Karl attended his memorial in a crematorium-provided box, swathed in green velvet that didn't really suit him. He sat up front at the Renaissance Presbyterian church, while friends and loved ones paraded by and said nice things about him for a couple of hours, but most of the good stories got left out, because hey. We were in a church.

It was weird, but funny. Not weird-but-funny like the vague recognition of seeing folks you've not spoken to in ten years, and whose names you couldn't remember if someone held an ice pick to your eyeball...I mean weird-but-funny like a lesser-known episode of Welcome to Night Vale.

Up front, the reverend walked us through the motions of memorial, while from some nebulous ovehread distance an 80s-style midi player chimed out "Amazing Grace" at the appropriate time or maybe, if Hezekiah fell asleep and hit the wrong button, we'd all be regaled with a children's rendition of "Jesus Loves Me" during the prayer call-and-response.

Upon these occasions, the reverend would lift up his eyes to heaven and sigh like he could smack a bitch if said bitch were within smacking range.

Reverend: Hezekiah?
PA system: "...this I know, 'cause the Bible tells me so..."
Reverend: Hezekiah?
PA system: "...little ones to him belong..."
Reverend: Hezekiah!
PA system: ...boop boop be doop [click] ...
Hezekiah: ...sorry...

Hezekiah worked his magic (I shit thee not, his name was Hezekiah) from the balcony above and behind us. We never actually set eyes on him. He could've been a cross-eyed Christmas elf for all we knew - but he had a real knack for poking buttons at odd moments, and then failing to poke them when the moment had passed but there are only so many verses in "Let Us Break Bread Together (On Our Knees)" and the next song in the queue sounds suspiciously like an 8-bit video game version of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Reverend: HEZEKIAH.
Hezekiah: ...sorry...
Some lady somewhere behind us with a hell of a stage whisper: Goddammit, Hezekiah.

After awhile, every time Hezekiah managed to hit his marks the reverend would mutter, "Thank you, Hezekiah," which has already worked its way into the friends-group lexicon as the verbal equivalent of a sarcastic slow-clap. My keyboard lacks the necessary letters to convey the squeaky, snorty, laughy sounds coming from the audience with every intervention of the chagrined and invisible button-pusher.

Between us, we decided that Hezekiah is the Presbyterian equivalent of a Night Vale intern. Quoth my husband:

We are sad to report the death of intern Hezekiah, who fused with the PA system in an asynchronous plane. His last words: a quiet "sorry".

— Death in Act Three (@deathinactthree) January 2, 2015

Karl would've been fucking delighted. We were all glad for the Karl-appropriate levity, and for the old friends, and the kind words. It was a lovely thing, this memorial - one Karl himself had been quietly planning over the last year. It was a sweet celebration, while Karl's electric wheelchair looked on, stuffed with yellow roses - and wearing his trademark floppy hat, with the veteran bars and American flag pin.

It became bittersweet as hell when his service dog, Rocky, came out with his hospice nurse. Rocky sniffed, and sniffed, and sniffed at that chair. Then he pulled away and hid behind it. Jesus, you guys. My heart.

Rocky knows what happened. He was there when Karl passed, and he's been adopted by that nurse - who's known the sheltie for years. She's practically lived with him and Karl for months, so really, this is the best possible outcome for the little fellow. He'll be living in the same building, with an old friend who understands him. I pulled the nurse aside afterward, and told her that if anything ever happened - and she couldn't keep him, or she needed anything for him, to let us know. He's always got a place with us. (But Jesus, you guys. Ow.)

So all was said and done, and the church closed up, and some of the old crew adjourned to a bar downtown - next to the coffeehouse where most of us first met Karl, years ago. We toasted, we told tales, and we caught up.

We told the good stories - the ones about Karl and his old trucking days, with the CB handle "Asleep at the Wheel." We joked about the shirtless competitions on Market Street, and the time he traded a friend his tee shirt so the friend could make the dress code at a fancy new club - then he wore that dude's black fishnet body-hugger for the rest of the night, playing chess and sipping coffee. We talked about that time he ran for mayor, or the time he spent 50 bucks running for city council for shits and giggles.

We also talked a lot about Karl's ghost. He loved this city - and you never know, he might stick around.

So if you're driving around downtown and you pass Greyfriar's Coffee and Tea, keep your eyes open. If you see this guy, this thin dude with chin-length salt-and-pepper hair, and a bristly mustache...he'll be wearing a floppy hat and probably walking with a cane. Not because he needs it, not anymore. But those of us who were around twenty years ago, that's how we first knew him - before the chair. He'll carry the cane for show, if you see him now. He'll use it to gesture hello, and give you a wink, and if you look twice he'll be gone.

Anyway, that was Karl.
He always liked it when I wrote about him.

The husband and I called it a day around four o'clock. Last we saw, someone was busy stuffing Karl's ashes into a Crown Royal bag. I hope he fit. He'd wear it much better than the dull green velvet.