[Vince]

Synopsis:A semi-autobiography about a twenty one year old man who wants to stay a boy and refuses to mature. A view on society's standards about growing up. "Shit man, we're becoming our parents."

[sic]

Part II

People die. That's what they do. My grandpa died last month; he was seventy eight. We neither cried, nor were taken by surprise. The last three years he had suffered from Alzheimers. It sounds harsh, but my grandpa died three years ago when he was diagnosed with this disease. We were all relieved that he was finally able to rest. Moreover, we were able to rest, not spending every minute of the day worrying about him.

The hardest part of the death, for me, is the funeral. I hate funerals. "Who doesn't?" you will say. No, I hate funerals. I don't hate the fact that you bury a loved one or the grim feeling which floats in the air; I hate the very core of funerals. Dressing in black, pretending you're sad, and the worst: seeing all the relatives you haven't seen in ten years.

Wear your black costume.
I don't have one.
You're twenty one, how can you not have one?
Mom, costumes are for funerals and weddings.
Well it is a funeral now, isn't it? What will you wear?
Black pants, black shirt and black shoes. Happy?
No tie?
No tie.
What kind of shirt?
It says "My grandpa died".
Vince.
What kind of question is this? "What kind of shirt?" It's a black shirt! Dammit!
Okay, okay. Be sure to be in the church by ten o' clock.
Mom?
Yeah?
Do I have to do this? You know I hate funerals.
It's your grandpa Vince. What will the relatives say?
Whatever they want.
C'mon now, Vince...
Okay... Will ****** be there?
No, you know your brother hates funerals.
Hey! How come he's able to skip this?
Vince. We're not gonna talk about your brother now. Remember, ten o' clock.
Whatever, mom.
Love ya.
Yeah, I know. See ya tommorow.

Eleven o' clock. I see faces I once knew. Aged uncles, aunts with dyed hair; maybe that hot girl standing in the corner is my cousin. It's always the same. You see, there is a repeating pattern in all funerals. Step one: The Mourning. During the mourning you must stand still, avoid looking at everyone directly, or else they will know. They will know you're bored and you're not mourning. Some persons come by and ask you how you're doing. If you know them you reply you're doing okay, while trying to look sad. If you don't know them, you act like you know them and reply you're doing okay, while trying to look sad.

Step two: The Close Up. That's the emotional part. You have to look at the empty coffin, see a dead guy and maybe throw a rose on him. It's absolutely necessary to look devastated. Throw some tears if you can. "You loved him, didn't you?" Sure, I did but he didn't remember me the last two years. It's just a corpse now. And he was seventy eight years old; that's long enough. But no, you can't say that aloud. So you say (don't forget to look sad, that's a must in every step), "You can't imagine..." They try to console you. You still wonder if that hot girl is your cousin.

And then comes the final and most torturous step.

Step three: The Catching Up. You meet every person you haven't met in ten years. They ask you the same things. How's school? How's life? You have a girlfriend? Have you searched for a job?

I hate funerals.

The worst is yet to come. The same years old stuff. Sometimes it's a cousin, sometimes it's a friend. They always look better than you, more mature, more well dressed, more successful, more relaxed, more manly. They work in a company or are trying to get their bachelor's degree. They have plans to marry in the next few months. They ask you how you're doing.

What's this? Are all these people the same age as I am? You want to scream. Is this the end? Is this the end of the famous "student" years? Is it time to settle down? Find a job, take over your dad's company and work 'till you die? You want to prove them wrong. You want to shout, "I'm twenty one years old, and I'm living like a child. I play video games and watch cartoons! I have a shirt that says "I'm with stupid"! I watch porn and collect comic books! I haven't finished my studies and I don't intend to." You want to make yourself different from these people. You reply:

"I'm doing fine. I wake up late, I eat junk food and I haven't got a girlfriend. My school? I'm not going. I'm not working, my parents pay for me. You know what? I sometimes masturbate in the shower." The look on their faces is priceless. They will tell your uncles, they will tell everyone that young Vince has grown up into lazy, rude scum. He didn't even wear a costume at his grandfather's funeral. Keep away from him. He's a threat to your future children. Do not invite him to your marriages. Well that's good news. No more social events for me.

My mom told me she will never again invite me to any family meeting. I'm a stain. A stain that cannot be cleaned. I smile. Whatever, I'm okay with myself. And she adds that my clothes are inappropriate. The shirt needs washing and the shoes are old. For God's sake, they're sneakers! Well, they're black, aren't they? That's the point, right? She turns her back and walks away. One sec mom. That girl in the corner, where do I know her from? She looks at her. Her? Oh, she's your cousin Helen. Heh, yeah she is. She always is. I take my black sneakers and leave. At least I'm okay with myself.