At the Speed Queen

Many years ago, I received news that my friend Greg had passed away unexpectedly. We’d worked at the same restaurant and waited tables together for several months, so the foundation of the friendship was proximity, circumstance, and convenience. Despite the superficial nature of our social connection, Greg was warm and witty, and I’d enjoyed his company on the days we’d been scheduled to work together.                   

It was rumored that he had OD’d.

I didn’t need to know the details.

He’d been my friend, and now he was gone. 

Two days after he passed away and two days before the funeral, I had a dream.

Greg and I were having a conversation, but I was distracted by the environment that surrounded us, or rather the lack of environment. I couldn’t quite get my bearings, and I had the oddest feeling of suspended animation, like the canned fruit in Jell-o or the fight scene in The Matrix when everything just stops mid-air while the camera pans around the scene. Except here, there was no scene. There was nothingness, but I was warm and safe and somehow confident that I wouldn’t fall.

Listen to me. Tell Michelle and Erin it’s okay. Are you listening? Tell them I understand. Will you tell them?

I woke up, more puzzled than afraid, and wondered if it was a dream.

The day of the funeral was warm and the sun was too bright, which has always bothered me. Rainy days seem more compassionate—there’s an appropriate gloom when even the weather cries for the loss of a loved one.

Sunny days seem to flaunt their betrayal, and I always think How dare the world continue as if nothing is wrong and nothing has changed? Can’t you see we’re hurting here?

I looked for Michelle and Erin at the funeral, but I didn’t see them. I knew them—not very well—but enough to recognize them. Should I even tell them about the dream?

There were a lot of people there, and the sorrow was suffocating. My soul couldn’t breathe. Becoming more and more convinced that I, too, was about to die, I bolted for the exit precisely one half-second after the minister’s closing prayer.

If there was a chance to tell them, I’d missed it. I was not going to seek them out to tell them about the unusual dream now. Even I knew that would be weird.

About a month later, I saw Michelle at the Speed Queen. The run-down little laundromat was a neighborhood favorite, though I’m still not sure why.

“Did you hear about Greg?” she asked solemnly.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I know how close you were,” I told her. Cautiously, I added, “I looked for you at the funeral.”

“We weren’t there." She paused, and her eyes filled. "We were on a cruise—Erin and I—for graduation. We found out when we came home, and he was gone, and we’d missed him. We missed everything. I can’t believe. I just. I still…”

Except for the fact that things like this were never supposed to happen in real life, everything was starting to make sense.

“About that,” I took a deep breath. “Greg says it’s okay and that he understands.”

There is no other way to say this: her normally almond-shaped Japanese eyes widened to acorn proportions.

Not bothering to apologize for sounding crazy, I explained the whole thing.

She sobbed.

She sighed.

She hugged me and thanked me, and then she excused herself to go find Erin and tell her the good news.

It was Greg who had first introduced me to Francis Ford Coppola’s Claret. Doesn’t it seem odd that I’d spend $15 on a bottle of wine when I was 22 when now, at age 34, $4 is just too much? Also, doesn’t it seem unfortunate that the funeral home is adjacent to the Speed Queen?