STICKY NOTES
Pat Fish

[25 may 2002—proofed for #bookz]

As I gazed upon my sister's wedding invitation, my tears would no doubt have seemed a bit incongruous with my smile. Not only was I ecstatic that she'd invited me to her wedding, she wanted me to be her maid of honor! Which, of course, most folks would not find too surprising considering it's my sister and all but then these folks might not know how I almost completely sabotaged my sister's romance with her fiancé and soon to be life mate. The wedding invitation, adding to my amusement, was on the front as completely normal as any. Inside, the wedding details were artfully written in gold leafing pen on a handsome buff sticky note, bordered, improbably, with elegant white lace edging.
There it was, attached to the thick card backing by a strip of tacky glue, exactly like the ubiquitous yellow sticky notes we all have tacked somewhere or another that we do not forget. Evidently Margie had regained her sense of humor and I was glad for this because it was the sticky notes her fiancé loved to stick everywhere or anywhere that caused me to deduce this nefarious fellow was either a)a certified spy, b)a criminal con man or c)both. Then the R-rated sticky note ended up on dead Mrs. Spencer's forehead as she lay innocent in her coffin and yes again, this was directly my doing.

"Check out 2-B" were the words on the first sticky note I found. Since my sister and I shared apartment 2-B in this apartment complex, I was naturally intrigued by the reference. I'd found the note stuck rather ostentatiously to the front of one of our communal washing machines. It wasn't like I was peeking over someone's shoulders to read their personal journals as scribed upon sticky notes is what I'm saying here. I did a quick scan of the laundry room to determine if the owner of the sticky note was about but saw no one.
"Seems someone's checking us out," I informed my sister as I lugged a basket of laundry into our apartment. I then handed the sticky note to her and was amazed that she blushed.
"It's the guys over in 2-G," Marge elaborated. "Well, the 'guy', should I say." Marge used the index and middle fingers of both hands to pantomime the "quotes" implicated in her reference to a singular fellow. This freaked me a bit. When Marge started using those physical quotes I knew she was falling in love again.
"He's adorable, Micky. He's finishing up his master's degree at Central University. He's tall, handsome, friendly and ..." with this Marge looked to the apartment ceiling for the word but I supplied it without any ceiling consultation.
"Sensitive?" I said.
"That's it, sensitive," Marge took the bait, snapping her fingers at my wisdom.
Of course Marge found the tall handsome and educated fellow in 2-G sensitive. Just like she considered the short ugly jockey she met last summer who conned her into betting a week's wages on horse number three, as sensitive. Or the high rise worker who talked her into a walk across the top bar of the Malcolm county bridge. He too was sensitive. Then there was ...
I stopped my musing as Marge admitted her current sensitive beau to our apartment. This was insensitive enough in that my hair was in curlers and I was attired in a ratty bathrobe. But the fellow bought along his roommate who was tall and handsome enough for me at that moment.
With her emphasis on sensitivity for all boyfriend considerations, Marge could be amazingly clumsy and insensitive. Not that I didn't love my little sister to pieces, the pretty princess just two years my junior who always managed to get into some pickle or another that required my intervention time and again. She wasn't dumb, my little Margie. Or mean. She was simply, what's the word? Innocent!
She was always innocent, including the time she broke Mom's prized cuckoo clock by dropping it after trying to pry open the door for the bird. Mom, as usual, blamed me while I, as usual, accepted the blame. It always broke my heart when Margie got punished, however justly. She'd cry big crystal tears that welled up in those precious blue eyes until my own sensitive heart would break. In due time I accepted all blame for Margie's sins with equanimity. In more due time I learned how to clean up her messes BEFORE they happened.
Thus was our history when I met Al Moore and his handsome room mate Bob Markem.

"Come on in guys," I heard Margie say as I ran frantically down the hall to don suitable clothing and remove those hideous curlers from my head. Margie could have at least told me she invited two men over but that's how she was. I'd be mad for a while, berate her for her thoughtlessness, watch those adorable eyes cloud in pain and, of course, I'd forgive her.
Indeed Al Moore was tall though not handsome in any classical sense. His roomie, on the other hand, was tall and yes, dark and handsome. I was as smitten with him as Marge was with awful Al though I admit that terrible adjective was attached most because before the fellow said a word I knew him to be a rascal and a scoundrel. For Marge adored him, right? And considered him sensitive? This was enough to convict in my mind.
It was his sticky notes that did him in. And it was daunting evidence, indeed.
I caught Al peering through our apartment's peephole before I found the incriminating sticky note. Not only was he peeping through the peephole in the most suggestive manner, he was looking through the thing from the outside.
"Just checking to make sure Marge's got a clear view," was his lame response to my glare. The following day I found another sticky note affixed to the elevator door. "Fix peephole" was written on it.
As it turned out Marge and I got along famously with the boys in 2-G though I was always suspicious of Marge's friend Al Moore. The guy was supposed to be so smart and educated yet he worked in a funeral parlor. For sure many folks earn a living by burying the dead but none of them were Marge's current beau. The hammer I was sure would drop might stem from Al's weird fascination with the dead. Or so I saw it.
Bob Markem, on the other hand, was turning out to be a real gem. Gainfully and proudly employed in a law firm owned by his father, Bob attended night classes in pursuit of a law degree. He was handsome, a great kisser and yes, sensitive. He even had one ear pierced, in that manner of men not afraid to do such a thing. He always wore a gold loop earring from which dangled a tiny heart.
"You're shivering," he would say as we sat on the couch. Though I wasn't shivering it was so thoughtful of him to imagine such. He'd run to my bedroom in search of a sweater to tenderly grace my non-shivering shoulders.
"I'm falling in love," Marge would announce with a sigh. "Me too," I'd sigh back, acknowledging Marge's growing emotion yet knowing I'd somehow have to save her from herself.

Then I discovered awful Al was a spy.
Again, it was the sticky note.
"Call CIA for help," were the words on this interesting note. It was stuck on my shoe, no doubt picked up from one or another weird place stupid Al would leave his constant notes. I recognized his scrawl easy enough and it was time for me to pay a bit more attention to one Al Moore, funeral parlor worker and then certified spy.
"There's something weird about him," I told Bob the night of my spy discovery. I didn't want to reveal my belief that his roommate might be a spy to Bob just then. I wanted Bob's impressions of his roommate, unfettered by any knowledge of espionage.
"He's hardly around," Bob responded to my query as to what life is like with awful Al. "During the day he works at the funeral parlor. He goes to night classes four nights a week and on Thursdays and weekends he's always over here or out with Marge. So I sure don't have a problem with him."
"Thursdays?"
Bob shrugged an affirmative.
"Marge and I go to the gym on Thursdays. Al is never over here. You go to class on Thursdays so how would you know where Bob goes except what he tells you?"
Bob shrugged and this time I didn't know what the gesture meant.

It was on me to investigate the mysterious Thursdays of my sister's boyfriend. Which is how I ended up in the bowels of Ferber's funeral parlor the following Thursday night to discover not awful Al, but my own beautiful Bob.
"What on earth are you doing here?" I asked Bob, who appeared as surprised as I.
"What are you doing here?" he answered my question with a question.
It was after ten PM, a time I specifically planned for my arrival. This was well after evening viewing hours and a good half an hour after old man Ferber locked up and headed for home. I did have a key for the place, obtained a bit sneakily in that it wasn't my key but awful Al's who left the thing laying just anywhere. I considered it a bit spooky walking around the dark funeral home like that but if Al was up to some spying activities, even a counter-spy thing I'd considered, it would most likely involve the funeral home of his employment. Who would suspect such goings-on in a funeral home?
Except instead of awful Al here was my boyfriend Bob also be-bopping around the darkened house of the dead and now I was really confused.
"I came here looking for you, silly," Bob said, pulling me close to him for a hug. "I figured you might show up here what with your suspicions about Al's Thursday nights. Besides, I got a little curious myself. I was afraid you might get into trouble and well," Bob shrugged his shoulders again. "You know how Al leaves his keys laying around."
Was this guy a sweetheart or what? I must admit it was very nice to finally have someone looking our for me. Even when I was out and about and looking out for Marge.
Since we saw no sign of errant Al around the funeral parlor, Bob and I left the dead in peace. Next Thursday, I vowed, I'd find out where lying Al spent his Thursday nights.

The following Thursday Al did me a favor by showing up in my apartment before I'd even left to begin searching the highways and byways for him. Of course Al didn't know I was there because I was supposed to be at the gym with my sister Marge. I quickly doused all the lights when I heard the key jiggling in the lock. Who ever was gaining entrance, and I figured it had to be someone we trusted enough to give a key, would best not know that I was there and watching their every move. Sure enough it was Al. I crouched behind the couch, amazed that I could finally catch this fellow up to no good.
He moved swiftly about the darkened apartment. I heard him go back to Marge's bedroom. I couldn't see what he was doing in there in that I was only able to sneak a peek when he wasn't around. This plus the couch was angled so I couldn't see into the bedroom. Quicker than I expected, Al stole out the front door. All I'd heard prior was the sounds of a few drawers in Marge's room opening and closing.
So the guy was some sort of thief, I concluded, grabbing my coat and running out the door to follow and corner him like the rat he was.
Only I had no idea where he went so it was back to the funeral parlor for me. Something weird was going on in that funeral parlor, I could feel it in every instinctive bone.
The weirdest thing on this off-hours visit was not only was Al there, so was my sister Marge! I could not believe my eyes, aching for focus from having only the moon as light source. Sure enough there was Marge and Al, engaged in a passionate embrace. This in a viewing room with a casket directly behind them!
I waited outside the funeral parlor, pondering this turn of events, when I heard the sounds of doors quietly being closed, soft kisses accompanied by sweet murmurs, then the sound of footsteps walking away. Breathing a sigh of relief that I hadn't been discovered, I headed down the street. Before I could go far, a flash of movement inside the funeral parlor caught my moonlit peripheral vision. Al was still in there!
What on earth was with this guy who'd bring his lady friends for romance amongst the dead, who called the CIA for help, who was obsessed with peepholes? What else could I do but go inside and find out what the heck was going on?
Even the moon's lighting effect was lost inside the darkened parlor. I could see absolutely nothing but I for sure heard awful Al moving all about. I followed my ears and then the real trouble began.
Al was going in and out of the six viewing rooms of the parlor, doing I don't know what but it involved the dead bodies in the caskets. This was beyond creepy, I pondered, but I managed to sneak up to Mrs. Spencer's casket immediately after Al paid her a visit. Of course I didn't know it was Mrs. Spencer at the time. Since I couldn't see a thing, I ran my hands quickly, and now I WAS shivering, over Mrs. Spencer's dead person. Just then Al came back into the room and this is how Mrs. Spencer ended up on the floor.
Al's sudden appearance caused me to jolt so that I knocked Mrs. Spencer, casket and all, off of the flimsy whatever holding her and a dull thump told me though I couldn't see, that Mrs. Spencer had fallen out of her casket. Several baskets of lilies were also dislodged and then the room was a mess what with dead bodies and flowers littering the floor. Besides all this, Al was running down the hall away from me. Mrs. Spencer would have to wait for I could not let Al get away.
I chased him down the hall. At one point I managed to grab his jacket but he wrested free. I heard the door slam then my heart sank at the sound of a key being turned. Al was locking me in here!
For almost ten minutes I cried. Then, with nothing better to do, I decided to try and make sense of Mrs. Spencer. The poor woman deserved better than to be left on the floor like that. Besides, I needed time to consider my options. Surely if I felt around this entire joint I could manage to find a phone. I'd call Marge and tell her to get me out of here. If worse came to worse, I could actually turn on the lights but I feared arousing suspicion caused by lit funeral parlors in the dead of night, you should forgive the expression.
The calmness that always came when I dealt with Marge's problems descended upon me. Sure I could get Mrs. Spencer upright and properly in her casket, maybe put the lilies back in their vase. Then I'd call my innocent sister and have her come unlock the door. Finally, I'd clue in her clueless self about her awful, now weird, Al.

Just as I found Mrs. Spencer's body in the dark, my ears couldn't believe what they heard. It was awful Al, returned to the scenes of his crime and now calling my name! I sat quietly beside Mrs. Spencer. Let him walk through the doors to this room and wham, I'd ambush him and catch him in the act.
Which I did only Al didn't go quietly into captivity.
"Get off of me," he screamed, flailing his arms and knocking down even more lilies.
"Thought you could mistreat my sister just like all of the other idiots she conjures up," I shouted back, still hanging on his back and still knocking down lilies.
"You're crazy," Al screamed back. Finally, with a twist he managed to send me flying to the floor, directly on top of Mrs. Spencer.
Al threw himself upon me and Mrs. Spencer to do God only knew what awful perversion.
"Micky, what the hell are you doing here?" Al asked through clenched teeth. My arms were pinned over my head and Al held my legs tight with his knees.
"What do you mean what am I doing here?" I answered his question with a question. "What kind of pervert are you, bringing my sister here late at night, then hanging around afterward doing God only knows what with the dead corpses?"
"Micky," Al said, out of breath and tired from struggling to hold me down. "Micky!" This he screamed scaring me to death because why was he screaming my name like that?
"My God, you're so cold!" Al screamed, letting me go so suddenly I forgot to run away.
"I'm not cold, Al. That's Mrs. Spencer who's so cold because Mrs. Spencer is dead which you know full well in that you were in here earlier fooling around her casket for I know not why."
You'd think an experienced funeral worker wouldn't be so jumpy around dead people, then I guess Al was surprised to discover he was feeling a dead woman's forehead which was considerably colder than my living one.
"You're crazy, Micky," Al said, disengaging himself from Mrs. Spencer and looking me directly in the eye. At least I imagined him looking me in the eye as it was dead dark still.
"Marge and I were in here earlier, I admit. We meet here sometimes. For a little privacy, you know?"
"So why were you sneaking around in her bedroom, earlier?" I countered, waiting for his wiggle.
"It's where I leave the sticky notes with times and places. Like I said, privacy."
A little privacy in a funeral home. I mused at the concept.
"But Marge and I left together. It wasn't me fooling around with these dead people, Micky. Now, my God, Mrs. Spencer's laying here on the floor, the flowers, my God they're everywhere. I'm going to get fired for sure. You've got to help me clean this place up."
"Me help you clean it up? After what you did to me?"
"Micky, I swear, it wasn't me. Here, let me find my lighter, see if we can figure out what's going on here."
It sure was a mess in that room with Mrs. Spencer. Al and I slowly surveyed the surroundings, the toppled casket, Mrs. Spencer sprawled across the rug, the lilies strewn everywhere.
"What's this?" Al asked, reaching over and snatching something off of my coat.
"Know anybody who wears a gold earring with a dangling heart?" he asked, holding the earring close to the lighter's glow as we both full well knew who wore that earring. It was worn by Al's room mate and my boyfriend and the only way I could have gotten the thing was in the tussle I had with the intruder in the hallway.

"A jewelry thief, Micky! Not only a jewel thief, but a thief who steals from the dead! Why can't you stop meddling in my affairs? Why? I'm going to marry Al and if I never see you again it will be too soon!"
Her words broke my heart. None of us would ever lay eyes on handsome Bob Markem because he totally disappeared after our tussle in the funeral parlor. Al did some research and discovered his former room mate was a known jewel thief, then plying his trade on dead people with the aid of handy keys left lying about by his room mate. When Al explained his discovery, we filed the appropriate police reports.
I begged Marge to forgive me.
"Al's been fired because of you," Marge shouted, still angry. "I've lost all self-respect because of you. And you are done treating me like a child. See what kind of judge of men you are!"
I'd worked very hard that night, right along with Al. Together we hefted Mrs. Spencer back into her casket and got them both back on their podium. We gathered lilies and re-arranged. It was Al and those damned sticky notes. He left one square in the center of Mrs. Spencer's forehead, to be viewed by a bevy of relatives who arrived the following day to view their dear departed, then adorned with a sticky note with the words "Meet me in the casket room and we'll have a good time."
"He's studying to be a cook," Marge continued to shout to my seriously chastised self. "C I A," she shouted, enumerating the letters on her fingers for effect. "Stands for Culinary Institute of America. It's also where he goes on Thursday nights and if you'd asked me I would have told you. He keeps it secret because he was getting up the courage to tell his family that he wanted, despite his advanced education, to be a chef. I know this stuff, Micky, and you know why I know this stuff? Because I love him and it doesn't matter how many mistakes I've made in the past, sooner or later we all find the right one for us. I didn't need you 'protecting' me and I resent it."
Marge was right of course. I knew it true and pondered the notion greatly in the long days following in the empty apartment. Look at the mess I'd made of my own love life, my smug self. I prayed she'd forgive me. Until the day I received her wedding invitation I was sure she never would.
"Buffet will be provided by the CIA" the sticky note inside the invitation noted in gold script.
I smiled. I grabbed a blank sticky note from my desk and scribbled my RSVP for return.