Baggage

by Roy Isen

 
 
 

I was awake in bed long past midnight when a foul odor invaded the room. It was the stench of perfume and rouge that accompanied scoldings when I was a child. From a shadowy corner floated Mildred, my late mother. I heard an echoey bark that sounded like, “Jeffrey, what are you doing.”

            I smacked down the laptop cover. “Mom? Is that you?”

            “Who else would it be?”

             I whimpered, “What do you want?”

            She flew closer and said, “Listen to me. It turns out that you can take it with you. And I need you to bring me something.”

             I recoiled as Mildred hovered at the edge of my bed.

            “Pay attention,” she snapped, “I need that dress I wore at your bar mitzvah.”

            “Why?”

             “Your father and I are going to a dinner dance, and I want to look nice.”

            “Does that matter after you die?”

            My mother huffed and said, “It does to me.”

            Apparently, she didn’t know I got rid of her junk right after the funeral. And all this time I thought she was looking down at me, watching everything I did, no matter how private.

            “How the hell am I supposed bring it to you?” I said.

            She swooped in front of my face and bellowed, “You have to die.”

            I pulled the covers over my eyes and screamed, “No!”

            She yanked the blanket away and said, “It’s easy. Just put the dress in the coffin with you. Make arrangements with the funeral director.”

            “They do that?”

            “Howie Berman did it for his mother.”

            Howie had lived between a black cloud and an Indian burial ground. His parents were crushed to death by manatees when their kayaks tipped over. He was electrocuted by an ATM when he didn’t accept the additional fee.

            I said, “But I want to live a long life. Can you wait?”

            My mother whispered, “Time has no meaning here.”

            “Oh my god…,” I said, “Speaking of which…have you met…?”

            Mildred yapped, “No. Just do what I say for a change. I’m not asking a lot.”

            She receded into the closet. I heard a cough and “Clean this up already.”

            I turned on all the lights and called my fiancé, Sheryl, who debunked the phenomenon.

            “That medical marijuana is doing wonders for you,” she said.

            I vowed, “I’m scared straight” and flushed the weed down the toilet.

            Sheryl and I got married and there were no more hallucinations until five years later when Mildred materialized to me on a gas pump TV.

            “Where were you?” she said, “The dinner was yesterday. I looked like a mess.”

            I huddled around the screen and pleaded, “I’m sorry. But what’s the rush? Didn’t you say time has no meaning where you are?”

            Silence.

            “Did I tell you to ignore me?”

            “No.”

            “Just do what I ask for a change.”

            “Do you still want the dress?”

            “Yes. I told you the dinner is tomorrow night.”

            “But you just said I was too late.”

            “Don’t you listen? Time has no meaning here.”

            “Where’s dad?”

            “Trying to canoodle with Jayne Mansfield. We’re infinite souls so he figures he’s got a shot at some point. He wants his bowling ball, too.”

            “That’s so much stuff.”

            “Stop whining. Just bring those things.”

            “I will. I promise,” I said just to get rid of her. The screen went blank but as I drove home my mother reappeared on the GPS.

            “What now?”

            “Don’t just ‘yes’ me like always. I don’t appreciate it,” Mildred said before she morphed into a street map. I was so annoyed that I decided to go through with it, if only to stop her nagging.

            A dark blue Brunswick was easy enough to find on ebay. It may not have been the right size, but my father died a long time ago and wouldn’t know the difference.

            When it arrived, Sheryl said, “Taking up bowling, Jeff? Why get a used ball?”

            “Nostalgia?” I said, “My father had one like it.”

            I searched the bin of family photos. There I was at my Bar Mitzvah, in glasses, braces, and plaid jacket, standing proudly between my father’s checked suit and Mildred in that blue dress.

            “Now what are you doing?” said Sheryl.

            “Just looking at old photos.”

            “Why?”

            “Nostalgia?” I said.

            Sheryl muttered a leery, “Oooh-kaay,” and backed out of the room.

            I spent hours online searching for vintage women’s clothes and combed through moldy dresses at garage sales. Finally, at a thrift store, an old lady directed me to Bonnie Bravo’s clothing shop which, she said, was popular with men undergoing a transition.

            “Whoa, honey! No one wears that anymore,” said tall, broad-shouldered Bonnie when I pointed to the dress in the bar mitzvah photo.

            “It’s for a special occasion,” I said.

            “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Be strong. But wouldn’t you like something more contemporary?”

            “It’s for my mother.”

            “I’ve heard that before, dear,” she vise-gripped my hand, “Be proud of what you are.”

            Bonnie shouted, “Esther, we need you!”

            Out of the back room shuffled a shriveled old man in a tattered dress.

            He looked at the picture and rasped through a dusty boa, “I think I have it.”

            Bonnie announced, “Honey, you’ll need a bra, girdle, garter belt, and silk stockings to make it work with your shape.”

            “Fine. I’ll take it all. My mother will appreciate it.”

            “I’ve heard that one, too.”

            “And matching heels,” Esther creaked.

            The funeral director at Dignity Memorial Services said, “That’s weird, another guy had the same request.  Anyway, you can put anything you want in the coffin. The first item is free, but I have to charge you for the second and third carry-on.”

            “The bowling ball and my extra clothes could be in a bag, right?” I said, “And I could be laid out in the girdle and dress, and not be charged extra.”

            “It’s your legacy.”

            At home, I walked around in the smelly garb to make sure there wouldn’t be last minute fitting problems at the funeral home. Everything felt great. The dress might be tight for my mother, but she lost weight since she died.

            “Sheryl, can you give me a hand?” I yelled.

            “Jeffrey, what’s wrong with you?” she stopped at the door and cried.

            “Unzip me and tighten the bra.”

            “No,” she yelled. “You should have outed yourself before we got married. This is not what I want.  I’m leaving you.”

            I squirmed to reach the back zipper.

            Sheryl, always the alarmist, fled the condo and our marriage.

            Alone, covered in potato chips and beer, I did nothing but watch TV. A few weeks later, Mildred flew out of a Cialis commercial and glided across the garbage-strewn floor.

            “She left me,” I said.

            “I’m not surprised. I never liked her.”

            “Thanks, Mom.”

            Heart disease put me in the ICU and then the hospice, where Sheryl sobbed about my burial ensemble.

            I didn’t float through a tunnel towards a bright light, which was disappointing. Instead, I found myself, in the dress and heels, at a security checkpoint. The bag with the bowling ball and my clothes rolled through the scanner.

            When the garters set off the alarm the officers laughed and took selfies as they waved the wand around my waist. I wobbled down a gangway and emerged onto a vast plain of perfectly cut grass. My parents emerged from a white mansion on a hill.

            “Why?” asked my mother.

            “I saved money by wearing it.”

            “That was smart,” said my father. I handed him the bowling ball. “This doesn’t feel like mine. But it’s been an eternity since I used it, even though that has no meaning here.”

            Mildred pinched my cheek and said, “For once you’re on time.”

            Howie Berman appeared, cuddled by Jayne Mansfield.  He examined my outfit.

            “Dude,” he said, “I had my suspicions.”

            I tottered up the hill to the mansion where I materialized to Sheryl and demanded my laptop.

            She sprang upright in bed, and said “Why do you need it there?”

            Before dissolving, I said, “Don’t be difficult. Just do this one thing.” I changed into my favorite cargo shorts and t-shirt and wondered, “what’s taking her so long?” 

 

 

Roy Isen's writing has been published in Flash Fiction, Gravel (defunct), Slackjaw and performed live at the Rhythm and Verse Salon in Philadelphia. He is a participant in The Greater Philadelphia Wordshop Studio and as a volunteer teaches prison inmates to make better life decisions.