The Grateful Dead

By Rick Hartford

The smell of clay and of rotting leaves and a grave digger’s cigarette hung in the dank air in the cemetery on a cold November afternoon.

Occasionally clanks could be heard as shovels hit stone as the soil thudded down on top of a black enamel casket.

One of the diggers wiped sweat from his brow with the back of an old leather work glove and set down his shovel.

A few feet away a lone woman in black held a hand to her veil as she bent sobbing. As she turned and walked away she dropped two intertwined red roses onto the grave of Robby Rodriguez. After she left one of the grave diggers waited a minute and then retrieved the flowers. “By any other name,” he said as he cut the stem of one for his lapel and handed the other to his partner, who ate it.

Without another word they picked up their shovels and left.

It started to snow. At first a few flakes and then a swirling white madness.

All was quiet, save the sudden rustle of migrating birds which swirled up through the snowflakes to disappear in the sky.

Then it came from the grave next to Rodriguez’s:

“Hey Rodriguez, came a whisper on the wind. Then again, but louder. You awake down there? It’s your next door neighbor. Welcome to the end of the line, pal. Who was the frail? Wife? Sister? Looks like your one big fan, considering nobody else showed up to see you off, Mr. Dearly Departed. Sorry I haven’t got a grave warming present. At least you got some flowers. All I got is this Grateful Dead tee shirt.

There was a long silence.

It could have been a minute.

It could have been a billion years.

But finally:

“Frail? Who says that anymore? Frail? She was energetic enough to murder me.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it, if you’ve got the time.”

“Oh. A comedian!”

Call me Vaudeville Bill, as in, put it on my… I do my routine on the down low now.

“You’re killing me, Bill.”

“Well…”

So I’m here in this hole listening to you, like, forever? Is that my punishment?”

Well there is after midnight to look forward to. That’s when all the dead come out to play.”

“You mean I can get out of this crate?”

“That’s what ghosts do.”

“Seriously?”

“Check your watch you don’t believe me. You can go haunt that hot momma.

“I’m gonna strangle her, that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Not so fast, Rodrigues. All you can do is move the furniture around, turn the door handles and blow out the candles. And then there is the thump drag. But you gotta leave the heavy lifting to the Reaper. Remember him?”

“I still have his card here, somewhere. So Bill. What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

“Hey! That’s my line! Anyway, nothing dramatic. I just got old.”

“How old were you?”

“I was so old somebody mistook me for my mummy, Mummy, get it?”

“Enough already! I am in hell, aren’t I?”

“Death is what you make of it, Robby baby. Badda bing, Badda boom.”