The Flagellants

My father and I were the first ones to arrive at Leo's Pizza. The drive there after the funeral had been silent, but not awkward. We found a table at the back, where the heat was unbearable, and sat down to wait.

He was sweating so much it was uncomfortable to watch; the other diners looked at him as he walked past. It wasn't disgusting per se, just unnecessary. Big drops of sweat dripping down to his bushy beard, which by then was just a mess of wet hair, but he wouldn't take off his coat. I was just copying what he did, so I kept my little black coat on as well. When we eventually stood up, you could clearly see an imprint of our asses and balls on the plastic chairs.

We stared at the menu of a place that only offered five different kinds of pizzas. We both knew what we were gonna order. There's wasn't much to talk about.

When my uncles finally arrived, the first thing they did as they walked in was to remove their coats. They were about to sit down with us when one of them pointed out that the table was sticky. I hadn't even noticed, but my father was aware of it. He rested his elbows on the sticky surface with conviction. The waiter came over to wipe down the table, but my father didn't move out of the way; he just let his elbows be dirty.

Then it was just us, the remaining men on this side of the family, sitting at a round table. It made allegorical sense, in a way. I don't mean that, at the moment, my uncles were thinking about the danse macabre and representing that in their choice of seating arrangements. What I mean is that, looking back on it now, it was a happy coincidence. Death will eventually come for all of us, the king, the beggar, the uncle.

"That's how it is on this bitch of an earth".

One of my uncles said that and the rest nodded. A self-evident truth can only be met in that way. Each man at the table listened, pondered, qualified, and finally agreed with the idea. That's how it be up in this bitch, and all you can do is nod. They all nodded, except for my father.

My only job was to learn, my father would say. So I learned that day, after someone dies, a man will say something grave and somber and laconic and sententious, and other men will agree.

The pizzas arrived after a couple minutes of laconic statements. My two slices of pepperoni were so oily they almost fell through the paper plate. My father and uncles had anchovies, like men. There was something childish in my choice of pizza for an afterfuneral meal. Not the pepperoni itself, but the fact that I had two separate slices while everyone else shared one big pizza. I was breaking the allegory of death by not participating in communal life. Having my two separate slices was like saying to them, "No, I will not commune with you in your time of pain".

They all looked at me and I knew I had trespassed, but I didn't understand how. I could tell by my father's sweaty look that he was disappointed.

My father, the oldest brother by process of elimination, opened the pizza box and grabbed a slice. You could feel the heat coming from it. Then, without blowing on it or waiting for even just a couple of seconds, he took a big bite. The molten lead that had been poured down the throats of martyrs centuries ago had become the molten cheese that my father willingly ate.

My uncles and I sat there watching him with disgust as his tears mixed with sweat, but he wouldn't stop eating. He wouldn't even do that thing where you open your mouth and try to suck some air in to help cool the food. He wouldn't take a sip of water.

It's all a language barrier. When men gather around a table to talk about the death of one of their own, they speak a language of long silences and of dirt. The language of an old man languidly letting a fistful of dirt fall out of his hand while looking at the setting sun over his land, over his empire, over his life, over this bitch. By that, I mean, my uncles wanted to talk to their oldest brother about the death of one of their own, and they wanted to get some laconic, sententious statements from my father. They wanted to hear that everything was shit but it would eventually unshit itself by the grace of god, amen.

Eventually, language leads to confusion. At some point, we went from talking about how it is on this bitch to my father being a son of a bitch. They accused him of being weird and disgusting, which he was, but what they really wanted to say was, "you should be leading us out of this".

My father didn't have the words they wanted.

One of my uncles, probably the one who had mentioned how sticky the table was, berated my father. He was theatrical about it. He stood up, banged on the table, pointed at him. Grieving brothers, concerned diners, and a confused son all looked at the sweaty, crying man who didn't offer a single word in his own defence. A tacit admission of guilt. Guilty of what? Of being fucking weird, for one. Of not being a good older brother, a patriarch. Of being a bitch. That's how it is. And I was learning from him, in my little black suit covered in the same oil as his, how to be a bitch.

A choir of bereaved brothers sat there accusing him of being cold, distant, aloof, fat, old, ugly, irresponsible, a bad father, a terrible brother, a joke of a son, poor, unshowered, an inadequate man. I didn't understand half these insults; they had probably been festering inside them for years, but I agreed with all of them.

My uncles stood up in unison. They all seemed lighter, maybe even expiated, in a way. In front of them, huddled over in his chair, my father was heavier, exhausted.

We didn't understand that my father was a mystic of sorts. He spoke the language of mortification, of flesh and hot pizza, his instrument of penance. That was his way of sharing in his dead brother's suffering. The sweat, the discomfort, the pain, the social stigma were all part of his purification.

My uncles left Leo's Pizza and I stayed there with my father. He finished the scalding hot pizza without looking at me, paid for everything, and we left.