After I heard Carolyn’s brother died I figured I should buy her some flowers. I mean, if my brother got high and fell in front of a train I’d want some flowers. Luckily there was a florist right down the street from me. It didn’t have to be anything fancy. Carolyn was just a coworker and not someone I’d consider a close friend. Plus, she wasn’t even remotely pretty. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

At the shop I asked the florist how much for a bouquet of white lilies.

“They’re seventy-five dollars,” she said.

“Do you have anything cheaper?” I said.

“We have these yellow daisies for thirty,” she said.

“Cheaper,” I said.

“I have this succulent for ten,” she said.

“That works,” I said.

Maybe a cactus wasn’t the best plant for this occasion. If I were Carolyn I wouldn’t make a fuss. She should’ve felt blessed she was getting anything at all. It’s not like she ever did anything for me. So I generously drove over to her house and rang the bell. She opened the door and looked half-dead herself. Apparently she was too busy grieving to put on some eye-makeup or shave the peach fuzz above her lips. I gave her the cactus, along with my sincerest condolences. She held it in her hands like she’d never see one before. Then she said “thanks” without much pep and shut the door. I stood there expecting her to come back, but she never did. I peeked through the window and saw her watching TV on the couch with the cactus on the floor. This wasn’t the reaction I wanted. I thought she would cry more and invite me in, maybe show me some childhood pictures of Derek before he started getting face tattoos. Instead she just treated me like I was trying to sell her magazines or something. Was this really someone who had suffered a terrible loss? It made me feel unappreciated.

The next day Carolyn didn’t show up for work, which meant I had to run the cafe all by myself. I thought it was inconsiderate that she didn’t even try to get her shift covered. That evening I went back to her apartment to let her know that her negativity was affecting me. Unfortunately only her bald communist roommate Nadine was there. God, I despised Nadine. Once she came into the cafe to chat with Carolyn and gave me grief because I didn’t know who Chairman Mao was. I asked where Carolyn was.

“She’s back home for her brother’s funeral,” she said.

“Where’s that?” I said.

“Why do you want to know?” she said.

“I want to show my support,” I said. A lie.

“Then go ask Carolyn,” said Nadine. After that she slammed the door on me.

The drive home was furious, so I stopped for some hard seltzers. Twice this week people have closed doors on me. It’s one of my triggers, along with being told that I display an unhealthy range of emotions. While stewing over my third White Claw I started thinking: Maybe she made up the whole thing? We all knew that Carolyn was a slacker who would do anything to miss work. Once she called out because her dog allegedly died. I never heard her mention having a dog before, and dog people don’t shut the fuck up about them. To make sure, I went to the cafe and found her mother’s phone number in the emergency contacts.

“Hello,” I said. “I was wondering if I could speak to Derek.”

“Who is this?” said Carolyn’s mother.

“I’m an old classmate,” I said. “I wanted to see if he still had my graphic calculator.”

There was a pause. “I’m afraid Derek isn’t with us anymore,” she said.

“What happened?” I said.

“There was an accident,” she said. She started sniffling, which was a nice touch.

“Did it involve a train?” I said.

“How did you know?” she said.

“Tell me,” I said. “If I showed up to the morgue tomorrow would I find him in one piece, sliced in two, or completely strewn to bits like shawarma?”

“What?” she said.

“What about Carolyn?” I said. “Would you say she’s trustworthy?”

“What does my daughter have to do with any of this?” she said. “Who are you?”

“Not a fool,” I said. Then I hung up.

That night I spent four hours combing through Carolyn’s social media accounts. We’d worked together for two years, and I didn’t even know her last name or where she went to high school. After some sleuthing, I found pictures of her from a decade ago at her senior prom. She had dyed black hair and those bangs you saw on teens who cut themselves. At least her face was less puffy. Arms still big, though. She was with some guy who looked like Frodo Baggins in a tuxedo. Boyfriend? Actually it was Derek before the drugs. Figured. Who else would go with her? Always complaining about her endometriosis? Now I started to feel bad for Derek. As a youth he looked rosy and fun. It seemed like they did everything together: riding bikes, making gingerbread houses, eating at Waffle House. I decided to do something really thoughtful for Carolyn. Forget flowers; I would go to the funeral and be there for her.

 

The next day I called out of work and drove nine hours to Derek’s funeral in Naperville. The houses looked just like the classic ones in movies when you think of middle America: porch swings. Picket fences. Loud cicadas. White people mowing their own lawns. I found the one funeral home in the area pretty easily. I walked into this big room filled with people sitting on fold out chairs. I was shocked by how many warm bodies were there. Either Derek was actually really popular, or they were all crisis actors. At the front was Derek in an open casket. Above it was a wreath of white lilies circling a large portrait of him from high school. He looked like a sweet kid before all the meth. Now inside the casket was something like a cross between Sid Vicious and Gollum. I was about to poke him to see if he would wake up when a hand tapped my shoulder. It was Carolyn.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I figured you could use a friend right now,” I said.

“This is just for close family,” she said.

“I could be a pallbearer,” I said. “I’m strong enough. You’ve seen me lifting kegs at work.”

Carolyn’s mother came over. She was much sexier than her daughter despite being in her sixties.

“Who is this?” she said.

“I’m part of your daughter’s support group,” I said.

“We’re coworkers,” said Carolyn. “And he was about to leave.”

“Oh come on,” I said. “At least let me stay for the eulogy.”

“Wait,” said Carolyn’s mother. “I recognize that voice. You’re the deranged person who called me last night!”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I only know how to text.”

“Please leave before I call the police,” said her mother.

“Did Carolyn tell you about the cactus?” I said.

“Are you serious?” said Carolyn.

“Of course not,” I said. “She probably threw it out.”

“Greg!” yelled Carolyn’s mother.

Carolyn’s father started walking towards me from across the room. He was a retired marine with a shaved head and a hundred pounds on me. His nostrils flared like an angry bull. I decided it was time to go.

I waited in my car across from the funeral home until the burial. Clearly they were trying to keep me away from the body, otherwise I could prove it was a fake. Why would they do that? I don’t know. White suburban families from the Midwest are strange. Maybe they just love attention like Carolyn.

After an hour the pastor finally gave Derek’s last rites above his gravestone. I kept my head down while everyone shook hands, hugged, cried, then got in their cars to go eat at Lazy Dog or whatever. To my surprise, I learned that they actually take the casket out of the ground again and back into a hearse. Strange. So I followed the hearse to the funeral home where they loaded the casket through the back door. Luckily it wasn’t locked, so I walked right in. Next thing I knew I was in a room where they cremate the bodies. It was empty except for a gigantic industrial-sized oven with a big clunky door like in a bank vault. And right next to it was Derek’s casket. Perfect. I would expose this for the sham that it was. Unfortunately a worker in scrubs barged in and saw me.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

“I think I dropped my phone in the casket,” I said.

“Get out!” he said.

While he started yelling for security, I leaped over and popped the lid. There was Derek lying in a suit. I lifted his torso and found a mannequin body inside. There it was: the smoking barrel. It was a fake body all along. A pretty realistic one, too. I was about to take a photo with my phone when his head popped off and hit the floor, bursting like a watermelon and getting some sort of chemical all over my shoes.

“Huh,” I said.

I was dragged out and thrown into the back of a police van. They took me to the station and held me over the weekend. I was put in a cell with a guy who bashed a meter maid’s nose in when they tried to give him a citation. It was freezing and they only fed me some leftover McDonald’s fries. They do give you a phone call like in the movies, but I couldn’t remember any numbers off the top of my head. It’s not like I had anyone to call anyway. I was always a lone wolf. Also if my parents found out about this they might not send me any birthday money.

On Monday a police officer finally let me out.

“Here,” he said, handing me some forms.

“What are these?” I said.

“This is your court date,” he said. “The family is pressing charges.”

“For what?” I said.

“You are being charged with harassment and desecrating the body of their deceased son,” he said.

“But his body wasn’t real!” I said.

“His head was,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “Well let me talk to them.”

“You are not to contact the family in any shape or form,” he said.

The long ride home was extremely somber. Perhaps I should’ve mentioned my trust issues to Carolyn. I’ve always felt like the rest of the world is having a party and didn’t invite me. Not that I would go, but it’s nice to be considered. And yet, I shouldn’t apologize for caring. When I get home I would buy her family a bouquet of fresh flowers. Something in the fifty-dollar range. And I would include a nice haiku. I would leave that to the florist. And I would offer to come over occasionally and do some light chores, like spruce up Derek’s gravestone. And Carolyn’s parents would start to see me as the son they never had, one who could actually control his substance use. And maybe after getting to know Carolyn more outside of work, we could build an actual rapport and develop something resembling a romance. Then on Christmas morning we would all sit around the fire, surrounded by presents, and laugh about the time when they thought I was just some weirdo coworker who nobody appreciated.