VZD’s is a little cafe that I used to frequent when I had an office in Oklahoma City. I often stopped in after work for a little conversation and a drink or two. To say the bar is eclectic is stating a fact rather than a supposition. Once the location of Veasey’s Drugs, thus VZD, bottles and assorted paraphernalia remain on the north wall - old bottles, without the drugs anymore, thanks to an order by the DEA.
The rectangular bar, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises. The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky. A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present every time I visit.
Dr. Pete, a PhD political pundit, James, a carpenter from Louisiana and, of course, Brian - the names changed to protect the innocent. Many other denizens populate the bar, mostly lawyers and politicians since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.
Brian is a former cop turned landman, turned death examiner, turned embalmer and cremator. We had all partaken of several drinks as light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Brian got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.
“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”
It was getting late and pretty Miss Lilly had just shown us the latest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside. Who was looking at the tattoo? In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I acquiesced to go with Brian.
We picked up Ruby, the very recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Brian said. “They’ll know you’re drunk and these people are already upset enough.”
I did not bother pointing out that he had as much to drink, or more, than I did.
The relatives dutifully left and we lifted the body of the old woman onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.
I helped Brian put Ruby into cold storage, and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace and preceded to cremate the body. Later, he removed the metal from the ashes.
“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery or other,” he explained.
We headed back to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Brian stopped at a construction site in the road. There was a hole in the street, covered with a yellow tarp.
“Are you down there?” Brian called out the window.
Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”
“Do you need something to eat?” Brian asked.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” was the answer.
Brian and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s, near the exit to the interstate, and bought a Big Mac, fries and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm, and was appreciative.
The night was not over. After returning to VZD’s, Brian received a call. Bob worked for a livery company, a company that supplies hearses, mostly Cadillac’s, to various funeral homes around town. He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger and then we followed him and the hearse he drove, to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.
When Brian, Bob and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to make it home to Edmond, the night’s memory girded around my brain for months to come.
The rectangular bar, about the size of a small swimming pool, hosts around fifty customers comfortably, but many more than that often jam the premises. The walls match the atmosphere, always dark and smoky. A group of patrons seems to live there because they are always present every time I visit.
Dr. Pete, a PhD political pundit, James, a carpenter from Louisiana and, of course, Brian - the names changed to protect the innocent. Many other denizens populate the bar, mostly lawyers and politicians since VZD’s is close to the Capitol. When the business of Oklahoma law is in session, politicos pack the place every night.
Brian is a former cop turned landman, turned death examiner, turned embalmer and cremator. We had all partaken of several drinks as light outside the big picture window finally gave way to darkness. Brian got a phone call from a new client. He needed to pick up a body.
“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll give you something to write about.”
It was getting late and pretty Miss Lilly had just shown us the latest addition to the colorful tattoo on her backside. Who was looking at the tattoo? In a state of black and tan-induced euphoria, I acquiesced to go with Brian.
We picked up Ruby, the very recently deceased person, at the hospital. “Let me do all the talking,” Brian said. “They’ll know you’re drunk and these people are already upset enough.”
I did not bother pointing out that he had as much to drink, or more, than I did.
The relatives dutifully left and we lifted the body of the old woman onto a gurney. Her eyes were open, along with her mouth, her body stiff but surprisingly still slightly warm. We drove her downtown to the crematorium.
I helped Brian put Ruby into cold storage, and then watched in surreal amazement as he rolled out the body of an old man, fired up the furnace and preceded to cremate the body. Later, he removed the metal from the ashes.
“Most everyone these days has metal screws and clamps from some surgery or other,” he explained.
We headed back to VZD’s. Along the way, in downtown Oklahoma City, Brian stopped at a construction site in the road. There was a hole in the street, covered with a yellow tarp.
“Are you down there?” Brian called out the window.
Someone answered, obviously distraught, obviously crying. “The police are trying to get rid of me.”
“Do you need something to eat?” Brian asked.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” was the answer.
Brian and I drove around the block to a McDonald’s, near the exit to the interstate, and bought a Big Mac, fries and a soda. The person under the tarp took our offering with the show of only a slender arm, and was appreciative.
The night was not over. After returning to VZD’s, Brian received a call. Bob worked for a livery company, a company that supplies hearses, mostly Cadillac’s, to various funeral homes around town. He needed someone to drive him home after delivering a hearse. When Bob arrived at VZD’s, he had a hamburger and then we followed him and the hearse he drove, to a funeral home in Midwest City, a suburb of OKC.
When Brian, Bob and I finally returned to VZD, I was sober enough to make it home to Edmond, the night’s memory girded around my brain for months to come.
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