Steven Puffer -- A remembrance
Posted by skittles15 471 days ago (Story)5:30 pm. I undress from my work clothes, take a shower, shave and put on some nicer threads. I grab my iPod that shows very little signs of wear, cigarettes and redbull, then head downstairs. I unlock my car plug in the iPod and push play. “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton begins playing on shuffle, an ironically perfect song for the day. Today was Steven Puffer’s wake.
Although I hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, it hit home. Making the 35 minute drive from Tiffin to Cedar Rapids I was deep in thought. Recalling parties where we had drawn genitalia and curse words on him, the night I spit fire from his shoulders and even the night where I gave him a line of heat blisters across his shins. I look down at the speedometer…110 mph. Looks like I’ll be getting there sooner rather than later. I passively blame Steven for this relatively unsafe speed and chuckle to myself remembering how he always pushed you to take it a step further, be it eating a burrito or spitting fire from a roof. There was always more, he knew it and made sure you did too. 110 mph again…damn it Steven. I focus on the road for the rest of the drive and end at Cedar Memorial.
Cars. Everywhere there are cars. Apparently Cedar Memorial is a popular place. It is a huge funeral parlor and cemetery, with beautiful scenery and miles of subtle roadways. I park far enough away to get winded thanks to my smoking and begin the walk in my oh so uncomfortable “professional” pseudo leather shoes. My shoes squeak with every step reminding me to enjoy my blisters in the morning. Thanks again Steven.
As I approach the front door I notice the line is outside of the doors. I’m approached by a frail old lady who quickly asks “Steven?”. I’m taken back for a second thinking she asking me if my name is Steven, until I realize there is more than one wake tonight. “Yes” I reply. Her frail old wrinkled hands pass me a pamphlet and her wrinkled fingertips grace the back of my hand as she says “I’m sorry”. The pamphlet is full of pictures of Steven and his family, friends and fiancé. While reading through the pamphlet I feel myself starting to get choked up and make the decision not to talk to anybody, unless spoken to. I scan the scene and don’t notice anybody I know. This is not surprising since I only knew Steven from parties and the occasional “Can you reverse my overdraft charges?” at US bank. Which he always did (even when I had $450 in overdraft fees).
The line is moving as fast as a sleeping sloth, but I don’t mind. I’m evesdropping on everybody at this point. I hear thousands of stories about Steven’s goodwill, mischief and amazing life. It makes the room glow. It gave everybody smiles, even though we were brought together by this unfortunate event. As the line moved along we come to the guestbook. I step over to sign in and flawlessly write my name…well print my name. I quickly gaze across the open page to see if I recognize any names. Nope. Only the lonesome me here tonight.
It was then I saw a book of pictures that nobody was looking through. I break my silence for the first time of the night and ask the older couple behind me if they would save my spot (well remember my face) while I browsed through the still memories of Steven. They agree and I am off. It is a scrapbook of Steven and Lindsay’s (his fiancé) cruise they had taken a year or two back. Smiles. That is all I see. Smiles. I cannot recall a time that Steven didn’t have at least a smirk on his face. He wore it like a hobo wears a beard. It was natural and extremely infectious. You could feel like crap and all he would do is smile. It would brighten your day a lot like a puppy snuggling up against you or a baby laughing at the peek-a-boo game. Very few people have this talent, and I only ever knew one, Steven.
Before I know it I am at the end of the pictures and notice more up near the casket, but I divert my eyes. I still haven’t prepared myself for the reason I have come and begin my inner self monologue. I reassure myself of what I will say to the family as I’m sure they have heard 1000 times throughout the day “How are you doing” and “Steven was so great”. I’ve never been a “by the book” kind of guy so I decide to tell the college stories that I have of Steven.
I’ve been in line for over an hour, my feet hurt and I’m trying to figure out whether I’m overly hot or cold. We finally make it into the room where Steven lies. The room is beautifully decorated. Flowers and candles on nearly every table prominently showcasing at least 1 picture of Steven. Near the front of the room lies Steven. His family standing in front of the gorgeous platinum colored casket, shaking hands and obviously dehydrated from tears shed. Steven was there, in an unfamiliar scene to me. Sleeping quietly and not bothering a soul. The loose white interior of the casket’s door was folded to resemble a starburst design and had a crucifix mounted in the center. I’m not much of a religious person, hell if you ask anybody who knows me I’m not at all, but whoever was responsible for the decorations left no detail out. It was unbelievably beautiful.
Just after taking in the entirety of the scene a large man approached the microphone and announced it was time for the vigil, one to remember Steven and two to give the family a much needed break. The vigil started off with prayers and readings and I tried to remember my catholic dogma taught to me in grade and high school. Just as soon as it started, it seems, the vigil ends. The large man once again takes the stand and announces that now is the time to share stories we may have about Steven. I contemplate for all of 30 seconds whether or not to share my slightly obscene stories. I choose not to, as mainly family and extremely close friends are sharing theirs.
Wow! That is all I can say. I always knew Steven had an affinity for being a great guy, but never to this extent. Every funeral that has ever happened comes with the words “So and so was a great guy” etc… but these stories definitely warranted, hell probably even set the precedent for it. His sister, Laurel, was one of the first to share starting off with “Steven and I were often referred to as clones. He liked Mexican food, I loved Mexican food. He had dark hair, I have dark hair. We even have the same blood type…hopefully I don’t need a kidney down the road.” This too soon style of humor exactly mirrored Steven. I was actually ecstatic that she had said it, even in death Steven is still making people smile. More and more stories were shared from immediate family, cousins, uncles, aunts and childhood friends. Grandpa stood up and told of his times teaching the boys how to play euchre, then after they had learned the game “took me to the cleaners”. Aunt told of the time when they were at the fair and Steven and company won a crapload of goldfish in the ping pong game. Uncle stood up and just shared his deep love and affection with Steven, finishing with “He was actually the last one who cut my hair.” That one really hit home and that was the end of the stories.
The line began moving again and I felt my throat loosen a bit after hearing the stories. I begin to talk with the couple behind me whose son hand known Steven. We swap some stories and have a few laughs and then I come across Laurel. She is the person who contacted me via facebook with the message:
“Hey Chris. You probably don’t remember me but I was at one of your parties with Steven where you spit fire. I’m sorry to have to tell you this but he passed away”.
I begin to talk with Laurel and swap stories once again about Steven. I thank her for contacting me as well as sharing her “too soon” humor and the line begins to move again. This time I am approached by a guy in a suit about 1.5 feet taller than me. He extends his hand and says “Traeger! How ya been man? You don’t remember me do you?” I reply “Uhm you’ll have to refresh my memory…if you’re calling me Traeger there is a good chance that memory is a little hazy.” He fails to give me his name, but after a bit of research (thank you facebook) I find out he is Joshua Pronk, Laurel’s husband. I remember him from Steven’s 21st birthday that had made its way…somehow to my place. We chat back and forth and talk a little about Steven and how he will be missed, then about what we do now. He works for the state, and went to Iowa State. Thank you Steven, for allowing a Cyclone into my house.
The line continues forward and I am met by a young girl with braces and a teenage bubbly attitude. This is obviously Steven’s sister. She is a sophomore in high school and is handling herself extremely well given the circumstances. I’m at a loss for words, so I decide a little bit of college prep courses from “Traeger” are in the cards. I tell her of the night when I spit fire on her brother’s shoulders and she gives a quick meager chuckle and responds “Yup, that’s Steven for ya.” I don’t want to corrupt her anymore and continue with the line where I am met with Steven’s father.
It’s blindly obvious that he is overwhelmed and shook up with the situation, but as soon as I introduce myself as Traeger, the guy who spits fire he says “You’re the fire guy!? Honey, come here. This is the fire guy!” I look at Lindsay, who was last in line and now wearing Steven’s smile and I ask “Have you been telling them about me?” She responds “No.” and it has become apparent that Steven had told them about me. That sly little shit. In my head I commend him on such a job well done, never telling me that he had told his parents about our dangerous tirades.
After the fire guy conversation blew over, it was onto the whole “I’m so sorry for your loss” talks and I make my way to Lindsay and say “If you need anything, absolutely anything, I’m only a phone call away. In only live in Iowa City, its not a far drive.” She thanks me and I steal one last look at Steven before walking to the picture collages.
Looking through the pictures, of which there were hundreds, I could not find a single one where he was not bigger than life. His smile radiates enough to blind anybody looking directly at it, like looking into the sun…or a woman breastfeeding. His demeanor was always big, strong and never subtle. Yet I look over my shoulder and see him, with his famous smirk plastered upon his face and I’m taken back into my choked up stage. I say goodbye to the couple who was behind me and make my way out of the funeral home and into my Imprezza. I plug in the iPod and “Party Hard” by Andrew W. K. is first play. Somebody is definitely messing with me tonight. Party hard, one of Steven’s winning characteristics, just happened to be first play in a list of 5,000 songs. I wish I was making this up, then I wouldn’t be as freaked out about it, but I also wouldn’t be as uplifted and lighthearted as it made me. Damn it Steven, messing with me again.
Driving home I recollect about all the times I partied with Steven (most of which will be written about here in the coming weeks so be sure to check back). I come to a realization. I never knew Steven outside of parties. Hell, I didn’t even have his cell phone number, but when he showed up all hell broke loose. He was the heart of the party, I was just along for the ride and loved every second of it. With a smile that tops the Mona Lisa and a personality that everybody desired, he ruled the scene. And we all loved him because of it.
Steven, we miss you pal, this Bud’s on me.
Your fiery aid,
Chris Traeger
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