Over the course of the past few months, I’ve pictured my mother’s ex-husband dying in a variety of ways. Sometimes I see him crashing into a pile of rubbish in the garage while attempting to fix a rusty lawnmower. Other times I imagine him collapsing on the way to the living room, a Philly cheese steak tumbling from his flowery-decorated plate. When I’m feeling lazy, I picture him just going to bed…and staying that way. Whatever the scenario that pops into my head, he’s always wearing that same red checkered flannel shirt, his salt and pepper hair still in place, his beard perfectly trimmed, in the same manner he did more than a decade ago, when I last saw him.

I won’t go into a whole story about my mother and Jack, or what I thought of him even. But I would like to admit that I was struck when I heard that he had died. I had this feeling despite the fact that I only really had a handful of memories of Jack, his marriage to my mother, and of his brief residence at our home. They are as follows:

When he first started dating my mom, he would come into the house with a “yo gun” and we’d shoot at each other, crying “Yo! Yo! Yo!” That’s weird now that I look back.

He liked my dog, Binaca breath spray, Star Trek (Next Gen), eating cheesesteaks with his head cocked to the side, and he had a fast red car, always.

He scolded my brother and me once when my mom wasn’t home because we were mimicking the noises of the Predator monster in our milk at dinner. We then moved on to quoting Revenge of the Nerds lines.

He and I planted a tree together in our backyard on Earth Day. I don’t know if it’s still there.

I heard him with my mom in their bedroom once. I couldn’t look at him the next day.

We used to go to the gym together when I got older, and he took me to see Billy Joel’s drummer at a drum clinic, where I won a raffled autographed cymbal bag that I’ve used ever since.





And that’s. about. it.

Since he and my mother split, he had kept in touch with me, occasionally emailing to see how things were, what my bands were up to, what was going on with my job and love life. The emails weren’t frequent, or even very long—he always signed off by saying “Gotta run,” which always made me wonder what he was up to. I knew little of his life. I knew nothing of his job. I assumed he had some friends because, for a long time, my brother and mother and I were included on a large email list of redneck (and sometimes racist or sexist) jokes.

The jokes stopped coming last summer.

What we received instead was a daily stream of spam coming from his account. Was Jack in jail or something, or had something more serious happened?

The answer came when one of Jack’s friends on the email list, Brett, kindly let my mother know what happened. Sorta. Brett said that he had sent Jack a standard-issue Christmas card last year, and it was returned with the very literal “Recipient deceased.” He knew little else, but he had emailed with a woman who indicated that the police called her looking for next of kin, and that Jack had died in his home of heart problems. It took a week for anyone to find him. No next of kin were found.

Jack may not have been an angel. But he certainly was not a BAD person. And to me, no one should have to lie dead in their home for a week before anyone knows about it. I became kind of fascinated with what happened. I had a lot of questions. When was his funeral? Where was he buried? What happened to his stuff? Did anyone care? And selfishly, I wondered if he had listed me as a beneficiary on anything, like my mother suspected. There weren’t many answers, as we simply heard about Jack’s death through the grapevine. But there were certainly leads. So I decided to check them out.

We first checked the Social Security Death Index online. Boom. John R MacKenzie. Deceased August 18, 2010. Last known residence was listed as Florida, but the death certificate was issued in New Jersey. What the fuck happened? Answers had only led to more questions.

I made some phone calls. Clerk of the Court in Polk County, Florida was first. I asked about his stuff. I got directed to a property appraiser, who told me nothing. I also got directed to the Bureau of Vital Statistics, to find out about the death certificate discrepancy. She said the location issue was, well, not an issue. Just has to do with the filing or some shit. OK, so he definitely died in Florida. There wasn’t much else on his death certificate, she said. No employer. No family information. It was basically birth date, death date, and cause of death (which she couldn’t legally tell me). She also gave me the name of the medical examiner, and the police detective who had found him and was looking for next of kin. I called him several times, but never got a call back.

I pored over some public records online and discovered he had several lawsuits with a woman in Florida. I contacted the attorney in the case, but all I could get from him was the woman’s email. Nothing from her. Nothing from anyone. No information on his stuff. And, because I was no longer legally related to Jack, it was difficult to track down any sort of beneficiary information. Not that I really cared much. It was mostly just out of curiosity. I’ll admit that this interest in his death became a little weird. For example, I found myself using Google street view to look at an image of his home. I imagined his dead body behind the front door, sprawled out in the foyer like a chalk outline. Rotting. Flies. Stench. A week in the Florida humidity. The phone quiet. No one is calling. No one cares. The garbage truck comes and goes. His red car sits in the driveway. The part of me that has seen too many horror movies was afraid that I’d see an image of him captured by the Google street view camera, peering out from behind the curtains.

—-

I kept doing some Googling, but “John MacKenzie” leads to a lot of misguided results, as you can imagine. However, I did find a short, non-descriptive obituary for a John MacKenzie, that read simply:

John R. MacKenzie, 63

LAKELAND - John MacKenzie, 63, died of heart disease 9/18/10. Memorial services will be at a later date. Steele’s Family Funeral Services, Winter Haven.

Published in Ledger on September 16, 2010



The month of death was wrong, but OK, that’s gotta be him. I found the website for Steele’s Family Funeral Services and emailed them asking for information. They wrote back and confirmed that Jack had died in his home from heart problems. The county and the medical examiners office had given permission for them to cremate Jack’s remains. I was shocked to find out that the funeral home still had possession of ashes. And, for some reason, they had kept them over the 120 days required by law. Just barely. I had contacted them, it seems, just in time.

Though she had never met Jack, my wife demanded we get the remains. She couldn’t bear the thought of his ashes being dumped in some sort of pauper’s pit. It cost $80 to have them shipped, which my mother offered to reimburse if I wanted to do something about it. I wrote a check to Steele’s Family Funeral Services with the memo “Cremains Transit.”

I didn’t think I’d have to write that on a check, not ever, not once.

But I did.

And a few weeks later, I had to go to the post office to pick up a box that was much heavier than I expected. The mail room woman asked, in a thick Asian accent, “Are those ashes?” I nodded, grabbed the box, and hustled to my car. I placed them on the floor of the passenger side and stared at them for a minute. There’s a man in there, I thought.

I didn’t feel his ghost. But I felt a sinking feeling all the same.

I brought Jack into my apartment, placed him on a chair at the dining room table, and texted my mother with “I got Jack.” I wasn’t joking, but she had a good laugh over it. Sick woman.

I decided to give up on any more investigating. It’s done. I’ve got his ashes, and that’s all that’s going to happen, or really all that matters. My wife and I planned to pick a nice day to go spread them somewhere. My mother suggested we disperse them on a mountain or something rather than in the ocean, as is more often the case. She told me that Jack, perhaps because he was a Navy man, hadn’t cared so much for the water after his service.

Fuck. He was a veteran. I totally forgot.

This made me wonder if he would be eligible for a military burial. I emailed and called various people at the national cemeteries, and eventually discovered that I needed to fill out a form and fax it to the main office of records to ascertain his eligibility. The problem is that I was not technically a next of kin, I didn’t know his dates of service, and I had no idea what his rank was. So I filled out ANOTHER form requesting his dates of service and proof that he served.

Two weeks later, I got a letter in the mail with his dates of service. 1966-1970. This allowed me to go after his eligibility. I called the national cemeteries again and, a few days later, was told that he was in fact OK’d to be buried in a national cemetery at no cost.

Holy shit.

I had a choice between San Diego and Riverside, and I chose Fort Rosecrans in San Diego because I lived in that city for 5 years and knew that it was overlooking the water, and the incoming and outgoing naval ships. Seemed fitting for Jack. I passed on the opportunity to be joined by 2 military men, who would be accompanied with a presentation of Taps, probably on tape. If I’m going to be the only person there to oversee the deposition of Jack’s remains, I think my level of discomfort standing with 2 military guys might trump any sense of symbolism. I thought it’d be cool to own one of those folded flags, but knew I’d be an imposter. I didn’t deserve one. I also indicated that religious emblems on his grave plate were not necessary. I had to make decisions that made me uncomfortable. I hardly knew Jack, especially now. And I certainly didn’t feel like it was appropriate for me to make these calls. But, as sad it is, no one else would.

I made an appointment to have him interred, and then Jack sat in a chair at our dining room table for more than a month. I had more dinners with Jack when he was dead than when he was alive. I constantly thought my cat would knock him off the chair and use him for litter. I opened The Box occasionally to look at the ashes. Once I showed my mother-in-law. But there he sat, otherwise quietly and undisturbed. As he did at the funeral home for months prior.

When the big day came, I kept reminding myself to not forget him. Don’t start driving without The Box. The Box needs to come. The contents of The Box are what’s important. That said, I had to juggle my keys, my iPod, an overnight bag, a bottle of water, and The Box almost got dropped more than once. It eventually made it to my backseat, and I covered it with my hoodie, lest passersby somehow know what I’ve got in there and mistake my good intentions to have the contents put to rest. I got a bagel before my trip and saw Larry King. As if I needed another reminder of my mortality.

Over the course of the 130 miles to San Diego, I didn’t really think about Jack at all or what was planned for the day. I was more concerned with getting to the Department of Health and Human Services to get a burial permit and then to Rosecrans by 1 p.m. I felt nervous and apprehensive. But then again, I had a box of human ashes in my backseat.

I got to the DHHS in good time, and navigated through an awkward maze of people selling crafts at fundraising tables that were for some reason set up in the lobby and ensuing hallway. I found the Office of Vital Statistics and handed over the appropriate paperwork. I was told to go to the cashier window around the corner and pay $11 for the burial permit. When I got to the window, a tall Native American-looking man stared at me blankly. I indicated that I was told to pay him, and he immediately seemed irritated. “Where’s your invoice?” I said I didn’t have one; that I was told to just come pay him. “No, no, no…WHO told you that? Come on, show me.”

So I followed him back to the main office, feeling like a kid who got scolded in school. I’m trying to bury my former stepfather, sir. I’d like to pay my $11 to bury my former stepfather, sir.

I got the invoice and paid, apologizing probably too much. Then I signed some forms.

In return, I received an approved “Application and Permit for Disposition of Human Remains.”

And, for the first time, really, I felt sadness. I was asked to confirm his death information. I was asked to state my relationship. I was asked to sign stuff. This wasn’t my job. This was a wife’s job. This was a brother’s job. This was, at its worst, a child’s job. This was not my job. I’m practically a stranger to Jack. Sure, I knew him. But the distance between us was more than geographical. We’d never been close. I think he had tried. And I gave him credit for that. But aside from a handful of moments, he wasn’t much more to me than a guy I used to know. And, standing in this stark office, surrounded by tables of stay-at-home moms selling a bunch of useless shit, I felt the weight of a death. But not just a death. An inconsequential death. An ignored death. A death that didn’t matter. A death that had taken months to settle.

I said thanks, grabbed my keys, and left with my paperwork.

I drove through Point Loma, checking the time (I had plenty, but still) and my GPS. As I drove up the mountain toward the national cemetery, I felt compelled, for the first time in my life perhaps, to turn off my stereo. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because Paul Stanley doesn’t exactly convey a sense of solemnity. Either way, I didn’t want my thoughts to be cluttered with drum fills and guitar chords. Instead, I listened to the wind flapping against my seatbelt and the sound of my wheels, churning through the checkpoint and taking me into the national park.

I liked the quiet.

I found the main entrance and parked where I could find a spot. There was a handful of people congregating outside of the office; I wasn’t sure if I should nod at them in solidarity or avert my eyes in reverence. They were clearly there for some sort of memorial service. They were blue collar and wore black, and, though not dressed nicely per se, they had made an attempt to look presentable. They also looked impatient. I was concerned this may not be a tightly run ship.





I entered the office, which had all the charm of a gym teacher’s office, and told the woman at the desk that I had an appointment at 1:30, but was instructed to arrive early. She gave me some confusing directions about “that man over there” who would see me after he tended to the people out front. So I waited around. I checked my Facebook on my phone, which seemed inappropriate. I took some pictures. Also a little inappropriate. Read some graves. Appropriate. Felt respectful. Definitely appropriate.

Finally, “that man over there” asked if I was being helped and invited me into an adjacent trailer marked with a sign that said “Deceased’s Family Only.” I hesitated before entering.

He sat me down and explained to me that Jack’s remains would go into a columbarium wall and he went over what would appear on Jack’s grave plate. He asked if I had the urn. “Um, I have a box?” He told me that they refer to anything containing remains as an urn. Nonetheless, I felt like a shit for not buying anything more…considerate. But he didn’t seem to care. And let’s face it: Jack surely doesn’t give a fuck at this point.

The director asked me to confirm Jack’s service dates and his occupation in the Navy. He was a fireman (FN). I didn’t know that. At first I pictured “fireman” as “one who fires.” But then I realized he probably worked in the engine room or something. That’s pretty badass. I began to wish I had asked him about it.

The director also asked me if I’d like to have any sayings or blessings engraved on his tomb. This felt like a lot of pressure. As an occupied writer and a self-proclaimed creative type, I really had the desire to come up with something witty, appropriate, meaningful…something to convey the sadness of his death, while celebrating the accomplishments of his life….something that would catch a stranger’s eye and command respect. What I came up with was this:

“No, that’s OK.”

That’s it. Nothing. Because of me, Jack’s grave plate will be as meaningless as his death. Good job, Tim. What was I going to say, though? “Died without anyone to love, and without anyone to love him back”? The whole thing felt like a play, like when you are so sick that life seems like a simulation. So I didn’t come up with anything. Simple is better anyway, I guess. (My brother asked me later why I didn’t just write “Yo,” in reference to the Yo-Gun discussed earlier. That would’ve been good, but I’m glad I didn’t have to look the funeral director for a veterans’ cemetery in the eye and tell him I wanted to write “Yo” on a grave plate.)

The director and I exchanged pleasantries and he told me that this job was what he always wanted to do. I found that incredibly interesting, but in the interest of time and the matter at hand, I didn’t press him too much. I gave him the “urn” and he put a sticker on it, referencing Jack’s information. He gave me a packet with the location of Jack’s proposed resting place, in case I ever come back. I then followed him in my car down to the new columbarium walls that were just built, overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

We approached the wall and a maintenance man was drilling some holes in the plate next to Jack’s. There was a rusty step ladder and some tools beside him. Behind the ladder, I saw Jack’s place, which had a small sticker:





The plate was lying inside the wall space where Jack’s remains would rest. The director explained that it would take several months for the plate to be finished with the information I approved earlier in his trailer. But he took Jack’s ashes, placed them in the columbarium, and the maintenance man drilled the unfinished plate to the wall. I shook the director’s hand and he left me there, presumably to pray or say goodbye.





Instead, I looked at the rusty stepladder. It seemed out of place, but wholly appropriate. There is no mysticism here. There is no magic. This is real life. It’s the end of a life. It’s taking care of business. It’s not saying goodbye as much as it is finishing a chapter in a book. You put your bookmark in, wash your hands, and go get lunch.

It’s ordinary. Just like most of our lives, and many of our deaths.

It’s a fucking stepladder and a drill in the middle of a cemetery.

Jack is buried in Section CC5B, Row 4, #6.

I walked around a bit and took in the scenery. I could see, down the mountain, naval ships coming into the harbor. There was a small baseball field near the water where I assume middle school kids run around wildly. There were flowers growing from everything around. It didn’t seem like a bad place to me. In fact, I was kind of jealous that Jack got to stay, and I had to leave.





I got in my car and headed back through the cemetery a bit. The director had said that they were uprooting many of the graves because of the shifting ground and replanting them to be perfectly straight and uniform, much like a military line. I thought I’d check it out. I saw lots of construction. And then I saw the straight graves.

I took a picture and tried to feel something.

Two girls looked my way, and all I felt was embarrassment.

So, I drove away quickly from the cemetery, from the perfect graves superimposed on bulldozers and fat construction workers, away from the pristine vault walls flanked by Black and Decker drills and old ladders, and away from Jack, silently sleeping in ash, on an opposite coast, surrounded by the ocean he was so careful to avoid.

And as I drove away, I turned on my stereo again. And my life went back to normal.



