Musemuggers
Title: No Hero
Author: Keppiehed
Word Count: 1148
Prompt: first line must begin I came of age in a time of no heroes.
A/N: Written for Musemuggers Challenge # 519, Option #4 (previous Challenge #518, submit to first line challenge)
I came of age in a time of no heroes.
The words on the card swam before his eyes. Benny blinked and tried to remember if he’d already said them aloud or if he’d just read them to himself. His palms began to sweat and the stiff rectangle of paper softened around the edges with moisture wicked from his skin. The ink-blue, not black-had begun to run on the letter h, a path that trickled in errant veins down the page. The fine lines near his little finger absorbed the stain into a random divarication, a miniature closed circuit system of biology playing out right in his palm. He knew he would have the temporary tattoo from pen ink and sweat for at least a week, no matter how hard he scrubbed later. Benny cleared his throat and began again.
“I came of age in a time of no heroes.”
The words were lost as soon as he said them. Benny was surprised that the sound was so muffled, as if the cavernous acoustics of the old church obeyed different laws of physics from ordinary spaces. Benny imagined the syllables entwining with the smoke from the censers and lifting up, up, towards the painted ceiling and beyond. If the mourners couldn’t hear them, maybe his dad could. Maybe God could. The shuffling of restless feet pulled him out of his reverie, and he blinked at the notecard in from of him. The eulogy. He had to finish-start-his father’s eulogy. He started a third time, louder even than before.
“When men were the solitary creatures of habit they’d been raised to be, as were their fathers before them.” Benny’s voice sounded strange, as if he were someone else, or if he were far away and echoing back at himself from down a long hallway. He’d never liked his own voice; he always thought he sounded nasal. Now, with the attention of the entire church attuned to him, the oddness of pitch was overwhelming. He stared at his notes, but they didn’t seem to make sense. Why had he written this? The blue letters were merely squiggles, line after line, a compendium of words that didn’t-couldn’t-capture the essence of his father, that man who’d been laid out and whose face had seemed alien somehow. Benny still couldn’t reconcile the waxen visage with that of the man he’d known, though it had certainly been his body in the casket. Perhaps the shrunken form was what was so disturbing; his father had never been small in any way in life.
He heard a cough and realized he’d stopped talking and had been gazing out the stained glass window, a scene depicting the Crucifixion in tricolor glory. Benny tugged at his collar, which was a size too small since it belonged to his brother, and focused again on his speech. “My father, discontented to be just the lonely figurehead of the family, redefined for us the meaning of a man. I don’t believe that it would be exaggeration for me to stand before you and say that he was the kind of father that any boy could call a hero. Those of you who knew him can agree. I know my brother and I have talked about how much we admired him. He became for us the man we needed and the man we remember and honor here today ...”
Benny felt Dave’s gaze on him from the first row, but he kept his eyes on his notes. Now that he’d found his voice, he kept reading without pause until the end. “... it’s with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to you now, Dad. I came of age in a time of no heroes in this world, but you made sure to be that hero for me, and for Dave. I love you. I miss you.” He stepped down from the podium.
Later, after the flag had been folded and presented with due ceremony, the rifles discharged and the bugle call had faded, Benny sat on the curb outside the cemetery. The hum of the engines that piled dirt on the casket drowned out the noise from the highway that ran just a mile to the east. Benny could feel the vibrations of the earth movers from where he sat. He kept his head straight and stared at the multitudes of angels enacting their dramatic grief in various granite poses under the weeping pines and other appropriate shrubbery.
“What was all that about?” Dave sat next to him on the curb, his longer legs making his knees jut at an awkward angle. He pulled a flask from the inside of his suit pocket and offered it.
Benny nodded his thanks and took a pull. The Scotch didn’t burn like it had when they’d been kids. He remembered sitting here like this with Dave one night a few rows over, near the McCarthy plot. He’d never tasted hard liquor before, and they’d both gotten drunk while they crouched behind the headstones, full of bravado but still startling at every sound, afraid that the cops were going to find them. He never thought they’d be here now, like this, though he guessed he should have. Benny took another slug and handed it back. “What?”
Dave tipped his head back for a drink. “That stuff about heroes. Come on, man.”
Benny shrugged. “What was I supposed to say? The truth?”
“I don’t know.” Dave sighed. “I guess not.”
The sat in silence, drinking and listening to the backhoe bury their dad.
After a moment, Dave capped his flask and rose to his feet. “Come on. I’m getting hungry. What do you say you come to my house and we order some pizza? Sound good?” He held out a hand.
Benny listened to the insulating static that swirled around him: the mechanical whirring and the chatter of a thousand voices of city strangers. The noise never seemed to stop, but he was caught outside of it. He was stationary in a moving world, wondering what to do now. No one had questioned the lie. They’d all just heard the words, said their Amens, and now he was alone at the grave of a man that no one had known. No one but him and his brother. Benny looked up into that very face, the face of the person who had saved him countless times over the years. There had been a hero there, but it wasn’t the one he’d spoken about. Not that he could, or that anyone would believe the things they’d been through. It wasn’t that kind of day. It was a day not for remembering, Benny suddenly understood, but a day of forgetting. He realized he was hungry for the first time in a long time. “Sounds good,” Benny said.
He took his brother’s hand and he stood up from the curb.
Author: Keppiehed
Word Count: 1148
Prompt: first line must begin I came of age in a time of no heroes.
A/N: Written for Musemuggers Challenge # 519, Option #4 (previous Challenge #518, submit to first line challenge)
I came of age in a time of no heroes.
The words on the card swam before his eyes. Benny blinked and tried to remember if he’d already said them aloud or if he’d just read them to himself. His palms began to sweat and the stiff rectangle of paper softened around the edges with moisture wicked from his skin. The ink-blue, not black-had begun to run on the letter h, a path that trickled in errant veins down the page. The fine lines near his little finger absorbed the stain into a random divarication, a miniature closed circuit system of biology playing out right in his palm. He knew he would have the temporary tattoo from pen ink and sweat for at least a week, no matter how hard he scrubbed later. Benny cleared his throat and began again.
“I came of age in a time of no heroes.”
The words were lost as soon as he said them. Benny was surprised that the sound was so muffled, as if the cavernous acoustics of the old church obeyed different laws of physics from ordinary spaces. Benny imagined the syllables entwining with the smoke from the censers and lifting up, up, towards the painted ceiling and beyond. If the mourners couldn’t hear them, maybe his dad could. Maybe God could. The shuffling of restless feet pulled him out of his reverie, and he blinked at the notecard in from of him. The eulogy. He had to finish-start-his father’s eulogy. He started a third time, louder even than before.
“When men were the solitary creatures of habit they’d been raised to be, as were their fathers before them.” Benny’s voice sounded strange, as if he were someone else, or if he were far away and echoing back at himself from down a long hallway. He’d never liked his own voice; he always thought he sounded nasal. Now, with the attention of the entire church attuned to him, the oddness of pitch was overwhelming. He stared at his notes, but they didn’t seem to make sense. Why had he written this? The blue letters were merely squiggles, line after line, a compendium of words that didn’t-couldn’t-capture the essence of his father, that man who’d been laid out and whose face had seemed alien somehow. Benny still couldn’t reconcile the waxen visage with that of the man he’d known, though it had certainly been his body in the casket. Perhaps the shrunken form was what was so disturbing; his father had never been small in any way in life.
He heard a cough and realized he’d stopped talking and had been gazing out the stained glass window, a scene depicting the Crucifixion in tricolor glory. Benny tugged at his collar, which was a size too small since it belonged to his brother, and focused again on his speech. “My father, discontented to be just the lonely figurehead of the family, redefined for us the meaning of a man. I don’t believe that it would be exaggeration for me to stand before you and say that he was the kind of father that any boy could call a hero. Those of you who knew him can agree. I know my brother and I have talked about how much we admired him. He became for us the man we needed and the man we remember and honor here today ...”
Benny felt Dave’s gaze on him from the first row, but he kept his eyes on his notes. Now that he’d found his voice, he kept reading without pause until the end. “... it’s with a heavy heart that I say goodbye to you now, Dad. I came of age in a time of no heroes in this world, but you made sure to be that hero for me, and for Dave. I love you. I miss you.” He stepped down from the podium.
Later, after the flag had been folded and presented with due ceremony, the rifles discharged and the bugle call had faded, Benny sat on the curb outside the cemetery. The hum of the engines that piled dirt on the casket drowned out the noise from the highway that ran just a mile to the east. Benny could feel the vibrations of the earth movers from where he sat. He kept his head straight and stared at the multitudes of angels enacting their dramatic grief in various granite poses under the weeping pines and other appropriate shrubbery.
“What was all that about?” Dave sat next to him on the curb, his longer legs making his knees jut at an awkward angle. He pulled a flask from the inside of his suit pocket and offered it.
Benny nodded his thanks and took a pull. The Scotch didn’t burn like it had when they’d been kids. He remembered sitting here like this with Dave one night a few rows over, near the McCarthy plot. He’d never tasted hard liquor before, and they’d both gotten drunk while they crouched behind the headstones, full of bravado but still startling at every sound, afraid that the cops were going to find them. He never thought they’d be here now, like this, though he guessed he should have. Benny took another slug and handed it back. “What?”
Dave tipped his head back for a drink. “That stuff about heroes. Come on, man.”
Benny shrugged. “What was I supposed to say? The truth?”
“I don’t know.” Dave sighed. “I guess not.”
The sat in silence, drinking and listening to the backhoe bury their dad.
After a moment, Dave capped his flask and rose to his feet. “Come on. I’m getting hungry. What do you say you come to my house and we order some pizza? Sound good?” He held out a hand.
Benny listened to the insulating static that swirled around him: the mechanical whirring and the chatter of a thousand voices of city strangers. The noise never seemed to stop, but he was caught outside of it. He was stationary in a moving world, wondering what to do now. No one had questioned the lie. They’d all just heard the words, said their Amens, and now he was alone at the grave of a man that no one had known. No one but him and his brother. Benny looked up into that very face, the face of the person who had saved him countless times over the years. There had been a hero there, but it wasn’t the one he’d spoken about. Not that he could, or that anyone would believe the things they’d been through. It wasn’t that kind of day. It was a day not for remembering, Benny suddenly understood, but a day of forgetting. He realized he was hungry for the first time in a long time. “Sounds good,” Benny said.
He took his brother’s hand and he stood up from the curb.