A Very Brady Funeral

Greg took the red eye from Philadelphia to LAX, hoping to avoid the scene that was now unfolding as he approached the baggage claim.

“Hey! Greg Brady.”

He shuddered, picturing what would come next. Two older women, probably sisters, and one of their college-aged daughters suddenly broke into sketchy song, accompanied by some ill-conceived Midwest white woman dance steps. “Here’s the story, of a man named Brady, who was busy with three boys of his own,” as they applauded and broke into laughter. Brady karaoke. They used their hands to frame boxes around their faces, trying to replicate the iconic tiled opening of the show. Cell phones were being ripped out of purses and pockets, a small crowd moving tighter around Greg.

He smiled weakly, pulled his baseball cap down a little tighter on his famously floppy locks, gave a little wave, and soundlessly mouthed, How ya doin?, trying to be friendly—Bradys had been taught to always be friendly.

“I don’t think I would have made it through adolescence without your family,” a bulimic silver-haired woman told him, grasping his elbow intimately, as if she were sucking some power through Greg’s arm. He attempted a caring smile and patted her hand, noticing gray eyes that appeared accustomed to pain. “I couldn’t stand growing up. Oh my God, the stories I could tell you.” She shuddered as if a freezing wind was blowing through the terminal. “I’d lie in bed, or hide in my closet and pretend you were my family just to get through the day.”

“Are you someone famous?” a little girl pulled at his arm.

Suddenly there was a tickle on his left ear, hot moist blowing, the unmistakable protrusion of bulletty breast implants against his shoulder, then a familiar aroma leaving Greg to wonder, Do they still make Charlie perfume? A woman in her fifties, dressed in a kaftan that allowed for maximum cleavage while camouflaging her true proportions was leaning into him, whispering. “Greg, you’re the Brady I most wanted to fuck. I used to touch myself when I watched the show.”

“Good to know,” Greg mumbled as his bag slid down the chute. Thank God. He grabbed his suitcase and rushed out the door, thrilled to see his brother pulling up in a dented Volvo station wagon.

“Hey, aren’t you the famous Greg Brady?” Bobby laughed as he leaned out his window, camera’s flashing as the crowd trailed them onto the street. “Look,” he yelled. “It’s the star of A Very Brady Christmas, and several episodes of Hollywood Squares.”

“Jesus, a woman back there told me she used to masturbate to the show,” Greg said with disgust as he slid into his seat.

“Creepy,” Bobby grimaced. “Though I’ll admit I occasionally like to rub one off while watching re-runs of Celebrity Apprentice. You know, Meatloaf and Joan Rivers. That would get anyone hot.”

Greg barked a laugh and squeezed Bobby’s neck. “Good to see you Bro’. You always know how to make me laugh. Thanks for picking me up. I could have taken an Uber.”

Bobby patted his brother’s knee. “What? When you can be squired in a fine vehicle like this?” He motioned around the car, which seemed to float on a patina of crust. Fast food wrappers and Starbucks cups blanketed the floor, the carpet strewn with tiny pieces of copper wire and screws. Greg grimaced as he picked up a stained four-month-old copy of The Los Angeles Times and tossed it in the back seat. “Careful. I haven’t read it yet,” Bobby cautioned. “Anyway, it was good to get out of the house.”

“I bet.” Greg bit his lower lip. “How’s the grieving Brady clan?”

“As you might imagine. Marcia’s using the situation for creative inspiration, lots of drama. Jan isn’t saying much, she just fawns over her kids, and Cindy’s been sitting in the backyard drinking boxes of Pinot Grigio and smoking a lot of weed.”

Greg fished a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket. The people in the car next to them were staring.

“Seriously, Cindy’s been on her cell phone all morning. She’s has a podcast, and she’s doing a special episode from the backyard. Have you heard it? I think it’s called Direct from Bradyville. She actually has a couple sponsors: Depends, and a drug that makes you pee. Or stops you from peeing. Not sure.” Bobby honked a couple times, then abruptly switched lanes without signaling. “Have you noticed our fans are elderly?” he continued. “Hey, maybe you could have your own line of incontinence supplies, or a special Greg Brady Hoveround Scooter. You could be the next Wilford Brimley.” Greg backhanded his brother on the side of the head. “Anyway, Cindy’s show is an hour of trivia from nineteen seventies television. People call in. Lots of obscure television trivia. What was Kojak’s middle name? Which family pet did Greg Brady lose his virginity to?”

“Fuck you,” Greg laughed. “Speaking of moms, how’s Carol?”

“Carol is . . . well, Carol. Gotta give our step-mom credit. Eighty-two-years-old and still kicking ass. She’s upset but holding it together. Oh, she has a new boyfriend. Edward or Eduardo, some kind of elegant spic name. He looks like the little Chihuahua that used to sell tacos, only slightly taller and not as funny. Thinks he’s Ricardo Montalban. Has a cheesy little mustache, and wears ascots. I’m not shitting you. Apparently played a bad guy forty years ago in a couple Burt Reynolds movies. And not the good Burt Reynolds movies like Cannonball Run Two or Hooper. He’s young. Probably only seventy-five. Mommy’s a cougar.”

Both men smiled and then grew silent. “I can’t believe it,” Bobby muttered. “Peter. What the hell? A stupid way to die.”

Greg reached up to pat his brother’s shoulder, then flopped his head back against the headrest, reaching up under his sunglasses to squeeze the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “Bobby, we did what we could. He hasn’t been right for thirty years.”

Bobby suddenly veered sharply to the left in a barrage of horns, nearly clipping two cars to exit onto Lincoln Boulevard. “Hold on, we have company.” A black SUV was forced by traffic onto an adjoining road, with a photographer hanging monkeylike out the back window, his fist wrapped around a long-lensed Nikon. “Get ready,” Bobby warned. “Paparazzi. Everyone is very interested in the Bradys again in our moment of tragedy. Oprah called Carol. Wants to do a one hour special. She told Carol we’re America’s family, and the country needs to know we’re okay.”

“America’s family,” Greg repeated. “America just wants to pry into our lives.”

Bobby nodded. “I know you hate this, but buck up. It’s only for a couple days. Be that adorable Greg Brady that all the kids used to masturbate to.”

It had been Bobby that had called Greg to give him the news. Greg had just arrived at his office at West Chester University, where he taught in the Film and TV Department. Three decades earlier he’d abandoned L.A., choosing a small town outside of Philadelphia where he could remain anonymous. In the early days he was a campus celebrity, but now most of his students had never seen The Brady Bunch, preferring entertainment that featured vampires and zombies, viewed on iPads. When his cell phone rang he brightened.

“Good morning little brother. Six a.m. on the West Coast. A little early for you. What’s happening?”

“Greg, bad news.” Greg could tell from his tone that this was serious. Bobby was the relaxed one in the family, always enjoying a joke, floating through life like it was all one hilarious sitcom. “I’m just gonna say it. I’m at a hospital. They brought Peter here last night. He was in a coma, and he died about thirty minutes ago.”

“What?”

“Not kidding. He was appearing in this crazy event last night. A radio station in the valley sponsored it. It was supposed to be a phony boxing match at a sports bar. Battle of the child stars. He and Danny Partridge.They were wearing head gear and big gloves, but something went wrong. Danny clipped him pretty hard and he fell back and hit one of the posts and was knocked out. The brought him here. Put him into a coma to relieve the pressure in his brain, but it didn’t work.”

“I don’t understand. He was fighting

Danny Partridge? Danny’s a black belt in karate. Peter couldn’t fight Mrs. Howell.”

“He needed the money. They were paying him a thousand bucks. He’s been having a really tough time. I didn’t want you to know because it would just upset you. He hasn’t been able to find work, so he’s been doing all kinds of crazy things. He was going to the convention center in Anaheim once a month to appear with a bunch of old TV stars, selling pictures and autographs for ten bucks a pop. He’s in a low-budget television commercial for a Toyota dealer in Paso Robles. And he was drinking a lot. Maybe doing coke again. He was in bad shape.”

“Jesus Bobby. You should have told me. I would have brought him out here.”

“C’mon Greg. This has been going on for as long as we can remember. I kept trying to get him to move in with me, but he refused. Peter was stuck in the memory.”

Greg nodded. Like Springsteen sang, Glory Days.

He hung up and made plans to return to L.A. for the first time in a decade. He’d hoped he would never have to go back, especially for a funeral.

The two switched to small talk for the rest of the drive, Greg marveling at how much more crowded L.A. had become since he’d lived here. When they pulled up to the old Brady home, the house that had become emblematic of the 1970s ranch burger, Greg once again felt as if he were thirteen years old. As Bobby warned, there were vans and camera trucks parked in front, several paparazzi blocking the sidewalk.

“Greg,” a guy yelled from behind a camera, “does this mean war with the Partridges?”

“Any truth to the rumor that Peter actually overdosed on heroin?”

“Greg, do you want to comment on the rumor that you and your sister Marcia actually have a forty-year-old son who works as an Uber driver in Florida?”

Greg stopped for a second, feeling the urge to pop the faces behind the camera, but he felt Bobby’s grip on his elbow and kept walking. Jan met them at the door, hugging Greg for a long time, until she passed him off one-by-one into the arms of his sisters. The Brady Bunch were now middle aged, but to Greg it felt the same as it did fifty years earlier: Jan soothing and sad; Cindy, pigtails long gone but still smelling of spearmint gum; Marcia, still looking remarkably like the 1974 version, staring at him with huge sad eyes.

He finally made his way to Carol, still wearing her pixie haircut, a wrinkled version of his television Mom. Greg sank into the tiny woman, realizing how much he had missed this embrace. As she led him to the couch he looked around the room, marveling that it hadn’t changed. A Brady family museum, the hip 60s decor sinking into the decorating dregs for a few decades, now emerging as the height of stylish again. He smiled at the big open staircase; perhaps the most photographed stairs in television history. Somehow Carol managed to keep the furniture looking almost new.

The family spent the day in quiet conversation, rotating between tears and occasional laughter as they related their favorite Peter stories. Late in the day, Alice and her husband Sam arrived from San Diego. As they all sat down for dinner, Alice started serving the family. When Carol objected she wagged her finger at her former boss.

“Mrs. Brady, it makes me happy, so please just sit down.” Carol and Alice started discussing logistics for the funeral, with the Brady kids nodding and agreeing as if they were once again teenagers.

“Tomorrow is going to be a sad and stressful day,” Carol announced. “There will be a lot of people at the funeral, and a lot of press. It’s important that the Brady family handle this whole thing with dignity. I know we are all confused and maybe even angry, but we have to maintain.

That night Bobby and Greg decided to continue the teenage illusion and sleep in the bunk beds in their old room. “Jesus, this place is a time capsule,” Greg said in amazement as he looked around at the GI Joes, cowboy action figures, and Matchbook cars lining the shelves. ‘It’s like we never left.”

Bobby smiled and grabbed a towel, placing it at the base of the door to block the crack, then grabbed one of the dolls and popped off its head, reaching inside the body to pull out a joint. “Care to smoke some forty-five-year-old weed? I got it from Bobby Sherman in nineteen seventy-three when he guest starred on the show. That dude was a serious head. And by head, I mean he had an incredible head of hair.”

“Jesus, are you kidding me? I seriously doubt you can get a buzz from that. It’s probably mildewed.”

“Nah, I’m kidding, it’s not that old,” Bobby said as he lit it and passed it to Greg. “I was here last Thanksgiving, and hid something for a rainy day. Sure feels like it’s raining right now.” They sat on the floor in front of an open window, blowing smoke into the night air, careful not to catch the eye of anyone out front. Most of the photographers had left, but there were still a couple leaning against a rusted Toyota, hoping for some kind of shot of the grieving family, preferably a major breakdown.

“What a crazy life,” Greg said. “Who would have thought that when the show went on the air almost fifty years ago we’d be sitting here like two old men, in a bedroom that’s a shrine to our childhood? It doesn’t feel right without Peter.”

“That’s for sure.” Bobby tapped an ash into an empty Coke can. “Now we’re two men short of a bunch.

Bobby popped his head back as if returning from a dream. “I have an idea.” He jumped up and began rummaging around the top shelf in the closet. Beaming at his discovery, he brought down a Daisy Red Robin BB gun.

Greg laughed as he turned off the lights in the bedroom. Leaning out the open window, they took turns taking shots at the Toyota. The two men were smoking from vape pens at the front of the car, and turned to look at the side when they heard the ping of the BBs hitting the metal. They glanced around, unsure of what was happening. On the fourth shot the rear window shattered, and the Brady’s giggled loudly as they closed the window.

For the next two hours they lay in the tiny beds. “Greg, why do you think Peter couldn’t get away from it, but you did? Hell Professor, you went off and forgot all about being a TV star. Don’t you miss it?”

“Not a bit,” Greg whispered. I just wanted to live a normal life. I’d never go back. What about you? You’ve stayed in L.A., but you turned out pretty normal.”

“Not everyone would agree with the normal thing.” Bobby chuckled. “But why would I want to be a celebrity when I can run Bob Brady’s Home Automation, and pay alimony to two ex-wives. Anyway, I didn’t stay handsome enough to be a star. Peaked at age ten. But I was one cute kid,” he mugged. “Without doubt the cutest of the Brady’s. Luckily nobody recognizes me now.”

The next morning after one of Alice’s big breakfasts the family climbed into three limousines and headed towards The Burbank Congregational Church. A huge facility adept at hosting celebrity funerals, the entry was roped-off with plenty of security. A gaggle of photographers descended on the limos as they pulled up, as a hundred or so “Bradyacs” and gawkers gathered around the perimeter.

There were over two hundred invited guests, many of them television stars from the 1970s. Greg thought it looked like a Love Boat plastic surgery clinic, many so medically-enhanced it was like entering a parallel Hollywood universe. Donny and Marie were in the fourth row, Melissa Gilbert was sitting on an aisle, and three or four cast members from Happy Days were near the back. Greg recognized several faces he’d seen but couldn’t identify peppered through the crowd.

The service was short. Hollywood folks like events condensed into sitcom-length sound bites, and afterwards most of the crowd migrated to a reception room behind the church. Greg and the family lined up to shake hands and hear non-stop funny or touching stories about Peter. After the crowd had thinned, the family noticed most of the Partridge family seated about fifty feet away, with Danny Partridge the only one conspicuously missing.

“Wow, ballsy of them to show up,” Marcia whispered to Greg.

“It’s not their fault.” Greg pulled her tighter. “It was an accident.”

There had always been a close but turbulent relationship between the families. While The Brady Bunch was more popular than The Partridge Family, impish Keith Partridge’s quick rise to “teen singing idol” caused competition between the kids. Keith was suddenly on the cover of Rolling Stone and performing in front of stadiums full of screaming little girls, while Greg and Peter were relegated to stories in Teen Beat magazine, clean-cut relics of a different time. The Bradys tried to cash in on the family band craze, donning pasted polyester jump suits in some kind of adolescent Elvis-homage, and recording an awful album, but the family’s complete lack of musical talent squashed their dreams of becoming America’s new singing sensation.

But now the competition was forgotten. Shirley Partridge, propped up with a cane, led her family to the receiving line, starting with Carol. The two embraced and began to cry. Keith Partridge hugged the Brady girls, finally making his way to Greg.

“Jesus Greg, I don’t know what to say.” Keith pulled Greg towards him. Greg was stiff at first, but finally gave in to his embrace. There was an androgynous doll-like softness to Keith—even an aged Keith—that made you want to be close to him. “Listen buddy, how about we get a drink?” Keith motioned towards the bar. “I’m sure you could use it.”

The two grabbed glasses of wine and retreated to a back table. Keith pulled his chair close to Greg’s, their knees touching, leaning in as if to shield them from the rest of the crowd. “Greg, I’m so sorry. And I am sure this is the last thing you want to hear, but Danny feels terrible. He wanted to come, but thought it was inappropriate. But really, his prayers are with you.”

Greg nodded. “Thanks. We don’t blame Danny. Neither of them should have been there.”

“Thanks Greg. You know, this is so strange. We’ve both been through so much. It almost feels like we’re all part of the same family. How are you doing? You look good. I heard you’re a college professor?”

“Yeah, a little college in Pennsylvania.” Greg felt a familiar twinge of admiration seeping up. Keith had always been one step in front of him. The sex symbol. The rock star.

“Can you believe it?” Keith smiled. “Look at you and me. We’re almost eligible for Social Security. Where did the time go? It seems like just yesterday we were eighteen and partying with The Bay City Rollers. How’d we get so fucking old?”

“The years flew.” Greg said, feeling a hand on his back. He swiveled to greet a disheveled man with a red beard wearing a black beanie.

“Just had to offer my condolences Greg,” the man said as if greeting a good friend. “Man, this is awful. I’d just seen Peter four or five months ago. We did this episode of Ellen, kind of a “where are they now.” We had lunch, and he was terrific. You know, everyone loved Peter.” He turned to Keith. “Keith, great to see you. We should talk. I think you and I are both up for that Time Life infomercial, and I was thinking we should do it together. Wouldn’t that be a killer? The two biggest heartthrobs of the
seventies on one stage.”

Keith smiled and shook his hand. “Sounds interesting. Let’s grab lunch.”

The man made a peace sign, tapping his chest above his heart. “Greg, you know I’m here if you need anything.”

“Who the hell was that?” Greg asked.

Keith smiled. “C’mon, you remember Leif Garrett.”

“That was Leif Garrett? Holy shit, he looks like a Russian taxi driver. Jesus, I wouldn’t have recognized him.” Greg glanced around the hall, suddenly wanting to leave. Go home and walk in the woods, have dinner with normal people. “Keith, it’s great to see you. Really. I better get back to the family.” He began to rise.

Keith jumped up, grabbing Greg’s elbow and looking around the room, motioning at someone with a nod of his head. “Greg, give me one more minute. There was something I wanted to talk to you about. I know this isn’t the best time, but since we’re all here . . .”

“I’m so sorry about Peter.” He looked up to see Rueben, the Partridge’s long-time agent. He had to be over eighty years old now, and Greg was surprised he was still alive. He looked like a character in a Martin Short sketch; huge black-framed glasses so windshield-thick Greg marveled he could see out of them. He was wearing a pastel suit with a loud floral tie, the stub of a hot dog-sized cigar poking out the pocket.

Greg reached to shake his hand. “Rueben. Wow. Great to see you.”

Reuben plopped down in the chair next to him. “I know kid. Too long. It broke my heart when I heard about Peter. He was a good kid. You know, in the old days I used to try to get him to let me represent him.”

Another man sat down at the table. “Greg, I hate to talk business on such a sad occasion, but I did want to bring you some really good news,” Rueben continued. He motioned across the table. “Meet Marty Goebel. Marty’s has been really excited to get together with you.” Greg gave Keith a baffled look as the man reached across the table to shake his hand. “He’s responsible for some of the biggest hits on television. Cajun Blood. You know that show? Huge hit on The Outdoor Network.”

Greg shook his head no.

“Ah, you’d love this program. It’s a reality show about a family that lives in an old box car in a swamp in Louisiana. They hunt alligators. Two of the cousins are married, you know, to each other. One of the daughters is missing her left arm, some kind of birth defect, though the rumor in the show is that an alligator bit it off. She’s got this stub covered with Voodoo tattoos. And she’s a psychic. At the beginning of every episode she tells someone’s future.”

Greg shook his head. “Sorry, don’t know it.”

“How about Marty’s other big hit, My Three Dads. It’s on what, Bravo?”

“Right, Bravo. One of their most popular shows,” Marty replied.

“It’s really touching,” Rueben continued. “A reality show about two gay guys and a lesbian that live together. Maybe they’re married? Can you do that now? I know gays can marry, but three? I can’t keep up with all this stuff, but God bless America. Anyway, the gay guys are like your typical gays, but the woman, she’s tough. What do they call women like that?” waving a hand at Marty.

“Butch,” he said. “Dresses like man. Drives truck. Wallet on a chain. That kind of thing.”

And they’re raising this teenage kid,” Rueben continued excitedly. “He’s in high school, and he likes to . . . waddaya call it Marty?”

“He’s a transvestite,” Marty replied. “He competes in cross-dressing contests.”

“Imagine that,” Rueben snorted. “This kid—and he’s good looking too, looks a little like Johnny Depp—dresses up in women’s clothes. But he likes to bang girls. Then he goes home to his three dads, one of which is a dyke. Who wouldn’t want to watch that show?”

“Me,” Greg thought, but nodded.

“All you need to know is that this man is the best.” Rueben pointed a wrinkled digit. “He’s got the magic touch. And guess what? He wants put that magic to work for you. The Bradys and the Partridges. He’s got a great idea for a show.”

“Thanks,” Greg waved a hand, “but I’m not interested. I’m retired from television.”

“Retired from television? That’s crazy,” Rueben scoffed. “Television retires you. Greg, listen to the idea. This will be big. Bigger than The Brady Bunch. Lots of dough. You guys will be stars again.”

“I appreciate it, but I’ll pass.”

“Greg, hear me out,” Marty interjected. “You know what’s happening in Detroit?”

“You mean that it’s crime-ridden, broke and has poisoned water?” Greg said with growing annoyance.

“Exactly.” Marty smiled. “And the Michigan film board is actually paying production companies to come there to boost the local film economy. So we shoot there practically for free. Get this,” he leaned in excitedly, “the Bradys and the Partridges go to Detroit and move into a big old mansion the city has agreed to give us. The plot is that the two families are kind of on the down and out and go to Detroit for a new start. They move in together—just like on the original Brady Bunch. Maybe we’ll even do that same opening, but instead of your family it’s the Partridges and the Bradys. You’ll live in a huge estate, all free. Plenty of room for the two families. Even grandkids. And here’s the incredible part. They’re also going to give you guys businesses to run, all free. They’ve offered a record shop, which could be great. You and Keith running it together. Imagine how much fun that would be. There’s even a little stage in the shop where they used to let bands play to promote their albums. The Partridges could play there.”

“A record shop,” Greg said sarcastically. “Isn’t there a video store available?”

“Hey, it doesn’t have to be a music store. That’s just one idea. How about a medical marijuana shop? They also have a Dodge dealership. Imagine you and Bobby selling cars. And Dodge is a pretty hot brand now. You don’t like those businesses, we’ll find something you do like. Maybe something a little risqué? They have a lot of topless clubs in Detroit. You could run one of those. Break character a bit, like Tony Soprano. At night you all get together at the mansion, compare notes over the day. Who knows? Might even be a little romance. You and Bobby are single. Have you seen Laurie Partridge lately? That girl has aged nicely.”

Greg looked at Keith to see if the idea of pimping out his sister was eliciting any reaction, but he just smiled.

“So let me get this straight,” Greg said. “You come to my brother’s funeral to pitch me on quitting my job, pretend that my family is broke and can’t find jobs, and move to Detroit to sell cars or albums or maybe run a strip club, and live in a house with the guy that killed my brother? Maybe screw his sister if all goes well? And you’re going to film it all for the world to see?”

“Jesus Greg, I thought there were no hard feelings about Danny,” Keith said in a hurt voice. “Not cool.”

Greg turned to face Keith. “There’s a big difference between no hard feelings and moving in together. Are you really in favor of this? It’s nuts. Degrading. Do you want the world thinking you’re so hard-up you need to move in with us and sell cars?”

“It is nuts, Greg,” Keith said, “but that’s what sells right now. I think people would love this show. And I’m sorry, but given the tragedy there is big interest right now. We need to strike while the iron is hot.”

“He’s right, Greg,” Reuben added. “This is a big opportunity. It’s important for both families. Everyone wants to do it, but they knew you’d be the hold-out. We need you. Don’t you want to help your family?”

“You mean you’ve discussed this with them, and they’re in favor of it? I can’t believe that.”

“I met with them yesterday.” Marty said. “Lots of details to be filled-in, but everyone’s on board. Even Alice.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief. He glanced across the room. His family was standing together, staring at him, slight pleading smiles on their faces, all yearning to be the Brady Bunch again.



Timothy O’Leary Contributor
Timothy O’Leary’s stories have been published in dozens of anthologies and magazines, and his award-winning short story collection, Dick Cheney Shot Me in the Face – And Other Tales of Men in Pain (Unsolicited Press), was released last year. He has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations, won the Aestas Short Story Award, and has been a finalist for the Mississippi Review Prize, the Mark Twain Award, The Lascaux Prize, and many other awards. He graduated from the University of Montana, and received his MFA from Pacific University.
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