Table Of ContentCopyright © 2013 by Mansu Edwards
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The Graduate Funeral: Scribed by Mazekou Allenton
“Lif, let me get a gyro, my dude,” said Cefrid.
“No problem, Boss,” said Alif, the Palestinian street vendor.
He stirred the lamb with peppers and onions on the grill with skill and love. The wind blew
the grill smoke onto the street. People walking by fanned the smoke from their faces.
Couples held hands. Groups of people ate at outdoor tables with dogs at their sides.
Cefrid grabbed a bottle of water from the glass-front refrigerated cabinet underneath the
cart.
“Hot sauce, Boss?” asked Alif.
Yeah, and let me get some white sauce, too, please,” said Cefrid.
Alif squeezed a generous squirt of hot sauce onto the lamb from a red bottle. He picked up
the yogurt sauce and stopped with the bottle held in midair.
“Yeah, yeah, Lif, I need that right there. I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s what this gyro
needs. Come on.”
Alif added some tzatziki to the gyro, nodding.
“Wish we had this in East New York, Bro. A brotha’ gets tired of eating heroes on a late
night”, Max said.
“Yo, my dude you want one?” Cefrid asked, with an animated expression. “I gotch you.
Lif, let me get another. Put all that on my credit card. You take Visa or Mastercard?”
He pulled a black leather wallet out of his back pocket and opened it. Five credit cards were
in the front pocket of the wallet and the billfold bulged with twenties and fifties.
“Cash only, Boss,” Alif insisted.
“You have to get those mini cell-phone swipers for ya cell, so you can make that money. Not
everybody carries cash”, Cefrid pointed out, laughing.
“Let me get a li’l yogurt sauce, no hot sauce,” Max interjected.
“Grab something to drink, too, my dude,” said Cefrid.
Max grabbed a canned fruit punch from the bin.
Cefrid gave Alif a twenty.
“What club you going to?” asked Alif.
“Champagne Red, on 34th and Lex,” Max answered.
(((((
As Max took his gyro from Alif, three heart-stoppingly beautiful ladies hopped out of a cab
on the far side of the street, less than a block away. They were tall, had on light makeup and dressed
with understated elegance. At the sight of them, homeless guys on the street yelled suggestive
remarks. A man left his friends and an engaging conversation about sports, to try talking to the
ladies.
They ignored him. As beautiful ladies, they could do that.
They walked into the Veggie Palace on the corner of 34th and Madison.
“Let’s see what they’re about,” Cefrid said, nudging Max with his elbow, never taking his
eyes off the ladies’ long legs.
Max looked at his watch.
“There’s more of that in the club, Cef. We’re wasting time,” Max said.
“Hey, don’t let the bouncers stamp your hand, dude. I heard something on NPR about a
disease,” said Alif.
“Yeah, yeah. Peace, Lif.” Cefrid gave Alif a fist bump and walked with Max across the street
to Veggie Palace.
The two men went inside, where long lines of people were waiting for their orders, receipts
clutched in their hands. Electronic music thumped in the background. Surveillance cameras
recorded the happenings inside the restaurant. Some people sat on leather stools and looked through
the rectangular glass front window at pedestrians on the street as they ate and talked in close-knit
groups. Three ladies were talking while watching a music video on a TV monitor across from the
cash register all holding separate receipts.
“Excuse me ladies,” Cefrid smoothly asked the pretty girls he’d followed in. “What do you
recommend?”
“We’ll, we can’t recommend anything. This is our first time here. We’re from Jersey,”
responded Cassia, the tallest.
“I can recommend one thing―that ya’ll come with us to Champagne Red,” said Cefrid.
“Who’s performing?” asked Maia, a tiny wide-eyed beauty with a French twist in her hair.
“We gonna’ be performing with ya’ll, on the dancefloor,” explained Cefrid.
On the TV in the background, there was a news bulletin about two people dying from a
disease called Hendexit at a Staten Island nightclub, a poultry disease transmitted by nightclub
stamps.
Max pointed to the screen.
“Are you tellin’ me someone took a hen to a nightclub? And the bouncers decided they had
to stamp it, as though it was gonna’ sneak back in without their noticing?”
$)(
He pulled out his phone and started looking up Hendexit, a furrow forming on his brow.
“Isolated incident. We’re in the city,” said Cefrid nodding toward the TV screen.
“Ayo, Drew just texted me. He said there’s an open bar at The Spot until 12:00 A.M.
It’s 11:30 now,” said Max with a note of urgency.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. It mentioned that when I RSVPed. Ya’ll ready, ladies?” said Cefrid.
“I don’t know about this―we’re supposed to be going to the movies with our friends,”
responded Karima, the youngest-looking of the girls, as she flashed glances at her two friends.
#2!, #3!, #4!, yelled a woman from behind the counter.
“That’s us, girls,” Cassia pointed out.
The three of them picked up their food, eyeing Cefrid and Max.
“Let’s go, ladies,” Cefrid said, extending his elbows.
Cassia and Karima relaxed at the gesture, and linked their arms through Cefrid’s.
“How far we have to walk?” asked Karima.
“Just to 34th and Lex,” said Max with a shrug.
“I can’t believe this dude is bringing sand to the beach,” he muttered quietly to himself.
Karima pulled out her phone and started punching out a text.
Maia, walking besides Max, picked up her own phone.
It read, I’m texting Martin and his boys to meet us @ Champagne Red, just in case these guys are wack.
When they arrived at the Red, the bouncers used flashlights to check IDs on the line. The
queue of tastefully dressed people moved slowly, slowly toward the club entrance. Cefrid, Max and
the three girls reached the front of the line, where a woman with a clipboard asked them for their
names.
Cefrid was ready for her.
“Cefrid and Max for Exquisite Taste Management. We want to partner with ya’ll in having a
model-search networking mixer on Fridays for people in the entertainment industry. I don’t have
any business cards, but who can I speak to in regards to this matter?”
“You can speak to Joe, inside,” the woman responded.
The five of them walked in. A bouncer stamped Cefrid’s hand, and then the ladies’.
“No, I get an allergic reaction to stamp ink,” Max said to the bouncer, refusing to hold out
his hand.
“Ayo, Bryce― you got a sharpie?” the bouncer yelled to a colleague standing near the bar.
Cefrid looked back at Max with a smirk.
(((((((
“C’mon man, stop acting like a li’l girl. I’ll take you to the hospital, Maxana. This guy, man,”
he said to the bouncer, who echoed the smirk before stamping Max’s hand.
Max shook his hand for a moment as though that would throw off all the germs, and then
headed into the club with his friends.
As the evening progressed, Cefrid ended up at the VIP table with the three ladies. Half-
empty bottles of cranberry juice, orange juice and vodka stood in front of them. Cassia was grinding
on Cefrid with a glass in her hand.
Max was dancing with Karima near the table, his hand-stamping trauma all but forgotten.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. She looked at it, and it read, “We’re on the line outside.”
Martin.
“Damn,” said Max. “My tongue hurts, and my toes are throbbing.”
He took Karima’s glass and submerged his tongue in alcohol and ice. His hand slipped off
her waist and landed on his pelvic region. He fell backwards. His heart beat rapidly, and then
stopped. He lay still on the ground, while the dancers slowed to a halt around him as they slowly
noticed his fall.
Cefrid began to show identical symptoms. He shrieked, and his head dropped onto Cassia’s
shoulder. She screamed, and then reached for her drink, grabbing at the ice before falling into a
ragged heap under the VIP table.
All around them fellow clubgoers died, gasping.
Martin had had a narrow escape.
^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*
Max sat outside David and Goliath’s Heavenly Dry Cleaners attaching white wings to his
white robes. On the walls were pages of lyrics for hymns and the mimeographed copies of the Ten
Commandments stapled alongside posters of Moses and Samson.
“I hear your boy is stepping through the Pearly Gates this afternoon,” said the owner,
Hernandez.
“Yeah, John The Baptist told me Ced is going through the registration process,” Max
replied.
“It’s a blessing that your brother is graduating to this level,” said Hernandez.
Customers came into the cleaner’s and handed their tickets to Max. He gave them robes,
wings and graduation caps.
ю
“I love these ceremonies for the newcomers,” Hernandez said with a faraway look in his eyes. “I
remember mine, 10,000 years ago. At first I thought when you died you just went to heaven and…
that’s it. Instead, well, you have a ceremony, a luncheon, brunch with Peter, and then there’s a
graduation for everyone who made it past trials and tribulations and accepted Jesus Christ as Lord
and Savior.
“There’s so much pain, suffering and frustration on Earth. You’re running around trying to
make a living and stressing yourself out to be accepted by a society that raises its expectations every
month to keep you under control.” Hernandez shook his head carefully, so as not to loosen his
halo.
“I died too early, Dez. I should still be on Earth,” said Max, filing away the customers’
tickets. “I didn’t travel, or make a million dollars, or open up a franchise. Damn, man, I’m here all
because of Hendexit. Well, Hendexit and Cefrid.
!
