This Is Where I Leave You

off the bone, crinkled like cellophane; ankles disappear beneath mounds of flesh; and spider veins stretch out like bruises just below the skin. There really should be a dress code.
    Two friends of mine from the radio show come by. Jeff is one of the writers, short and hairy in a way that makes him look dirty at all times. Kenny is an engineer, a former musician and roadie, with colorful tattoo sleeves up both of his arms and long blond hair that he wears like a guitar god from the eighties. We were work buddies, hanging out in the break room, bonding over television shows and playlists, and sympathizing with Jeff, who bitched about Wade bungling all his best bits. Sometimes, when the show was over, Kenny would roll a joint and we’d sit in the control room unwinding while he played the guitar. I haven’t seen either one of them since I quit. They come in looking scared out of their minds. It’s touching, really.
    “Hey,” Jeff says as they sit down. “I’m really sorry about your dad.”
    “Condolences, man,” Kenny says.
    “Thanks. How are things at the station?”
    “Oh, you know, same shit, different day.” Jeff .
    “It’s not the same without you.” Kenny.
    “Who’s producing?”
    An awkward look passes between them.
    “Um, I am,” Kenny says.
    “Congratulations,” I say. “Good for you.”
    “I feel bad about it, man.”
    “Hey, it’s fine. I quit.”
    “They were going to bring someone new in,” Jeff explains.
    “No,” I say. “That’s great. I’m glad it’s you.”
    “Doesn’t mean I think he’s any less of a dipshit.” Kenny.
    “He’s been more of a bastard ever since you left. You really kept him in line.” Jeff .
    “Apparently not enough.” Me.
    They aren’t sure whether it’s okay to laugh at my little joke. Jeff changes the subject, updating me on the soap-opera lives of the rest of the staff. Kenny stares wide-eyed at my mother’s breasts, like they might come to life at any moment and attack him. I affect an air of cool detachment, reminding myself to be touched that they came, while I count down the minutes until they leave. Ryan and Cole come in to stare at 248Kenny’s tattoos, and Kenny gives them the tour, showing them each one and explaining what it is.
    “That’s my Harley,” he says.
    “Harley,” Cole repeats.
    “That there is the queen of hearts and over here is the album cover of The Wall, by Pink Floyd.”
    “Pink Boy.”
    “And that little bird smoking the doobie is Woodstock. You know, Snoopy’s friend?”
    “Big Bird.”
    “Close enough. And that there is some spiritual Japanese writing, but I forgot what it means.”
    I walk them to the door and shake both of their hands. “Thanks for coming.”
    “Yeah. See you soon.”
    “Take care, man.”
    I watch them climb into Kenny’s restored Camaro. They’ll probably stop for lunch at TGI Friday’s and talk about me in deeply sympathetic tones. Then they’ll pull onto the interstate, crank up the classic rock, and resume their lives. It’s quite likely that I will never see either one of them again, and the thought saddens me. They were daily fixtures in my life for the last seven years or so, and now they are gone. Or, more accurately, I am. Just like that. That’s the thing about life; everything feels so permanent, but you can disappear in an instant. I step through the crowd and slide wearily back into my seat, instantly depressed. Phillip throws his arms around me and pats my back. He’s always had the ability to hone in on a mood.
    “It was really nice of Bon Jovi to come,” he says.

    1:30 p.m.
    And still they come. Everyone we ever knew in our lives, pouring through the doors out of a sense of friendship, duty, community, or simply to secure reciprocation when it comes their turn to mourn. Because more time has elapsed since the funeral and people are less worried about the appropriateness of it all, because there are apparently a lot of single women out there, because Mom has clearly put the word out, because I’m sitting here on display for all to see, because there is a premium placed on a divorced man without kids and no one here knows any better yet, and because some women of a certain age seem to think it’s their God-given right to act as brokers in affairs of the heart, the matchmakers are out in full force today.
    Lois Braun wants to set me up with her daughter Lucy, who - and Lois is emphatic on this point - could have married any number of the many