Limousine

"I don’t believe in dinosaurs, even if they are commonly accepted."

"More like universally accepted. Look at the bones," my little brother Spencer tells me matter-of-factly. Because he is a banker and I design stuffed animals.

"But how can you imagine it? Look at all the McDonalds and Burger Kings. Look at KFC and Target, Wal-Mart and Sears. Ruby Tuesdays, Exxon, and Diary Queen. You mean to tell me big lizards walked here? And then turned into birds?"

Even as I speak, I am examining stills from a new Disney Movie and turning them into possible designs for fast food toys. I make their sketches into something my own, something tangible for children.

"Evolution," he says mildly, looking out the window at suburbia.

"I can’t even believe that the Native Americans used to live there. It’s all pop gobshite now," I respond.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he says, sadly.

"I must, I must, I must increase my bust," I holler.

The limo driver glances back, his eyes twinkling. He’s a little Irish guy and says nothing. I wonder how much he puts up with, day after day of the ostentatious rich in black limos going to funerals. For what we paid, his silence was a part of the package.

"You never much like history," my brother commented.

"I never really through ruins were much. Why try to remember the past through the leftovers when you can be out living, even making, history?"

"You’re never going to make history. You design stuffed animals."

"You dick around with stuffed animals. Children enjoy my toys."

"Grown-ups enjoy my numbers."

"Sometimes," I pointed out.

"Sometimes," he admitted.

We used to get bored and beat each other up. My husband says this is obvious whenever Spencer and I get together. He says we beat each other up out of irritation, hot hatred.

Right now I’d like to give Spencer a bloody nose, but he’s wearing a tuxedo he bought especially for the funeral.

We drive in silence to the cemetery. Behind us, my husband and Spencer’s seemingly underage wife sit in silence, looking out their respective windows. The driver tries to decide what to say, if anything at all.

"I could use a drink," I admit.

He sniffs. Alcoholic artistic-type for sure, I’ll bet he’s thinking.

"Me to. Hey, driver, any alcohol drive-throughs you know of?"

"Nah," he calls back, grinning. "I’ll pull over to a liquor store nearby. It’s only a block or two out of your way. Y’all can get a beer."

When he pulls up, he takes our orders and Spence’s MasterCard and dashes off.

"You’re going to be both stone-drunk and late for your own father’s funeral," my husband nags.

I nod. It’s all right. He’d wanted to be cremated anyway. He wanted to be topsoil for the garden, but Mom is so big on ceremony. She just loves attention. All she wears now is black, down to the hat with the huge veil. She is a "mourner" to the nines, even when grocery shopping. People who don’t know her have to give their condolences.

"I really don’t want to go," I say, sloshing down my second can of Coors.

"Your aversion to history?" Spencer asks.

"Ruins aren’t the same thing. You’re not going to bring back the humorously bitter little character that was our father."

"You can remember."

"Not if I’m drunk enough. You can’t bring back the dead. This is crap. I can’t believe our family paid for this. I could be at home watching television, which I just know he would have supported more."

"You’re going to need to stop drinking."

I finish my third can and reach for the fourth. Spence looks at my hubby desperately, who takes the can out of my hand. He gives me the "enough is enough" face.

"It would reflect poorly on us if we skipped it, huh?" I ask no one in particular.

"Quite horribly," the limo driver says after a pause.

"Turn around and go back to the liquor store," I say, giggling. My sketches are on the floor and I am trying not to step on them.

The driver glances at my brother, who shakes his head. The limo continues.

The last thing I want is a funeral and I cross my legs, hoping I won’t have to pee.

Sometimes I just want to beat my brother up.