From the Print Archives: “The Death of Heartsick Rick” by Elaine Szewczyk
I. The Plan
As the delivery truck carrying Lamont Rick’s coffin pulled up to his apartment building, Lamont began to have second thoughts about faking his own death. From his dirty window high above the street, Lamont watched the driver — tall, cigarette between lips, in a one-piece uniform — exit the truck. The driver yelled a command in a Slavic language. Another deliveryman, short and bald, opened the truck’s passenger side door and slid out. The short man bit into a chicken drumstick. The two argued. On a patch of worn grass in view of the truck, Gilberta Rick, Lamont’s sister and his neighbor in the building, sat in a yellow chair, sunning her legs and reading the dictionary. When the deliverymen noticed Gilberta, they stopped arguing. She looked at them, closed the dictionary, and ran her thumb down its spine. The short man threw the drumstick over his shoulder and gave her a wave. The tall man smacked him on the back of his head. The drumstick lay on the sidewalk. A fly landed on its greasy, dimpled skin. Upstairs in his apartment, Lamont drew the dusty curtain and stepped away from the window. Today he would win back Millie Grossman, his ex-girlfriend. That was the plan. Oh, he missed Millie so much! Suddenly, a sharp buzzing sound filled Lamont’s apartment. Lamont hurried across the living room, past his sleeping dog, to an intercom mounted to the wall. He pressed a button.
“Who is it?” Lamont asked, even though he already knew.
“Coffin for Mr. Rick!” both deliverymen yelled.
The dog opened an eye.
“Come up,” Lamont said.
He pressed a button that let the deliverymen into the building. In two hours, Millie would be arriving for his fake funeral. He had so much to do before she got there.
II. The Breakup and Aftermath
Lamont and Millie’s relationship ended a few weeks earlier, on a hot day, in front of The Serenity Tea Shoppe of Scottsdale, Arizona. At the time, the sky was filled with cotton ball clouds that disappeared into the distance like fluffy chicks dropping off a conveyor belt to their slaughter. At least that’s how Lamont remembered it now. Lamont and Millie emerged from Serenity with cups of tea. An aspiring voice-over actress, Millie chugged more tea than the Queen of England. She loved chamomile blends. Lavender blends. She treated her throat the way a museum curator might treat the last known ancient Greek vase. Millie hadn’t landed any voice-over work yet — no car insurance company or fast food chain had called — but that was a matter of time. That’s what her psychic told her. Her psychic was also her agent. So there they were, Millie and Lamont, standing under Serenity’s awning. Lamont was about to tell Millie how beautiful she looked. He never got the chance.
“It’s over,” Millie said.
Lamont went numb as Millie bowed and thanked him for taking part in her “love journey.”
“The spirit in me salutes the spirit in you,” she said.
Lamont could smell the rosehip oil on her skin as she drank down her tea and handed him the soggy, empty cup.
“Namaste,” she softly said and walked away.
If winning back an ex is an art form, then Lamont Rick morphed into Jackson Pollack after the breakup. He began wildly spraying sweet gestures like paint, hoping something might land just so. Maybe, like an amnesiac, Millie would forget they’d broken up. But she didn’t. Lamont tried to regain her affection, but nothing worked. Not the skywriter he rented to spell out her name in smoke, or the gift basket he sent; the collage he made; the music playlist he painstakingly arranged; the $100 gift card he dropped off. He kept losing weight. He stopped shaving. He became desperate. Then he bought the dog.
Millie loved dogs! This would be Lamont’s way back in. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He’d walk the dog past Millie’s apartment building as she was leaving for yoga. Lamont replayed the fantasy reunion until it crystallized perfectly in his mind. He would time it just so. Whistling, he’d stroll past Millie’s just as she was stepping out the door. Women like men in uniform and he’d use that to his advantage. He’d wear a handsome, white and navy striped t-shirt. He’d look sharp but casual, like a sailor on furlough. Millie would rush over. She’d pet the dog as it licked her hand. She’d look up at Lamont, eyes soft, and say: “I screwed up.” It was the perfect plan. Except it wasn’t.
Lamont’s new dog (which he named Dog, and which he bought from a patchwork-smock-wearing-hippy-breeder living in a tin shack in the desert) turned out to be dumb, hairy, and destructive. A horse would have done less damage to the sofa cushions in Lamont’s apartment. As soon as Lamont brought Dog home, it started chewing floorboards, licking windows until they turned opaque, and barking at lamps. Its paws were loud Ping-Pong paddles, hitting the floor. The dog was annoying. Still, Lamont was sure it would work on Millie. And so, some time post breakup, after trying and failing to get Millie’s attention in assorted ways, Lamont walked Dog to Millie’s building and waited for her to emerge. When she did, he hurried down the sidewalk. He was about to yell “Hello, what a coincidence!” when a car stopped in front of her building. Millie squealed. Lamont dove behind some tall cacti and succulents. Dog looked around, confused. Millie climbed into the car. A man was behind the wheel. He squeezed Millie’s boob. They drove off. Lamont emerged with cactus needles stuck to his dirty shirt. He looked like he’d run out on the bill at the acupuncturist’s office then tried to flee the scene through an underground tunnel. He limped home.
Lamont’s sister Gilberta was in the lobby of their apartment building when Lamont returned. She was carrying a paper bag filled with groceries. She hadn’t seen Lamont since his breakup and hardly recognized him. He had a thick beard. He’d lost twenty-five pounds. In her opinion, he looked better than ever. Lamont told her that he’d seen Millie with another man. Gilberta put down the grocery bag. Dog took a bite out of it like it was a watermelon slice at a picnic.
“What am I going to do?” Lamont moaned.
“Get over it,” Gilberta replied. “There are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“People always say that,” a distraught Lamont replied. “But with global warming and the destruction of the oceans, I’m not so sure.”
Dog looked up, mouth full of brown paper.
Lamont returned to his apartment and considered killing himself by overdose. But he was out of aspirin. He considered using a knife. But he hated blood. He’d learned that the hard way a few days earlier, while watching Dog maul a pigeon in front of a preschool. What Lamont wanted was to start over, to hit rewind. He sat down and watched Dog stick his head in a potted plant. He commanded Dog to leave the plant alone. Dog pulled his head out. There was a leaf in his fur.
“Sit!” Lamont ordered in anger.
Dog stared. Lamont rattled off commands.
“Paw. Give paw.”
Nothing.
“Roll over.”
Nothing.
“Play dead.”
Nothing. Then it came to him.
“Play dead,” Lamont quietly repeated.
What if Lamont died and came back as…but, who? He needed a name. Kwan. That’s it. Lamont’s brother, a traveler and explorer who’d flown in for Lamont’s funeral from Europe. That was it. Lamont phoned Gilberta.
“Can you call Millie and tell her I’m dead?” Lamont asked.
Gilberta paused. “You high?”
Lamont explained the plan and told Gilberta he’d pay her to help him. (There was no better way than money to motivate his sister.)
“What is your intended funeral date?” Gilberta suddenly asked like an experienced event planner.
“Tomorrow, five o’clock,” Lamont replied. “Can you get her to come over then?”
“Short notice,” Gilberta said. “To make the arrangements, I’ll need your credit card, and confirmation that there are no budget restrictions.”
“Don’t buy anything for yourself,” Lamont warned.
Gilberta pretended not to hear him.
“Leave it to me,” she said.
III. The Funeral
Now, twenty-four hours later, Lamont was in his living room, listening to the echoing grunts of two deliverymen coming up the stairs of his apartment building. His door was ajar. The tall deliveryman used his back to push it open.
“Delivery!” the tall one said as he and his short partner set a small pink box down at Lamont’s feet.
Lamont frowned at the box. “What is that?”
The tall deliveryman wiped his brow and shrugged. “Standard sized pet coffin.”
“You order this,” the short deliveryman unhelpfully added.
Lamont’s dog hid. Lamont shook his head in dismay. He never should have left his sister in charge of the coffin. She walked in moments later, in a tight black cocktail dress.
“Knock, knock,” she said in lieu of knocking.
“Why didn’t your order a regular, human coffin?” Lamont accusingly asked.
“For what?” Gilberta replied. “I told Millie on the phone that you were cremated. No one puts ashes in a large coffin. This size is better. It has a cute urn-vibe, yet still has that dramatic, I’m-dead urgency of a bigger coffin.”
The deliverymen exchanged a look: Americans.
Lamont threw up his hands. “Well, this thing sucks. It looks like the tomb of the unknown poodle.”
“You’re fine,” Gilberta said as she adjusted the top of her dress and revealed some cleavage.
The short deliveryman stared at her chest. The tall deliveryman hit him upside the head.
Gilberta smiled flirtatiously at the short one. “Hi there.”
Lamont fussed around the coffin. He set out flowers and candles.
“You’re positive Millie will come?” he asked.
“Yup,” Gilberta replied.
“How can you be sure?” Lamont asked.
“She told me so,” Gilberta said.
Gilberta left out the part about the agent. During their phone call, she told Millie that a Hollywood talent agent Lamont supposedly knew would be at his funeral. Hearing this, Millie perked up, as Gilberta suspected she might.
“Did you bring back my credit card?” Lamont asked as he polished the coffin’s lacquered surface.
Gilberta pulled it from her bra.
Lamont took it. “Ew. It’s warm.”
“You’re welcome,” Gilberta said.
“You didn’t buy anything for yourself, right?” Lamont asked.
“Just this dress,” she answered.
“Gilberta,” Lamont whined.
Gilberta clicked her heels. “It went with the shoes.”
At ten minutes to five o’clock, the mourners arrived. They were all members of Gilberta’s erotic book club. Gilberta sat them around the coffin, which had been placed on a table in the living room. Millie arrived last. Gilberta sat her next to a part-time dominatrix who was into role-play. The dominatrix wore fishnets and read a paperback with nude bodies on the cover. At the back of the room, next to a tray of cheese cubes, sat the deliverymen. Gilberta smiled at the short one then retreated to the bedroom in back, to check on Lamont. He was standing next to his bed in a t-shirt and underwear, looking like a confused toddler.
“You ready?” She paused. “What’s wrong?”
“Headache,” Lamont answered.
Gilberta produced two white pills. Lamont put them in his mouth. The pills began to dissolve into bitterness on his tongue. He spit them out. They were foamy, runny dots in his palm, little filmy cataract eyes, watching him. There was an open bottle of wine on the dresser. Lamont licked the pills off his palm and washed them down with the wine. There was a blue linen suit on the bed. Gilberta tossed it to him.
“Change,” she commanded like a broke fairy godmother.
Lamont put on the suit. He paired it with a fedora and sunglasses and anxiously stared at himself in the mirror.
Gilberta tapped her foot. “Ready, Panama Jack?”
“Get out,” Lamont said. “You’re making me nervous. And call me Kwan from now on.”
“Hurry up,” Gilberta said. “I have a date after this.”
At five minutes after five o’clock, Kwan emerged from the bedroom. He looked like a leaner, more mysterious version of Lamont. Everyone stared, Millie included. Kwan stood next to the coffin, introduced himself as Lamont’s brother, and began eulogizing that dead sibling like some world-weary poet. Maybe it was the wine, or the pills, but he felt great, free, and the crowd responded. Some cried as he talked about love, family, and living each day as if it were the last. Gilberta almost ruined the moment when she tried to fire a confetti gun in her dead brother’s honor, but Kwan put his finger in the barrel before she could pull the trigger.
After the service, Dog gnawed on the edge of the coffin like a roadie breaking down equipment after a stadium concert. Over the sound of canine teeth cracking wood, Millie approached Kwan.
“I didn’t know Lamont had a brother,” she said.
“How could you?” Kwan responded.
It was both a rhetorical question and an accusation.
As they talked, Kwan repeatedly touched his sunglasses and weaved in and out of an accent from some place he’d never visited. Millie kept scanning the room, as if she were looking for someone. Kwan studied her face with longing. He asked what she did for a living to regain her attention. Her posture softened. She delicately laced her fingers and lowered her arms as she revealed details of her life. Her entwined hands covered her femininity like a leaf. Kwan thought she looked like the goddess Venus in that one Sandro Botticelli painting that always gets reprinted on postcards. Then his sister walked up and ruined the moment.
“I’m leaving with shorty,” Gilberta whispered. “How’s my breath?”
Kwan swatted Gilberta away and smiled at Millie.
The last of the mourners headed for the door. Gilberta left with the short deliveryman and the tall deliveryman left with a pair of swingers. Kwan offered to escort Millie home.
“That’s okay, I have my bike,” Millie said.
“I have one, too,” Kwan gallantly replied.
Kwan and Millie rode to Millie’s apartment. Millie pedaled hard. Kwan held onto his fedora and tried to keep up. As they rolled up to the building, Kwan longed to kiss Millie but resisted. Next time, he thought. He wanted to build the romance slowly.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
Millie smiled, rather flirtatiously, Kwan thought, as he turned his bike around and peddled away. Everything was going great.
Millie watched Kwan turn at the end of the block and disappear, at which point she pulled out her phone. She slowly flipped it over in her hand like a dice cube, then pressed a finger to the screen and scrolled through the contacts. She stopped on the name Lamont Rick. It was chilly now and getting dark. A bird hurried across the sky like a teenager about to miss curfew. Millie’s finger hovered over a button next to Lamont’s name. The wind blew faster. Millie Grossman pressed delete.
© Elaine Szewczyk
Elaine Szewczyk is the author of the novel I’m with Stupid, which was optioned by ABC Studios. Her writing has appeared in McSweeney’s and other publications. Find her on Twitter @stupidnovel.
This story originally appeared in Emrys Journal v. 37, available for purchase in print or digital form.
