in memoriam for what's his name

In memoriam for what’s his name

I can’t remember his name

the Irish kid from Astoria who died in freshman year of college –

a “stupid accident” they said;

as opposed to what? A smart accident?!

Fucking idiots.

Anyway…I can’t remember his name.

I can remember his face

I can remember his mother crying her heart out

keening, asking questions no one would answer,

his high school buddies stunned but not so much that they

couldn’t forget to tell her stories about him and make her laugh in spite of herself.

I remember picking up the “family priest” from a rectory to which he’d been banished

who answered the door on the 5^th ring

whiskey-breathed and unkempt,

of being grateful for once for the time it would take to get from lower

Westchester to Astoria on the Thruway and then the Bridge on a hot humid night.

I kept the windows in my Bug closed for 45 minutes – told him the a/c was on -

turned it into a goddamned sauna on wheels and

sweated the Johnny right out of him by the time we arrived and

he’d combed his sweat slicked hair and begun the Sorrowful Mysteries on black beads

he had to borrow from the undertaker

his rheumy eyes turned to heaven somewhere beyond the stuccoed chapel ceiling.

I remember the guys, between Glory Be’s , rolling their eyes, whispering priest stories,

-already dark- that too many of them knew and continued telling

even as he finished the ritual and took his lingering leave.

From the corner of my eyes I watched his hands on the return trip,

windows open, determined to toss him if he made one move.

I remember getting home too late

having a smoke and a beer and thinking “all this totally sucks;”

and, for the life of me, I still can’t remember his name, the dead Irish kid from Astoria:

may he rest in peace.