Klarensbeek
by Terris Schneider


Jill and I were eating lunch in the O-Zone, like we did every lunch hour. The O-Zone was the name we coined for the level in between the first and second level of our high school, the platform that split the stairwell. It was our own little hideaway where we could avoid as much human contact as possible.

On this particular day, a day I now like to call "Weird Dead Dad Day," Jill and I were standing in separate corners after running out of conversation. The O-Zone was often an awkward place to eat lunch because there were no chairs to sit on and we were forced to stand. My legs were weary after PE class, and I considered taking a seat on the bare floor but decided against it after spotting a questionable smudge on the marble tile.

I found a comfortable position by leaning against the wall with my legs outstretched while I chewed on the bean and cheese Chimichanga I had purchased from the school store. This particular flavor of Chimichanga was my favorite; it contained all the best ingredients that would slowly murder me one day. My eating habits were atrocious—I was a nutritionist's worst nightmare. My diet revolved around eating foods containing the Three C's: Crunchy, Cheesy, Creamy. The Chimichanga was all three.

As I took another massive bite into my toxic lunch, I felt something light tickling my gums. I pulled out a long, dark hair from my mouth and tried not to throw up. Since the hair was dark, I knew it wasn't mine, and I didn't even want to imagine whose stringy hair had infiltrated my lunch. It was probably from the mane of that greasy pothead kid who handled my Chimichanga at the school store.

I placed the hair on the banister near the window and noticed my friend, Sarah, pacing back and forth outside, twirling her crimped, auburn hair around her index finger and mumbling something to herself.

I walked down the stairs and out the door. "What are you doing, weirdo?" I said to Sarah.

She was clutching Gary the Snail in her hand, one of her favorite Beanie Babies. Her collection of these miniature stuffed animals had been an obsession since first grade, and she had every type you could possibly imagine.

"Stalling," she said, picking at the raw cold sore on top of her lip.

I tried to concentrate on the words flying out of Sarah's mouth, but my gaze shifted into the window of the portable situated in front of me. Mr. Semeniuk was sitting at his desk marking papers. He was quite the distracting specimen—his appearance screamed Greek God more than high school math teacher. Sometimes I lurked outside his classroom during the lunch break and stared into his window like a crazed stalker.

I ignored my teenage horniness and snapped back to reality to focus in on Sarah. "Stalling from what?" "Finding you and telling you."

"You have something to tell me?"

She nodded and had this look on her face like she was going to spew all over my sneakers. That's when it occurred to me that something was actually wrong.

"So—my dad's dead," she said.

Gut reaction: stare at her with a blank face.

"My dad killed himself," she said again, almost like she was trying to make herself believe it.

I made some kind of indecipherable noise and my brain turned to jelly. My stomach started gurgling, and I found myself wondering if it was from the Chimichanga or from the crippling shock of devastating news.

After a few moments had passed and I had absorbed what she had just told me, my first urge was to ask her how. When someone has killed themselves, that's the first thing people want to know. There's that immediate sense of morbid curiosity. But it felt too soon to ask.

What would an expert in bereavement tell me to do at this moment? Probably any one of the following:

1) Express your concern, Terris. Say how sorry you are. 2) Offer your support; tell her that you are there for her. 3) Ask how she is feeling. Maybe give her a hug, show her some affection.


Instead of choosing any one of those viable options, I started chuckling like a maniac. You see, I have this deficit, this kind of spastic response to uncomfortable news. I'm not one of those people that explode with emotion when they hear something tragic; the wave of sadness usually comes later, like a kind of emotional hangover.

Lucky for me, Sarah wasn't offended by my giggling. In fact, my inappropriate behavior must have been contagious because Sarah started to laugh along with me. These weren't the type of laughs that resulted from hearing something truly funny; they were these uncomfortable little laughs that made us sound like serial killers.

When our creepy laughter died down, Sarah said, "The prayers are at 7 pm at Springfield Funeral Home."

"I'll be there," I stammered. "We'll be there, I mean. I'll bring my parents with me."

"Oh, good. Haven't seen them in a while."

After I had some time to let this all sink in, instead of being a total failure, I offered her Bereavement option #2. "If you need anything –"

"I know," she said.

I walked through the door back towards the O-Zone, and Jill was peering over the ledge, staring at me. "What was so funny?"

A crushing blow of guilt hit me. "You don't want to know."

---


I was in my room, getting dressed for the prayer service, and I put on my most morbid black dress but softened it with a gold belt. When someone dies, reminiscing is inevitable. Even though I hadn't seen Sarah's dad, Tim, in years, I couldn't help but think of him.

This whole thing was very odd. Tim didn't seem the depressive type. Out of all the people I knew, he was the only dad who really did stuff with his kids and their friends. He coached a few of my soccer teams, played tennis with Sarah and I at Jack Robertson Park, and whenever I slept over at Sarah's, he made us tasty banana chocolate chip pancakes in the morning. Tim was the fun dad. Fun dads don't kill themselves.

I thought back to a moment from when I was eleven and I spent another one of my Saturday afternoons at Sarah's house. Sarah, her dad, and I were sitting at the table eating macaroni and cheese with rolled-up slices of turkey. Tim asked me what kind of music I liked to listen to, and this was an opportunity for me to bring up that I was obsessed with the Eagles. I thought that was a pretty mature music choice for an eleven-year-old.

"I love the Eagles," Tim said. "Some of the best written lyrics of all time."

"I love their lyrics," I said. "They are so raw and emotional. They really cut to the core of the human condition."

I had heard someone say that on the radio the day before and figured I'd sound smart in repeating it.

"Very true," he said.

I grinned in my seat and thought I was coming off as pretty clever.

"I love the song New York Minute," he said. "Don Henley from the Eagles wrote it for one of his solo albums."

"I know," I said, shooting him a smug look.

"Do you know what it's about?"

I froze. I had a vague idea what that song was about, but I knew if I backed down, I'd look like a real dummy. "It's about a man who died," I said, "on the railway tracks."

Tim looked rather dissatisfied with my response. "I know you can dig deeper than that. Think about it. What is the song really about?"

Sarah rolled her eyes at the two of us and went downstairs to watch TV.

"I don't know," I said, as my face got hotter and started turning a shade of tomato-red.

"I'll tell you what it's about." He stood up from his wooden chair and looked like he was about to give me a very detailed explanation. Before he could, I noticed that Sarah was holding a watermelon flavored Mr. Freeze and was watching my favorite show, Captain Planet. I found myself quite envious of her at that moment.

"Actually, would you mind if I go watch TV?" I interrupted.

He brushed his coarse mustache with his fingers and his eyes glazed over as he sat back down in his seat. "Sure," he said. "Captain Planet is much more interesting than me anyways."

If I hadn't been so distracted by tasty childhood treats and environmentally conscious TV shows, Tim would have told me his analysis of the song. His analysis might have been a clue to his eventual demise, a true reflection of his mental state. Maybe he would have said that the song was about a man who is at the bitter end, who can't handle the despair and tribulations of his life. The only way he can get rid of the darkness is to step in front of that train. Maybe Tim would have said that some people just can't manage the obstacles of daily life, and that it gets to be too much sometimes. He might have told me that not everyone is cut out for living. He wasn't cut out for living.

If I had listened to him, maybe I could have seen the connection he made between the lyrics of "New York Minute" and his own life, and I could have stopped this all from happening. I could have stopped Tim from confining himself in his garage, getting into his Jeep, turning on the engine, and rolling down the windows so the poison could seep into his lungs.

Then again, that might just be naïve thinking from a girl with some kind of savior complex.

I heard a light knock on my door, and opened it. It was my tiny blonde mother, dressed in an elegant black dress paired with turquoise earrings.

"Your dad parked the car in the driveway," she said. "Are you ready to go?"

We walked to the car together and we were mostly quiet on the ride over. I thought about cracking a few jokes to lighten the mood but didn't think my parents would appreciate it.

We arrived at Springfield Funeral Home fifteen minutes before the prayer service started and Sarah spotted me right away. "Get me out of here," she whispered in my ear.

"That's probably not a wise idea."

"Well at least sit with me."

We sat down and she started filling me in with what had been happening with her family. Teenagers can be gossipy even at morbid events.

"My dad's family is blaming my mom for this," she said, looking over her shoulder. "They think the divorce is what made him do it."

"What a bunch of idiots," I said. "You can't blame one person for something like this."

"Except my dad," she said. "It's his own fault."

I shifted around on the church bench and fiddled with my braided gold belt. "I've heard what some people been saying," Sarah continued. "They think that my dad was a disturbed, selfish psychopath and is going to rot in hell. Maybe they're right."

I wanted to say that those people were wrong about her dad, and they were just ignorant and didn't understand mental illness, but I couldn't find the words. All I knew was that the subject needed to be changed immediately.

"Hey," I said, "I want to see what they did with your dad's pamphlet."

I reached in front of me and grabbed the funeral pamphlet. In my head, I imagined what picture they picked out for him and what poem they chose to define his entire existence. The picture would be him doing something carefree like him cruising in a boat on Lake Okanagan, sporting his Ray Ban sunglasses that he kept from the eighties. The poem would be something heartfelt, like John Keats. A poem by Sylvia Plath would be out of the question.

Instead, the pamphlet I had picked up murdered all my expectations and fantasies. The man on the cover wasn't Tim, but an old man named Arthur Klarensbeek. He had a corny look on his face and his ears stuck out like Dumbo's.

"Ohhh—this isn't it," I said.

Before I put the pamphlet back and grabbed the proper one, Sarah's eyes caught a glimpse of it. She cupped her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing too hard.

"Klarensbeek," she said, chuckling softly through her fingers. "What a ridiculous name."

Her words at the time sounded like the funniest joke I had ever heard. "Klarensbeek," I said back, now covering my own mouth to stop me from making a sound. "And look at his stupid face."

"He looks like Trumpet."

She was right. Klarensbeek was a replica of her elephant Beanie baby.

Sarah choked into her hand and her stomach vibrated. Right then, the service began and the pallbearers carried Tim's coffin to the front. I looked straight ahead without turning towards Sarah's direction. I knew if at any point throughout the service if I caught her eye that I would burst out laughing.

As the service progressed, everything seemed funny. The way the priest styled his hair looked ridiculous; it was sticking up like he had just rolled out of bed and he looked like a mad scientist. I tried to block this thought from my mind but the laughter was building up in my solar plexus, waiting to be released.

At the end of the service, the priest asked if anyone was interested in seeing Tim's body, and if so, they should come forward for the open casket. Sarah yanked my arm because neither of us could sit there for another minute and we bolted out of the funeral home. We dove towards the first patch of grass we saw and rolled on the ground, laughing like deranged mental patients.

"I could barely hold it in," Sarah said.

"I know," I said. "I almost lost it so many times."

We laughed so hard that tears streamed down our faces. I clutched my cramping stomach and kept rolling around on my side. When I turned right side up, I noticed my mother, father, and Sarah's mother hunched over us from above.

"What are you doing?" my mom asked.

We were laughing too hard to formulate a response.

"We thought you left so suddenly because you were upset!" my dad shrieked.

"You don't understand," I said, trying to stifle my laughing fit. "The funniest thing happened."

Sarah and I tried to explain the joke at the same time, but it just sounded like a bunch of gibberish.

"Klarensbeek! K-L-A-R-E-N-S-B-E-E-K!" we both said, trying to make them understand.

They didn't understand.

Our laughing continued at full force and their blank stares remained stamped on their faces.

"Terris, we need to go," said my dad, horrified and ashamed. He hoisted me up from the ground and I walked over with my parents to our car. As I walked away, I peered behind me and saw Sarah's mother shaking her head, unsure of what to say.

We got in the car, and my parents were trying to find the right words to express to their obviously disturbed teenaged daughter. Finally, the only words my father could muster were, "You're not sitting with Sarah at the funeral tomorrow."



Terris Schneider is currently an English Literature student at the University of British Columbia. She has written articles for the Discorder, a music magazine from CiTR 101.9 fm. After graduation, Terris plans on applying for a Master's degree in either Journalism or Creative Writing.

| home |
Layout created by Ashley Crosby | Email the webmaster