outsdr | Day 4 part 2

When I was told of the plans for lunch after the funeral services, I was also told that my father had arranged transportation for everyone. Sure enough, when we went outside, this was waiting for us:

After about 15 people climbed in, I was the last to board. I ended up in the very back, where I don't think anyone was ever intended to actually sit, even though there were benches of a sort there; the space between the floor and the ceiling was only about three feet, and I had to climb into the area on my hands and knees and practically lay down to fit.

The friend of my parents that had stayed with my father the previous night was a strikingly handsome woman with jet-black hair in her 50s named Pat. Pat had a sister who had a friend or relative that owned a limo service, and had donated one of their limos to us to use for the day.

While practical, I felt the use of the conveyance brought too much levity to the situation; it just seemed out of place and inappropriate. Not a limo so much as ... a stretch SUV? I felt like I was going to redneck prom. With my entire family.

We got to the restaurant and got out of the Longcat of cars. My sister and her husband are regulars at this particular restaurant, and she had made all the arrangements for the luncheon (and apparently was paying for it all as well- at $14 a head! Like I said, oodles of money, bless her.) And it truly was a luncheon, with platters of sandwiches and dainty finger food placed upon a long table where we all served ourselves. Our waitress came and took our drink orders. I ordered two tequila sunrises. My father raised an eyebrow at me, and I arched my own right back.

The waitress returned with my drinks, sat them in front of me, and archly said, "$15.50." I looked at her a bit blankly, not because I was surprised to pay for the drinks, but because of her demeanor. She then did something I swear only happened in Nancy Drew novels.

She tilted her head back slightly, and looked down her nose at me. Her lips curled into a slight sneer, and she haughtily spat, "It's a CASH bar."

Taken aback by her attitude, my face hardened. But two could play at her unexpected little game. I turned my back to her, took my credit card from my wallet, and without looking in her direction, simply raised my hand above my head and tilted my card her way for her to take.

Don't get bitchy with me, sister. I'm gay and my mother died. That's more cats than you can handle.

The slip was silently returned to me a few minutes later. I signed it, added a $2 tip, and for the rest of the meal, that lonely slip lay curled up beside my drink in front of me, waiting to be picked up by the waitress who never returned. Later, a different waitress came to check on our drinks. She was much nicer.

My father's other brother made a surprise appearance at the funeral. Known to most of the family as a selfish liar and a crook, my grandmother sees him through rose-colored glasses, even though the man and his family have visited her only once during her entire two year stay at the nursing home; and then it was only because they had come to visit my mother on her deathbed. Still, my grandmother turns a blind eye to the actions of her favorite son, and it was at his table she sat during lunch. It was just as well; as usual, she complained that her food wasn't cooked right. I sat with my father, along with Pat (Who ended up sleeping in my father's room while he slept on the couch; I could have easily remained at his house the previous night,) Pat's sister, and the owner/driver of the limo.

The lunch attendees were boisterous and loud, not only at my table but throughout the entire dining room, and frankly it soon grated on my nerves. I'm fairly certain I spent the entire hour we were there scowling at the wall. It was unintentional; it's just how I was. I also spent a lot of time on the restaurant porch, smoking in solitude. I was glad when the entire shindig ended; it lasted far too long for my comfort.

We all wedged ourselves back into the limo for the ride back to the funeral home; the children of my brother's friends also rode along. At the funeral home, I escaped the confines of the vehicle, telling my father I would drive myself back to the farm instead of riding in the limo all the way there. It was far too crowded for my head to handle, and I was really ready for some time to myself before facing the burial.