But Not Forgotten -- End

I rode with Marc across town to Dan’s house. The entire way, Marc complained about the lack of reimbursement for his mileage and gas and the fact that he was missing out on tips.

When we arrived at Dan’s house, Marc pulled his Ranger to a stop behind Dan’s late eighties model Towncar that was parked crookedly in the driveway. It looked as though Dan had driven his car home during one of his binges. The driver’s side door wasn’t completely shut.

"What are we doing here?" Marc said

I looked at him. "You have to go to the door with me."

He huffed. "Do I get hazard pay?"

I rolled my eyes. "I just work here. I don’t make the rules."

"Fine, but I get dibs on the South Gate Estates deliveries tonight."

I shrugged.

He grunted and opened his door. I followed him up the driveway and onto the massive front porch that was once the home of a very different Dan Colbreth.

At the door, I opened the screen and knocked once, and the door cracked open on its own.

Marc shook his head. "He’s going to have to lay off the sauce."

I rapped tentatively on the doorframe, but there was no stirring from within the house. Something about the entire situation was beginning to seem wrong to me.

Certified mail returned twice.

The car parked crookedly in the driveway with the driver’s side door cracked open.

Garbage ripped open on the front porch by some unknown animal and simply left to rot.

The door left swinging open and unnoticed.

A puff of foul air from within the house.

"Hello?" I called.

No answer.

"Great, he’s not home. Let’s go make some tips."

I gave Marc a scornful look. "I think we should check on him."

Marc replied with an incredulous look. "I’m not going in there. The old bastard’s likely to shoot me."

I ignored him and turned back to the door.

"Dan? It’s James from the store. I’ve got something for you from Peter."

Marc smirked. "When you’re done getting yourself killed, I’ll be waiting for you in the truck."

I looked at him, and then I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The house was in a strange state of disarray.

The television in the den was on mute and showing nothing but static. Apparently, he had been watching a VCR tape and left it playing. A plate sat on the coffee table with what must’ve once been lasagna. Now it was growing some kind of green mold on the top of it.

And the foul odor seemed to grow stronger with each successive step.

I walked into the hallway and found it completely dark. The last week had been bitterly cold, yet the heater was not on.

I walked through the dark hallway and past Dan’s scrapbook wall. At the end of the hallway, the door to his bedroom stood closed. And now it smelled as though something was rotting. The odor reminded me of last year when a rat fell down into the wall inside my dorm room and died.

When I reached his bedroom door, I knocked tentatively.

"Dan?"

Not a rustle came from within.

A kind of sinking feeling came over me. I turned the knob and pushed the door open, and what I found inside was a disgrace.

Dan lay on his bed swelled to twice his normal size. His skin had turned ice blue and you could see every vein in his face. It looked like some kind of bad horror movie effect rather than a real person.

Later, I found out that he had died two weeks ago of asphyxiation. He’d fallen asleep more drunk than usual, threw up and choked to death.

And none of us, myself included, had even given a second thought to his absence.

I will never forget Dan Colbreth.

I will never forget how ugly and selfish we all were – especially me.