Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 91161 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91161 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
OPEN ME MOTHERFUCKERS
* * *
King insisted on taking his bike to the funeral in what I think was his way of continuing to avoid any sort of conversation. When we pulled up, there were already several bikes parked along the road that wound through the lush grounds of the cemetery as well as Gladys’s old Buick.
We were the last ones to arrive. Bear and a handful of bikers, Grace, and six of the ‘Growhouse Granny’s’ were already seated under the portable canopy covering the rectangular hole in the ground that Preppy’s shiny black casket hovered above. All were dressed in black. Some of the grannies wore matching black floppy hats. King wore a black collared shirt and jeans.
I threw caution to the wind and wore a yellow sun dress. I think Preppy would have liked it.
As we took our seats on the damp plastic chairs in the front row, King grabbed my hand and set it on his lap, intertwining our fingers, bringing me as close as he could bring me without sitting me in his lap.
The preacher nodded to King, then started speaking about life and death. He even tried to say a few words about Preppy, although the two had never met. I had to stifle a laugh when he referred to him as a wholesome and well-respected member of the community. For a fraction of a second, King’s stoic face gave way to reveal a hint of a smile, while Bear downright let out a blast of laughter from where he stood against one of the canopy poles. The preacher paused to collect his thoughts, then continued.
“Who has words for our dearly departed today?” His voice was mechanical, like he was reciting a manual.
I felt for the envelope in my pocket to make sure it was still there. When Bear started walking to the front of the small crowd, I stood and cut him off. King shot me a look of confusion, and Bear stopped in his tracks.
“Hi,” I said, realizing my voice wasn’t loud enough for everyone to hear when some of the grannies put hands to their ears to amplify the sound. I tried again, speaking a little louder this time.
“My name is Doe, and although I didn’t know Preppy, er, Samuel, very long, he was my friend. A great friend. My best friend. As much as I want to say a few words about him and how much he meant to me, in typical Preppy form, he’s already beat us to it.”
I took the envelope from my pocket and unfolded the notebook pages with small scribbly handwriting. I’d already read it, and I didn’t want to cry, so I tried to zone out while I read the final words my friend wanted his friends to hear before we laid him to rest. “So, just a warning, I know we have some…mature folks in the crowd. Because this is coming right from Preppy, it contains some, um…colorful, language.”
I glanced apologetically at the preacher whose attention was already down at his cell phone, his thumb raced across the keys.
Friends and MoFo’s,
Like you thought I would let you have the last fucking word.
Fuck that. I’m way to OCD to have you try to come up with some nice things to say about me, so I came up with them myself. I’ve updated this weekly since I was ten years old, thinking that because of the situation I was living in that I wasn’t going to make it to see twelve and that my family, if you could bother to call them that, wouldn’t expend the effort to say anything at my funeral. And the thought of that, the thought of silence when they put me into the dirt was worse than the thought of dying to me. After that, it became kind of a habit, so I kept doing it.
So in the event of my untimely death, this is what I need all you fuckers to hear.
If you’re reading this to a crowd of people dressed in their funeral finest, then I’ve achieved a longevity I never thought I would reach. I’ve made it to the ripe old age of twenty six and it’s been one hell of a fucking ride.
By now, I’m dead and will soon be rotting in the fucking ground, being eaten by worms and other random bugs and shit. But don’t worry about me because I died a happy fucking man. Looking back, I never thought I would live a life where the word happy could be a fitting word so describe it, but I did And it was all because when I was eleven years old, this big fucking brute of a man-child rescued me from a bully who shall not be named, and then he became my friend. Oh fuck that, the bully’s name was Tyler Nightingale and the pussy still lives with his fucking mom and works the night shift at the Stop-N-Go. Fucking twat. Go egg his fucking car on the way home.
Anyways, I motherfucking digress.
The man-child became more than my friend. He became the best fucking friend anyone could ever ask for. He became my only family. Our childhoods were complete shit, but because of him, we were able to live our lives by our own set of rules. He didn’t have to befriend a skinny kid with bruises all over his body and a foul fucking mouth. He could have looked the other way. He could have ignored me when I pestered him to no end. There are a lot of things he could have done. But he chose me to be his family, and I chose him to be mine.
Although there were bumps in the road, a little juvie, a little jail, and whole lotta shit I can’t talk about here. I don’t look back at those things as poor choices. I see them as part of the highlight reel of the most epic fucking journey of my life. A journey I never thought I would see. Shit, I never thought I would live past the age of 14, and if it wasn’t for my best friend, and him saving my ass one night, I wouldn’t have.