors entertain screaming, saliva-dripping tykes. Early in the week, we found a flyer on our doorstep, which politely informed us of certain roads that would be blocked on Saturday and Sunday. Eaton Street, our street, would be closed to through traffic, but residents would be granted entrance and exit from workers posted at the intersections.

My brother and I snuck out for a few errands—well, the first was hardly an errand. We cruised to a wine & spirits shop to fill a variety six-pack with Colorado craft brews we’ve been eager to try. But after stops at the almost-equally-hellish Walmart and Target, I steered my Civic back to the house.

Left blinker on, we whined to a stop perpendicular to Eaton Street. A nondescript middle-aged man walked a few steps to be more inline with my window.

“You can’t drive through here,” he explained.

It irked me, inexplicably. This guy—standing in the miserable heat for hours turning away shortcut seekers to protect funnel cake-eating infants—should inherently know I live on the block. (I moved here less than two months ago.) So I respond accordingly.

“2525 Eaton Street.”

That’s absolutely all I said, aggressively. Almost shouting.

“2525 EATON STREET.”

Within a millisecond, my stomach knotted as I realized, That sounded exactly like Dad.

My pops is a solid guy; intelligent, loving, wants the best for his two sons. But Chris and I don’t shy away from calling him on his occasional faux pas. Sometimes when he thinks he’s being cordial with a stranger—a waiter or mechanic, for example—he sounds, to a degree, like a douche.

Dad, gotta be more aware of your tone, we’ll suggest with a disapproving head shake.

Yet there I was, completely careless with my tone.

“Hey, we actually live just a few houses down,” would have been a much more appropriate explanation to this volunteer—volunteer!

As I turned the wheel, my eyes widened. I tried to look at this roadblock man imploringly, full of guilt.

“Thank you so much,” I said with an enthusiasm that probably made him think I was conversely rubbing his incompetence in his own face. He didn’t really give me a glance. Likely a Fuck you under his breath.

I voiced my thought to Chris.

“Did that sound like Dad?”

Him mocking me was a clear answer.

“2525 EATON STREET.”

Chris, too, went through a couple alternatives that would have been much better. Ah, I am a jerk. But aside from discussing retrospect, Chris also had a wonderful idea for right then.

“You should go give him a beer,” he said.

Brilliant. I could clear my name with a cold one; a sweaty, unpaid and unappreciated fellow couldn’t turn that down. And thankfully, he didn’t.

I shook his hand mid-apology. I told him I knew I sounded hostile, privileged. It seemed before I could fully present the Sierra Nevada Kellerweis, he snagged it from my grip.

“I have a bottle opener,” he interrupted as I started reaching into my pocket for the device. Dude was prepared.

We exchanged pleasant chit chat: how long he had to stick around, how merciless the sun was, what his favorite beer is (Odell’s 90 Shilling).

“Hey, this is a good beer,” he hollered as I was 20 steps down the sidewalk. He set it next to the curb for quick access.

“Glad you like it,” I returned. And, man, was I serious. I felt absolved. The night would have been mentally torturous otherwise.

I idolize and mimic my father in many respects, but in this way I do not. It’s possible he is truly unaware of his voice, but I take note. And as a result, I’m more critical of my own. Making others feel unequal by word (or deed) is a faulted practice.

But such a slip has a liquid fix.

Have A 10-year Seat, Mrs. Coleman

It's six blocks of death. And that's just north to south. On Google Maps, the Grim Reaper's footprint is outrageous.

Cruising in one of four lanes along Wadsworth Boulevard, any semi-attentive driver has to at least glance at Crown Hill Cemetery. The tombstone grid is endless, a visual vacuum. And maybe you could shrug off the cold, ominous rock if there wasn't always a dark-colored SUV freshly parked along the circulation artery. Its doors open —an emotional getaway —a family huddles nearby to pay respects to etched dates, the individual below. Always small children in tow, too; heightens the impact of the scene.

At 40 miles per hour, you're traveling roughly 58 feet per second. And to put Crown Hill in the rear-view mirror, that half mile will claim about 45 seconds. You're bound to contemplate dying in those clock ticks.

The walls of three mausoleum buildings, that's what I tend to scan in passing. They're all connected, thin, sitting perpendicular to 30th Avenue. The east faces almost peer over Wadsworth Boulevard, close enough that the white writings on the red hearts of giant stuffed bears leaning on the granite panels are discernible from the passenger window. Plaques mark those who are within the walls; beside them real and fake flowers act as asterisks. The glop of spent candles cascades over their stands.

But oh, the molded-plastic chairs with their cold metal legs. They're always empty and innocent, but I see literal and symbolic occupants.

Inevitably, exhausted bodies slumped in the seats, filling the tissues they snagged from the end table inside the building doors. Remnants of dusty footprints suggest visitors step-stooled and reached to drop carnations into vases. Other I-miss-you furry animals in their too-cheery poses before wind tossed them on the concrete.

Then I finally passed under the ominous gates, parked and strolled up to the names.

There sat Rachel Coleman, the chair acting as her afterlife waiting room. She was born in 1918 and died...well, not yet. But there she is, next to her husband, Gus, who passed in 2000. "Together forever" divides the two. How does Rachel, who's somewhere in Denver (or far beyond), feel about having her final resting place not only predetermined but collecting dust in anticipation? It's like a storage space you've rented, but the contents are eventual, and the contents are you.

But what perspective prevails: the morbidity of a rectangular prism eager to slap your name out front, or the endearment of life partners situated for an eternal spoon?

The expanse of Crown Hill tends to wrench my gut. Its reach grows like weeds, always reminding me of our transience, the daily obituaries. Hell, a couple hundred milliseconds is the difference between braking in time and crunching the vehicle stopped in front of you. I could be toast just by looking at that cemetery instead of the road.

Yet I've got to appreciate Gus and Rachel Coleman —and surely numerous other pairs —for highlighting that dreary landscape with a bit of love, of life.