In Memoriam

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"What?" Calvin snipped, tossing a chip at Blake.

"Don't you know how to play Tetris?" Blake snapped, waving a hand at his big screen TV. "I mean, c'mon, you couldn't even play a racing game. Are there ANY games you can play, with any level of skill?"

"Well, there's Go Fish. But, I think we're both a little old for that."

The two boys sat on the floor, reflecting on what brought them here. Maggie Darling, the girl they fought over in high school, had died in a car accident on Monday; it was Saturday now. "Maggie May", they'd called her, knowing full-well that she hated Rod Stewart. Both boys cringed a little at their separate recollections of that memory. They hadn't seen each other in 3 years, since graduation. Sure, there had been chats over MSN, but really, neither committed to prolonging their friendship past their forced mingling. Calvin had gone on to college to take sciences, and math. Blake had turned in to a club-hopping womanizer.

Maggie had remained a pleasant, chesty girl, even after high school. She had been joyriding with her boyfriend, a fella named Chuck. Chuck was paralyzed now; Blake had been referring to him as "Chuck Steak" for a few days now. The funeral had been on Wednesday; that's when the boys ran in to each other, and made plans to chum on Saturday. So far, so bad. Things were awkward and tense, Maggie aside. The car the lovers had nabbed plowed in to a minivan, head-on. Maggie didn't have a prayer, the poor dope hadn't put her seatbelt on – out the window she went. That wasn't actually what killed her. It was the pickup that mowed her down, after she tried to crawl from the scene. All this happened at about 3 AM, down Smith St. People came out of their wee little homes to take a gander or three. They were rewarded with the twisted sight of Maggie's mangled body, still mewling for help. She died about 10 minutes before the ambulance made it to the scene. Chuck Steak was pinned in the vehicle by his steering wheel, so he was a little too preoccupied to try out that First Aid he'd been so adamant to be trained in.

Maggie. Both boys' minds reeled at the idea of trying to grapple the oncoming grief. They were both too shocked to really let the feelings in yet. Maggie May, Maggie the mooch. Maggie, in a body bag; Maggie, 6 feet under. Maggie no more.

The phone rang. Blake jumped up to hunt for a phone. Calvin felt a little relieved that he didn't have to come up with conversational material for a little while. He started brainstorming for appropriate things to cover, news and high school already thoroughly beaten to death with their guarded chats. Calvin listened half-heartedly to Blake, obviously dealing with some chick or another that he fuck-n-chucked.

Blake came back in to the room. "It was a crank call," he offered, lamely. He stood, instead of sitting down. The two locked eyes, passing a look of desperate boredom between them.

"Should we—"

"Do you really want to talk about Maggie?" Blake interrupted. "Do you really wanna open that up?"

Calvin looked away. "If not now, then.. when?" He waved a hand at Blake, without looking up. "I know. You're all tough and manly now; you don't want to talk about feelings. Obviously, it's bothering both of us; neither of us have anyone else to turn to, to hash it out."

Blake sat down on the couch, behind Calvin. He put a finger upon his soul patch, giving it a thoughtful poke. He twisted the hairs between his thumb and index, glowering. "I can't even fucking talk to a therapist about this shit."

"What do we start with? The day at the beach?" Calvin contorted to look back at Blake. "Do we start with the day that she made out with us both? Maybe, the day she told us to touch her panties, before her mom came home?"

They mused. Calvin shifted to sit facing Blake. They kept their heads down, both lost in white-knuckled memories. Calvin thought of Maggie, on the beach, naked. They had been preteens. Calvin had been too shy of his baby fat to take off his clothes, so Blake had been the one to cavort down the strip of sand after little Maggie. Calvin has sat on a rock, watching them; he seethed then with a keening jealousy that he'd only recently placed. Blake's mind wandered between a night when Maggie and him had had her basement all to themselves; nothing had happened, out of the ordinary. It had been the first, and only time that he'd seen her budding breasts; she was 16 then. He recalled the deadpan way she described to him what her stepfather did to her.

The boys looked up at each other, a shallow look of regret shadowing their wan smiles.

"She was—"

"A slut. No doubt about it."

"I—"

"No; you know what? Fuck it. Get the fuck out of here. I don't want to think about this bullshit."

Calvin's little truck zipped away, leaving Blake with his black thoughts. "I don't want to remember her at all: who she was, what she was like? No, thank you. I want to forget…"

"With forgetting, comes the illusion of calm; when the memory returns, we are all but at the mercy of our own deep-seated regrets. It is up to you to forgive—" the therapist would say, next week.

"Fuck it," Blake said, retreating from the window. He headed to the phone.