Sunday Scribblings

This weeks word was Invitation

It was 2:47 p.m. on a Saturday when it arrived. It was between a J. Crew catalog and a jury summons.

* * * *

The envelope was light blue, bordered by multi-colored, hand drawn surfboards; my name and address was written in orange puff paint.

* * * *

He joked once about doing something such as this, but I never thought he would follow through with it.

* * * *

Two things were contained within.

* * * *

He was thirty-three; at various points throughout his life he had been a professional student, bartender/waiter, comic, international playboy, pubic health worker, client service representative, and attorney; no stone was left unturned.

* * * *

First, a shrinky dink in the shape of He-Man, with the following inscription on the back:

To: Big B
Date/time: Saturday, October 18, 2009, 1:30 p.m.
Place: Astoria Park
Attire: Active wear (a MUST!)
Bring: Hamm’s/Pabst (cases); Pop Rocks (many);
Twister; red rubber balls (five); rope

* * * *

He always was a planner—something I did not hold in high regard—and would settle for nothing less than perfection.

* * * *

Second, an RSVP card (again light blue, but adorned with sailboats):

Please Circle:

Yes*

* There is no other option. There is no return envelope (for obvious
reasons). You will be there. Do not FUCK this up.

* * * *

The sounds emanating from my body at that moment—a muddled mess of laughter, sobs, snorts, and shouts of confusion—were, as I imagined, exactly what he intended. After regaining my composure, I placed his invitation in my pocket and found myself, for the first time in my life, looking forward to a funeral.