Gene Weiberman

It was 24 years and one day after his death that Gene Wieberman was forgotten. Not too bad when you consider that his father before him was forgotten the day that Gene himself died, and that had only been 14 years and 253 days later. 

The Wieberman clan came to an end with Gene, who in life had become a lonely wretch of a man, though not for lack of trying. His story was much like that of Scrooge, but unlike Dickens’ classic, he lacked the wealth or the visit of three Christmas spirits to pull him out of his tailspin. 

He was handsome enough, tall enough, and certainly white enough, that he lived with more than his share of privilege. This of course did nothing to mitigate the feelings that began to grow inside him as the years waned and he wasn’t quite handsome enough, his aging spine compressed 2 inches short of tall enough, and the world had its fucking fill of white enough. 

His wife Maureen Wieberman passed shortly before this transformation was complete, which was a blessing, and with no children to speak of, Gene lived out his remaining days in the suburban two-bedroom ranch the couple had purchased thirty years earlier. He expired on the floor of the kitchen, seconds after pouring himself his morning coffee. His morning cup of Joe was part of his routine to both prepare his brain for the crossword puzzle and to “keep him routine”, though after his heart stopped beating and his bowel muscles gave up the ghost, he didn’t need any help in this department, much to the chagrin of the firefighters who found him and the funeral director who cleaned him. The crossword would also go unfinished, which is a shame because given that day’s clues, would have been the first he completed in weeks. 

The last remaining person who carried Gene’s memory was his second cousin Lorraine Schultz. They had seen each other only occasionally over the years, and while they had never been close, she remembered him with a kind indifference until the monster named Alzheimers clawed and ravaged her mind, and his name (much like her own) was gone from her consciousness and lost to the ages. 

So it was that time continued its forward march with no regard for Gene or the remembrance of him. 

That is until the last day of May, 32 years, 16 days since he loosed this mortal coil, and 8 years 15 days since he had been completely forgotten. On that night, a young girl, named Avery after her mother, found herself rubbing the sleeping dust out of her eyes, not entirely sure why she was standing in the hallway with her Dora the Explorer pajama pants (or “pantalones” as Dora taught her) soaked with pee. 

There had been something in her dreams, something terrifying.

The amnesia that so often steals our slumbering memories was already erasing the details, but… there had been a man. The man himself wasn’t that scary looking. He was almost handsome, and kind of tall, and white… very white. It wasn’t normal though. Not even the look of a shut-in or that Albino man that worked down at the Stop and Shop. This was the complexion of a corpse.

Avery had only seen one of those, right after Nana went to heaven to live with Blue, her old puppy. Nana had been in an extra comfy looking box, but nothing about her looked comfortable or natural. The face that once had so much life and light in it when she would sing with her granddaughter, had none of that or any color. It was the bone-white of a skull. Like the skull underneath Nana’s skin that would soon be exposed, once the layers of funeral makeup and flesh melted away. That was the color of the man.

As Avery finally cleared her eyes, she breathed in a deep lungful of air, ready to cry for mom’s help with her accident.

That’s when she saw him, the man from her nightmare. The soft glow of the bathroom nite light outlined the sallow features of his dead white features. He said his name was Gene. In fact, he was screaming it.