Katrina Barnett Word Count: 2547

1300 Saratoga Unit 105 Ventura, CA 93003

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We Value Your Opinion!

He kept thinking how funny it was that it was raining out that day, of course it was raining the

day of the funeral. How fitting, how like a movie. If he were Helena he’d collapse his umbrella and let

heaven’s water cover his face in order make him a better actor, make his tears more ambiguous. But

he wasn’t like Helena and he didn’t need to act, his face was always honest. He had pretty good

looking face at that, exception of the nose. Or that’s what most of his friends told him. His nose was,

in fact, pretty bad. Helena was always quick to point out that it just seemed to get ridiculously wide

towards the nostrils, while appearing to not extend away from the face as much as most noses should,

or seem to. The worthwhile ones, anyway.

As the last part of the funeral continued the tarps came out and in a haze of graveyard activity

draped themselves over the heads of the bereaved. Albert would’ve preferred they just left the

attendees with their umbrellas, especially as it became obvious that the harsh rat-tat-tat of the water

against the chilly personality of the tarps became more distracting from the ceremony than the

wetness and soggy shoes would have been. Oh well. The pastor tried to speak over the noise as best

he could, but Albert could tell that at least the children were of the same mind he was, trying to

mentally configure the pattern of rain against this diversion braced above their curly heads. And they

did have curly heads, most of them; most of the children had curly hair like Helena. Well, they were

probably related, duh. He suddenly felt sorry for them because they had to be there. They shared that

bond, Helena’s cute little cousins and Albert Mayr. Albert had gotten over Helena a long time ago,

though he sure went about it in strange ways, as she would coldly tell him every time she got the

chance (not too often, but at parties and over impromptu coffees that she wasn’t supposed to have,

things like that), but he wasn’t the same person who had waved an optimistic greeting in place of

hello way back in the day. Too much water under the bridge. He wondered, gazing at the casket, if he

had just met Helena now- and if she were living, obviously- if he’d be attracted to her, or if he would
like her at all. When HAD he liked her, anyway? When HAD he told himself there was potential with

someone that empty?

Albert studied his ill-fitting shoes which he had borrowed, just for this occasion. Funerals are

such silly things, he thought, really just a demonstration for everyone associated with the deceased to

prove to each other just how much their dead kin mattered- but only to each other. The girl was dead,

and not like a tribute was out of line, but did her corpse really give a damn about how comfortable her

coffin was or how much her ex-boyfriend-- whom SHE had broken up with four years ago,

thankyouverymuch—spent on SHOES? Actually, she might, come to think of it, Albert admitted

penitently to himself. Albert knew nothing about the afterlife, why mutter that he did. It just seemed…

lame. It seemed lame because the last exchange- the last REAL exchange, back when they both had

sentiments- that Albert shared with Helena, when it all came out- Albert had said for once everything

he had in his mind at that moment. And that was, verbatim: “You might as well be a stranger at a bus

stop. You might as well be someone spitting at me from a bridge, even! No, not that, that’s too much

commitment. You want to leave an impression on me without giving me a damn thing. Well I don’t

WANT a goddamn thing anymore, so take your shit and leave!”

Actually that’s not verbatim at all. Albert didn’t cuss very much, and when he did he tended to

favor the f-bomb. To be frank, actually, Albert didn’t really say anything when Helena left. There was

just a flip of her scarf, a self-righteous verbal rampage, and Albert left to wonder if the linoleum in the

kitchen had started peeling before or after they moved in. But Helena’s tricks didn’t work, Albert knew

that. He knew what she was before he really “lost” her… still…

Carl’s. Carl’s Jr. They started going there on the Thursdays and Fridays after they got out of

whatevermovie happened to be showing for cheap that night. Before they found an apartment, before

they learned what microwaves and a can-openers were for, the two of them would sit at the booths as

far away from the kitchen employees as they could, as if they were spies in a conspiracy thriller, even

though the place was empty. And through mysterious, sketchy glances and exchanges they DID feel

like co-conspirators. Or Albert did, even when he grew comfortable enough to read while Helena

mused (it was always her book, too, she took books everywhere but only read them at home).

Sometimes she’d be silent for minutes at a time while she filled out comment cards (which both of

them agreed were ridiculous in and of themselves- comment cards for a fast food place with JR. in the
title just seemed… dumb?). She liked to write in obscene sayings, read them to herself, then fold the

cards into little pieces and either abandon them at the table or, embarrassed, rip them to shreds and

play with the confetti. And then again, sometimes she’d just muse. Albert semi-grinned at the

memory. Even though it didn’t mean too much to him now, he did reflect on the irony of one of

Helena’s original musings- death.

He had brought it up.

“Well, you’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you? I can just see it now-“ Helena dropped her

voice in that way she usually did as she prepared to foray into her dithered, humorously imagined

scenarios. Albert was never sure how Helena adopted that as her sense of humor, or why it always

amused him so much, but it was certainly strange and original when examined. Anyway, Helena

dropped her voice in order to verbally portray a newsperson in the next life: “I can just see it now

—‘And tell us, Ms. Vance, what drove you to commit suicide?” Helena sighed dramatically and cleared

her throat, continuing as Albert took on a passive audience member’s role, to Helena’s predictable

glee; it was always like this. “Well, you see, my BOYFRIEND-“ Albert grinned as he continued to skim

his book, trying to find his place again. “You’re prepared to be interviewed after death?” He asked.

Helena nodded enthusiastically, swiping a french fry. She liked them well-done, Albert liked them limp,

which he thought secured him a decent meal, and yet she continued to steal his lifeless potatoes. At

the moment her weight was probably rivaling his own, something he never thought of until she

pointed it out sullenly. “If there’s one certainty I’m certain of, dear Al, it is that in the afterlife there

will be a line of interviewers anxious to hear my opinions. Yes, yes, once dead…” Helena was always at

her best when mocking her own comical narcissism, she was smiling dreamily and brandishing her

medium-sized coke (free refills, otherwise it would have been a large), hoping that she could go on

forever and still stop while she was ahead. “Once dead, I’m positive I’ll have fans, in fact. I’ll be a

celebrity in heaven. Or hell, I guess. That’s right, Albert. I’ll be on Entertainment Eternity. Access

Afterlife…” Albert closed his book. “Do go on, just keep going and going and when the lightning bolt

strikes…” Helena almost giggled, except that she never giggled at anything Albert said. Albert, unlike

she, tried too damn hard. With great chutzpah she peeled at the edges of a napkin which, thanks to

the condensation, had become stuck to her beverage, and twisted it with one finger, idly. “Mark my
words, Albert, there’s no way I’m leaving this earth unless I get to be a heavenly VIP. HA!” She made

herself laugh.

Helena never cared. Helena smiled and gave her affection but she had nothing below the

surface but sex, nothing to talk about giddily but analyses, and nothing to smile about but the

moment someone entertained her. She threw away rechargeable batteries, she didn’t take pictures,

she refused reunions- highschool, family, and otherwise. Albert gave up trying to “own” her in the way

that most men would like to have. He came to the point where he expected her to dance with other

men, to talk to everyone in a room excluding him, to choose taking the bus over letting him drop her

off at the pseudo-scene restaurant where she worked. But as he slowly grew to give up each of these

things he seemed to make a deal with himself to give up his adoration or understanding of one of her

qualities. Not an official, square deal, but a sort of subconscious, under-the-table arrangement that

would occasionally pop into his imagination when he was feeling particularly needy or self-pitying.

When she’d refuse to cry in front of him even though they’d lived together for 4 months, for God’s

sake, he’d suddenly find her taste in clothes contrived, especially her obsessive care for her

“trademark” army jacket. It made her look like a lesbian, he concluded. When she’d brush away his

enthusiasms on the days when his writer’s block became conquered, when he wanted her to want to

hear about his ideas (one of the few things he took pride and confidence in were his ideas and she

knew it), on the days she’d meet his fresh heroes with a disinterested, sour, my-problems-exceed-

your-love expression, he’d realize he no longer cared for her heartfelt guffaw or her formerly

endearing insistence that the two of them talk about a different book each, every night that they

could. With Helena, he’d think as he watched her furiously making scrambled eggs or playing solitaire

on the computer, nothing was heartfelt, and The Brothers Karamazov and Dstoyevsky would always

oust “feelings” and Albert Mayr.

Finally, it was when they were watching an old movie together, an Ernest Borgnine underdog

flick called Marty, that Albert looked at Helena against the flicker and lights of the screen and

somehow in his not-quite-conscious mind decided that if Helena was moved at all by the time Ernie

threw his friend’s opinion of his devoted girl to the wind and declared that he was gonna get down on

his knees and BEG that girl to marry him-- if Helena smiled, or laughed with delight or sniffled or even

looked at Albert with any sign of appreciation on her mysterious face, she was capable. She maybe
even loved him. Not as much or in the way that he loved her, no, but there’d be a chance. Maybe this

all wasn’t such a mistake and JUST MAYBE he’d find a trapdoor into a compromise somewhere where

they could both operate on their own terms. He could be content like that, just so long as she gave

Ernie a hint of softness.

Marty is a very short movie, quite possibly the shortest movie to ever win an Oscar for best

picture, and the beautiful comfy ending always comes too soon.

Part II of the breakup occurred in a much more predictable, TV movie when-it-rains-it-pours kind of

way, with Albert coming home after work and an amble around the neighborhood to find Helena

throwing her “trademarks” into three medium-sized boxes. He stood, stunned but understanding in

their tiny, Mary-Tyler-Moore-esque kitchen, watching her body and her voice tell him about himself

and their non-life and the apparent surprise life that seemed to be growing in Helena but which did

not belong to him. It didn’t hurt like it was supposed to, even though she spat it out with as much

venom as she could muster. Albert recalled to mind Cruella De Ville, as he watched his about-to-be-ex

frantically box her claims and rage against Albert’s insecurities. His needs. What needs? I stopped

needing you a long time ago, he wanted to tell her, you changed me. “And I stopped loving you when I

knew you couldn’t give a shit about anybody.” Had he said that part? Funny. He couldn’t really

remember that. The linoleum, yes, he remembered that inch for inch.

Funerals bring out funny memories, Albert thought. And, well, sure, at this moment he felt

sorry for Greg, or Dylan, or Eddie or whoever the guy was, staring, crushed, as the beautiful box

enclosed the body. This guy obviously never had the release Albert did, the realization that the only

game Helena knew how to play was solitaire. Albert also gave pause to scan the group of kids to make

sure Helena hadn’t lied about the abortions. Not that she’d ever manage to support anything for nine

months, of course, but she was pretty good at lying. As her box disappeared into the ground, Albert

decided to allow a little room for kindness, but just a pinch. The jacket didn’t make you look like a

lesbian, he admitted telepathically, and I hope you are a VIP someplace. Seemed like the nice thing to

admit, you know, for the person that had changed him from emotionally healthy to just about as cold

as the corpse herself. Albert had to hand it to Helena—looking at the world cold-bloodedly did made

living a lot easier.

 One night, about five months after the funeral to be more on the money, Albert’s nerves were

at him about his big presentation the next morning. It was raining again, and as he sat propped up in

bed his mind began to wander as his eyes did, both entities finally settling on a pile of hodge-podge

books he’d had forever. Maybe, as he gently tugged out Catcher in the Rye, a book he’d read a

comfortable three times before, he realized that it was one of her books, one from the bookshelf they

shared, back when a one-room apartment was good enough for them and a couple yards was enough

distance. After her hurricane of a departure Albert had taken his things in one fail swoop, and thrown

in anything that she had left that escaped claim- who really cared about a newish, generic publishing

of Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Rings, In Cold Blood, or a VHS copy of some Bruce Willis movie they

never watched? Maybe he vaguely realized it was technically one of her belongings when he decided to

distract himself from promotion anxieties, but he certainly didn’t think too much on the matter.

Not until he lost himself and thumbed to the middle of the book, where a Carl’s Jr. comment

card found him. The smiley star greeted him heartily, with the words “WE VALUE YOUR OPINION!” On

the flipside of the card, awkward, lazy sayings in ink marked their opinion.

Comments or Questions? My boyfriend likes his goddamn fries droopy, any suggestions on what to do

about THAT?

Anything we can do to improve? No thanks. Right now everything is perfect.

It was when Albert felt his own face falling apart that he knew he hadn’t changed that much after all.