that’s lying around unclaimed. Finicky Fags are coming at one o’clock to move the big stuff.”
Finicky Fags—an only-in–San Francisco phenomenon—had been founded in the early 1990s by two gay teenagers just out of high school and without job prospects. In thirty-plus years it had grown to a firm with facilities throughout the state. While most of their employees and customers were gay or lesbian, a large number of heteros used their services. It was true that they were finicky: breakage or other damage seldom happened, and claims were promptly paid. Their storage facilities were reputed to be the best in the Bay Area.
I said, “Ted, you know one of the owners of Finicky Fags pretty well, don’t you?”
“Neal does. They carted stuff around for his bookshop all the time.”
“Do you think Neal could find out from him about self-storage facilities in south San Francisco?”
“ I could do that by looking in the phone book.”
“But if Neal’s friend were to ask, he could probably find out which one of them Caro Warrick rented a unit from.”
“I gotcha. I’ll ask Neal to get onto it right away. Where’re you off to now?”
I glanced at my watch and sighed. “Unfortunately, to Caro Warrick’s memorial service.”
“They put that together quick. She only died on Thursday.”
“There weren’t a lot of people to invite, and the family didn’t want the press to hear about it.”
“Her parents coming back from Mexico for it?”
“As far as I know, the parents aren’t even aware she’s dead.”
10:00 a.m.
I hate funerals and memorial services. At the former, with the body on display, people are supposed to confront and mourn a lifeless version that barely resembles the person they knew. I’ve noted that attendees tend to congregate at the opposite end of the room from the casket. Even with the casket closed, there is a haunting vision in one’s mind of a friend or loved one made up to a mannequin’s perfection by a mortician.
Memorial services these days are supposed to be touching and, in most cases, jovial. Family and friends are expected to tell humorous and inspirational tales about the dearly departed one’s time on earth. Trouble is, even the funniest stories are tinged with sorrow, and many of the deceased didn’t have particularly happy or significant existences.
I’d made Hy promise to toss my ashes off the cliff at Touchstone alone if I died first. He wanted the same.
One thing Caro’s sister and brother knew was that she had wanted to be remembered in a favorite place: the Chinese Pavilion, on Strawberry Hill Island in Golden Gate Park’s Stow Lake—a pagoda-style gift from our sister city, Taipei. The roof of the small round building is a pale green that contrasts with the darker shades of the surrounding trees, shrubs, and marsh grass; figures of mythical beasts appear to be scaling it; the support posts are bright red; on the slope above it looms the Strawberry Hill reservoir.
This morning was dry, and the sun was breaking through the fog, promising a warm day. The gathering was small: Rob, Patty, Mrs. Cleary, Ned Springer, and two colleagues from the real-estate agency where Caro had worked. No clergyman.
Rob coughed and said, “We’re here to remember Patty’s and my sister and your friend, Caro Warrick. Just Caro: when she was old enough to talk, two syllables were all she could master, and the nickname stuck. Caro had a difficult last few years, but her courage under adversity was an example to us all. We—”
He paused, looking off at the stone footbridge to the island. Everyone else’s heads turned.
An attractive middle-aged couple wearing inappropriate casual clothing were crossing. The woman—blond, tanned, slim—raised a hand in greeting as if she were arriving at a party. Betsy and Ben Warrick, I thought, late for their eldest daughter’s memorial.
I glanced back at Rob. He stood still, unsmiling, clenching his hands at his sides. Patty made a
Finicky Fags—an only-in–San Francisco phenomenon—had been founded in the early 1990s by two gay teenagers just out of high school and without job prospects. In thirty-plus years it had grown to a firm with facilities throughout the state. While most of their employees and customers were gay or lesbian, a large number of heteros used their services. It was true that they were finicky: breakage or other damage seldom happened, and claims were promptly paid. Their storage facilities were reputed to be the best in the Bay Area.
I said, “Ted, you know one of the owners of Finicky Fags pretty well, don’t you?”
“Neal does. They carted stuff around for his bookshop all the time.”
“Do you think Neal could find out from him about self-storage facilities in south San Francisco?”
“ I could do that by looking in the phone book.”
“But if Neal’s friend were to ask, he could probably find out which one of them Caro Warrick rented a unit from.”
“I gotcha. I’ll ask Neal to get onto it right away. Where’re you off to now?”
I glanced at my watch and sighed. “Unfortunately, to Caro Warrick’s memorial service.”
“They put that together quick. She only died on Thursday.”
“There weren’t a lot of people to invite, and the family didn’t want the press to hear about it.”
“Her parents coming back from Mexico for it?”
“As far as I know, the parents aren’t even aware she’s dead.”
10:00 a.m.
I hate funerals and memorial services. At the former, with the body on display, people are supposed to confront and mourn a lifeless version that barely resembles the person they knew. I’ve noted that attendees tend to congregate at the opposite end of the room from the casket. Even with the casket closed, there is a haunting vision in one’s mind of a friend or loved one made up to a mannequin’s perfection by a mortician.
Memorial services these days are supposed to be touching and, in most cases, jovial. Family and friends are expected to tell humorous and inspirational tales about the dearly departed one’s time on earth. Trouble is, even the funniest stories are tinged with sorrow, and many of the deceased didn’t have particularly happy or significant existences.
I’d made Hy promise to toss my ashes off the cliff at Touchstone alone if I died first. He wanted the same.
One thing Caro’s sister and brother knew was that she had wanted to be remembered in a favorite place: the Chinese Pavilion, on Strawberry Hill Island in Golden Gate Park’s Stow Lake—a pagoda-style gift from our sister city, Taipei. The roof of the small round building is a pale green that contrasts with the darker shades of the surrounding trees, shrubs, and marsh grass; figures of mythical beasts appear to be scaling it; the support posts are bright red; on the slope above it looms the Strawberry Hill reservoir.
This morning was dry, and the sun was breaking through the fog, promising a warm day. The gathering was small: Rob, Patty, Mrs. Cleary, Ned Springer, and two colleagues from the real-estate agency where Caro had worked. No clergyman.
Rob coughed and said, “We’re here to remember Patty’s and my sister and your friend, Caro Warrick. Just Caro: when she was old enough to talk, two syllables were all she could master, and the nickname stuck. Caro had a difficult last few years, but her courage under adversity was an example to us all. We—”
He paused, looking off at the stone footbridge to the island. Everyone else’s heads turned.
An attractive middle-aged couple wearing inappropriate casual clothing were crossing. The woman—blond, tanned, slim—raised a hand in greeting as if she were arriving at a party. Betsy and Ben Warrick, I thought, late for their eldest daughter’s memorial.
I glanced back at Rob. He stood still, unsmiling, clenching his hands at his sides. Patty made a
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