The Long Goodbye (Part 3)
As soon as Crosby started pulling on his jacket (the greenish suede/corduroy one, with the short waist) I took a quick trip to the men's room. I didn't want that last minute beer holding my bladder for ransom half-way home. When I got back, Huggy and he were waiting and Crosby raised his arms in triumph, exclaiming, "My crew!" It was the first time I'd ever heard him refer to the three of us in any special way.
Once we hit the outdoors, Crosby seemed anxious to get the attention off himself and let somebody else do the talking for a while.
Crosby: So wait, didn't you just come from a trip or something?
Me: Yeah, I just came from Down South - Down Home.
Crosby: So remind me. You're from Virginia?
Me: My parents are from that area. I try to keep in touch.
Crosby: So, whadditya, just visit family?
Me: I purchased a cemetery plot - or, rather - a plot in the family cemetery.
The boys were amazed and fascinated at the same time. Crosby had only that evening referred to his connection with the St. Michael's columbarium, the final resting place for the ashes of some of its most loyal servants, including the leader of his first choir group, Hope's mother.
Crosby: So wait, tell me about this place, where is it? What's it like?
Me: Oh, you want me to tell a story.
Crosby: I want you to paint me a picture.
Me: Paint a picture.
Crosby: Yeah, I want to have a sense of where my friend is buried.
The implication was that he would someday like to pay it a visit. And, I thought to myself, "How sweet!" He thinks he's outliving me.
So I launched into a description of the area, about how it wasn't near the shore but was farming country further west. About how as recent as ten years ago, much of it was not on any satellite map. I went through all the places it was near and none of them registered until I mentioned "Durham" which was actually about 170 miles to the south.
Me: It's just a churchyard that my great-grandparents helped build, maybe 150 years ago.
Remarkably, we were all headed downtown on the red line. In all the rush of the day's events, I'd completely forgotten it was still only Saturday night.
Once we hit the outdoors, Crosby seemed anxious to get the attention off himself and let somebody else do the talking for a while.
Crosby: So wait, didn't you just come from a trip or something?
Me: Yeah, I just came from Down South - Down Home.
Crosby: So remind me. You're from Virginia?
Me: My parents are from that area. I try to keep in touch.
Crosby: So, whadditya, just visit family?
Me: I purchased a cemetery plot - or, rather - a plot in the family cemetery.
The boys were amazed and fascinated at the same time. Crosby had only that evening referred to his connection with the St. Michael's columbarium, the final resting place for the ashes of some of its most loyal servants, including the leader of his first choir group, Hope's mother.
Crosby: So wait, tell me about this place, where is it? What's it like?
Me: Oh, you want me to tell a story.
Crosby: I want you to paint me a picture.
Me: Paint a picture.
Crosby: Yeah, I want to have a sense of where my friend is buried.
The implication was that he would someday like to pay it a visit. And, I thought to myself, "How sweet!" He thinks he's outliving me.
So I launched into a description of the area, about how it wasn't near the shore but was farming country further west. About how as recent as ten years ago, much of it was not on any satellite map. I went through all the places it was near and none of them registered until I mentioned "Durham" which was actually about 170 miles to the south.
Me: It's just a churchyard that my great-grandparents helped build, maybe 150 years ago.
Remarkably, we were all headed downtown on the red line. In all the rush of the day's events, I'd completely forgotten it was still only Saturday night.