Damn! This room smells good. So many flowers. The air is saturated with various and pleasing aromas, like walking through a vast and varied flower garden that’s in full bloom or following a cluster of women, each wearing her favorite perfume.
And here I am, supine and rested, never more relaxed in my entire life. The plush white pillow is comforting. I could nap for eternity like this. If I could have dressed myself, I wouldn’t have picked these clothes. Who naps in a formal suit? That’s ridiculous. Think of the wrinkles. The obvious clothes for the body are flannel pajamas. Duh! You know. For ‘the long sleep.’ The colors are morbid (suit coat is gray, shirt is gray and instead of a tie, there’s a lush red rose in its place. Still, I’d prefer short cargo pants and a colorful short sleeve shirt, and to add a cute and roguish appearance I’d have bought a four-hundred dollars pair of aviator sunglasses. Very cool.
“Why is it getting hot in this room?” The bed is comfortable but cramped. Smells good, though, but white cotton wouldn’t be my choice of color. Could have done without the fancy lace; too feminine. Who did this to me? I feel uncovered from my head to my waist, so why is my lower body covered? A blanket? That would be too hot, but I don’t feel hot. Could this be a hospital bed? Shit! Is this a dumb-ass prank? But among my friends, I’m that dumb-ass prankster. Something’s not right though I’ll admit this prank is comfortable. I must be dreaming. Dreams are so stupid. I can only think of all the pranks my friends and I performed in high school.
So, if this is a prank, then how did the prankster stop me from talking? Super glue my lips? Wouldn’t doubt it, but why? Make the prank last longer? Hell, if it’s funny, I’d like to laugh, too. Suddenly I’m thinking of a Toby Keith song, and I try to hum. Nope, can’t hum. My nose is blocked. Sinus trouble? Glue, again? I didn’t know a person can’t hum without an unobstructed nose passage.
Is my lower half naked? Why can’t I feel it? Dammit! Now I’ll have to forget about masturbating. I don’t think my ding-a-ling will ever ring again. It’s been in the military. It should be standing at attention. Possibly a war wound? This is really confusing. I can think, hear, and smell, but I can’t move, talk, or see. What the fuck’s up with that? Think. I don’t remember what happened. I don’t know where I am. Am I paralyzed? I do know who I am. My brain just isn’t functioning correctly. Damn! My immediate past is hazy. My brain feels like it’s spinning like a toy top.
I certainly have never been this sleepy before, yet my hearing is so strong that it’s pushing the sleepiness away, though sleep lingers in the background. I read once, that, of all the human senses, during the death process, the sense of hearing is the last to go. I’m trying to ignore this sleepiness. I’m startled by the fact that I can see through my eyelids, however the sights are all a dim shade of white without much detail. As if I’m looking through a white bed sheet. I can’t lift my eyelids, but I sense the curvature under the eyelids. Then a nauseating revelation. Funeral home? A wake? My wake? I’m dead? I’m awake at my own wake? That’s a startling revelation to deal with. How is that possible?
No prank. That’s not it. I’ve been prepared for burial. Did the bastards put ping pong balls in my sunken eye sockets? Wait. Now I remember. It’s coming back. They stuck a needle in each eyeball to drain the fluid. Because of that the eyeball collapsed. Then plastic eye caps were inserted to keep the realistic, convex curvature of an eyeball under an eyelid. Wait a damn minute! Limited sight, a white-washed, blurry view of things, enhanced hearing, and smell, plus physical paralysis, yet I can think, hear, smell. Shit! My bed? Well, I’ll be damned. This is a bed with side rails? Hell no. This is a God-damned casket. As appealing as the red chestnut color is, with the brass handles, I feel as if I’m going to choke or start ‘coffin.’ So why am I laughing? I’m old. I’ve seen much, done much, and heard thousands of jokes. I had a good life. Being dead is interesting, especially if you can be the kind of dead that I am. I feel hollow. Haven’t eaten in a while, I guess. My body parts aren’t working correctly, but the formaldehyde would do that to a body. I don’t remember the part where they drained my blood. Must have been easy. No pain, but it made me feel tired and drained. Oh, yeah! I remember an authoritative man checking on the preparation of my body. The funeral director? He was asking if the right amount of protein solution was added to the formaldehyde. The protein makes my skin pliable and stretchy, not pale, and stiff. He mumbled that decomposition must be delayed longer because of the wake taking more time to organize. Hell, life was getting boring anyway. Is this like unconscious, eternal sleep, as I slip into a restful oblivion? Am I really thinking? Or am I thinking while in a dream? My thinking seems sluggish, like slow-motion, confused thoughts. I need to be calm and wait to see what happens. In time, I may understand more clearly.
I sure am squeaky clean. Can’t smell my pits. Fresh as the morning dew. I hear quiet conversation. There must be a trainee helping the director. I can hear the funeral director and his assistant explaining the procedure to the trainee. Yeah. It’s a guy and he’s packing my nose and mouth with cotton wool to prevent leakage and to make them look natural. Someone is shaving me. Someone else is massaging a stiff limb to loosen it at the joint. If I could only make a suggestion about which stiff limb to massage. Eureka! Did rigor mortis give me an erection? If so, did it need to be strapped to my thigh to prevent any ‘tenting’ effect? Fuck! My lower body is covered. That spoils that bit of verbal fun, but still funny. Better hope, if it’s an erection, that it’s strapped down good and tight, or the visitors will wonder who’s knocking on the casket’s lower lid covering. That would be a great prank. An adults only wake.
The assistant director is showing the trainee how to use the trocar correctly. The trocar looks like a three-foot hollow tube with about a half inch diameter and pointed at the end. He tickled me when he punctured my skin under the lowest rib. The damn thing is a suction pump draining my bowels (eat shit you mother fuckers) and my bladder. The trocar is also being used to puncture all my internal organs to drain any body fluids that remain and so that the injected embalming fluid gets into all the internal organs. I can’t feel very much but my brain is telling me that I’m being tickled repeatedly. Funny stuff this preparing the dead. I wonder if all dead people are like me when they are prepared for their own funeral. Crazy thought, I know.
Now, WTF is that thing over my lower body? Before I had thought it was a blanket, but it’s domed and looks like shiny metal. OK. Yeah. I get it now, but it can’t be a canopy. No one is so mean as to put a “can-a-pee” there. Wow! I can still tell bad jokes. Why is it people boo bad jokes? Bad jokes make you appreciate the good ones. Oh well. No harm done. If it’s yellow, let it mellow, but if it’s brown flush it down. As I said, both the yellow tank and the brown tank are already empty. I wonder who had to clean up that disgusting chocolate pudding.
I sense a little coolness, but that can’t be right. I should be at room temperature. How many times has someone asked me, “How do you like your wine?” I always say, “At room temperature.” So, if someone asks how does it feel to be dead, the answer is, “At room temperature, please.” Now that’s funny. It wasn’t so funny when they cut my fingernails, cut my nose and eyebrow hairs and, especially, when they applied moisturizer and make-up. Well, I guess it was needed. Gotta look good for all my fans and loved ones. Except, maybe, if I look too good, then they won’t know it’s me. They’ll say, “Who the fuck is this? He never looked that handsome,” as they point into the casket. “Bodies must have been switched,” they’ll protest.
I can hear people arriving now. I see and hear most of my important relatives coming through the door now. They’re mostly only slightly better than strangers. Mine is not a close-knit family, not even a close-net family. Many of my cousins moved to other states to get away from hostile relationships with other family members. I did that, too. More like a dirty, rag-tag group of strangers who barely like one another. Some using hushed voices. What? Do they think my dead body can hear them? Surprise! I can hear you. Doesn’t take long for the room to fill and get overly loud. Hurts my ears. People milling about. Duh! I’m awake at my own wake. I shall forget about my sleepiness and focus on the conversations going on all around the room. I want to hear what’s going on. Hear what people are saying about me.
What? I heard something about a deer. Then the story of a deer hunting accident. My only close cousin is Phillip. He stayed local. He didn’t wither away but did the opposite by gaining so much weight (434 lbs.) that it made it so he could hardly move (when he was in a car with me, his name always reminded me of a gas station and that I should ‘fill-up.’ Unfortunately for him, when it came to food, he always wanted to ‘fill-up.’). I can hear him tell the story about how I died. With overlapping conversations in the room, it’s a wonder I can hear him at all. It was as if there was a blizzard in the room and, instead of furious snowflakes, it was words. A blizzard of words.
Phillip told the group what happened. We were deer hunting together. He was in a camouflaged hunting blind at the edge of the woods. If he got a shot, it would only be at a deer that were passing by him. None ever did because he brought snacks with him and unknowingly scared away the deer. He called me unexpectedly and said, “Let’s go deer hunting like we did when we were young. It’ll make us feel young again.” Arrogant silliness grasped and held me tightly, so I went, but I did it not to kill a deer, but to marvel at nature in the fall and get a little walking exercise. I couldn’t stay with him because his open-mouthed, chomping on his candy, chips and Oreos would drive me crazy. I was dressed appropriately in an orange vest but had taken it off because it made me too hot and sweaty. I wanted time for ‘quiet reflection’ (but I didn’t want to stand silently in front of a mirror). I fell asleep sitting with my back leaning against a tree. I was mistaken for a resting deer. Phillip said that I was carried out of the woods and that I kept farting all the way and loudly, as if someone were holding a bullhorn to my ass, even though I was dead. I already knew that the gas in a dead body has nothing to hold it in, so a corpse not only shits and pees, but it farts. Such funny thoughts for a dead guy. I’ll bet no one is having as much fun as I am. Pity. Well, ‘Carp Dien.’ It was a once in a lifetime opportunity, so I seized the day and the opportunity. I always thought that farts were hilarious, especially silent ones where you can circulate around the room having a large group in it and leave your fragrance, then walk away and try not to laugh loudly at the scrunched-up faces, twisted lips, downcast eyes and see them look amongst themselves to find Mr. or Mrs. El-Stinko. They must be thinking, “How dare he burn my nose hairs and singe my rogue eyebrows.”
What the hell is all that noise, I’m wondering? Gobble, gobble, gobble, like panicked turkeys a month before Thanksgiving. Interesting. Some voices sound sad, but internally in high spirits (so easy to fake sadness). Some are genuinely grieving. Must be the few that I loved the most. Then there are those only here as an obligation and looking for an opportunity to vanish like Judy. She was a member of the group, but I treated her poorly. She was a little overweight, and I said she was pear shaped. Someone else changed ‘pear’ into ‘pearl.” Then everyone called her Pearl, even me.
There are so many things that I regret. I could have been so much nicer, a much better person and friend. After a while Judy left the group in tears. After that I carried a wad of toilet paper in my jeans pocket to remind me that I was a genuine, dirty asshole. I never expected her to be alive, let alone attending my wake. I’ll be damned. She had forgiven me. Her thoughts were kind and they revealed that she had a crush on me and wanted to develop a closer relationship. I had no idea.
Who would ever guess that their own wake could be so funny? Something to look forward to. Really. No one knows that you can process thoughts. Nothing complex but just the basic, simple ideas with the possibility of a philosopher’s mind. You’ll be able to take attendance (especially for teachers and principals). There should only be a dozen of those I loved and loved me. The rest of them can go to help their out-of-control children. Look at the children and see the parent(s).
Damn! Now there’s someone looking down at me. Her perfume and crying tells
me who it is. The room is a riot of colors and fragrance due to all the various flowers (many of them roses). My dear wife is close to me so I can differentiate her perfume from the floral bouquets. My partner and love of my life is the co-author of many of my successes, via her patience, advice, assistance. Never loved a woman as I do her. I’ve told a couple of women that I love them (romantically) but none with such intensity as I have loved her. I hope her grief is short. There’s our daughter and grandkids for her to live for. They will console her. I wish I could see her beautiful eyes and her cupid’s-bow upper lip one more time.
My daughter came to kneel beside her mom. I could hear the noise of cloth starting low, then rising, the sound of her raising her arm to place it on her mom’s shoulder. No words yet, just the muffled sounds of crying and sniffling in tandem. I loved my family. Family first, always. I can smell the mucus running out of their noses. Tears are fine, but liquid boogers are gross, yet acceptable at funerals of departed loved ones. They seriously need to rehydrate. Their tear-tank must be running low. I can’t feel the same intense mental pain that they do, so perhaps, at times, I’m being rude.
“I’ve loved you so very much, Bill,” my wife says in a stuttering voice impaired by intense emotions. I know she did, but it’s always good to hear. So many years together, so many wonderful memories, so few bad ones. I wouldn’t have it altered at all; well…maybe a slight improvement for both of us, in the anger management area. We grew old together and that’s important to me. I think she still thinks of me as a cute hunk of maleness. That was always a hardship for me, but I’ve learned to live with the gorgeous part. The flock of women adorers vanish when I use the fart spray on them. It’s painful to turn them all away, but I’m loyal to my wife.
“You will never be forgotten Poppa. I love you,” whispers my daughter. “Always and forever,” she adds while sniffling into her tissue. I hope she throws it away soon. Soggy. I’m going out of this world laughing. I’m ‘extremum vitae,’ giving up the ghost.” Didn’t know I had a ghost, but it’s very appropriate since it’s Halloween. Boo! Like I said, I want candy. I know this isn’t the time for jokes and other funny stuff but I’m dead, so I don’t give a shit. My ethics are down the drain with my piss and shit. No one knows what fun this is.
I’d give two legs (because you can’t see them) for a bag of Baby Ruth candy bars and a bag of black licorice. My thoughts wander. I think the Devil is a pervert, but I won’t allow him/her/it to blow smoke up my ass. Damn! What kind of vivid picture does that make you think of? My thoughts are scattered but a random one pops up. It distracts me from my own wake. It’s the thought that I was always busy in life and was told to ‘stop and smell the roses.’ Well, I’m stopped now, and I can smell the aroma from the roses. The fragrance dominates the room. My liking for blood-red roses is known. Thorns. Where there’s beauty, there’s pain.
It feels to me as if I’m getting lockjaw. That’s best considering my misanthropic attitudes. Plus, people always want to know what happens after death (decay and oblivion), but this thinking at your own wake is quite a revelation. Who would have thought that your own wake could be the funniest time of your life?
I heard a masculine voice whispering that I was a weirdo, independent, introspective, a loner, profane. All true, but they all had positive effects for me. It was said with a scowl and a groan threw gritted teeth, so it was far from a compliment. I never have fit in well with others as an adult. I’d much rather be around children, helping them, teaching them, joking with them. When I disagree with something, I say it. If I don’t fall in line with group thinking, I don’t try to hide it. If my boss is wrong, I’ll tell him and we can talk about it, but I’m not a follower just to have friends and have niceties said about me. Live and let live, if possible. It’s tough to do.
How could I overlook that? How stupid of me. I just realized that I’m not breathing. Dumb ass, Bill, your dead. You don’t need to breath. You already had ‘animam agere,’ your last breath. I wonder why mention Latin quotes. Is it simply because it’s a ‘dead’ language? Then it’s natural. A dead language for a dead guy. If everyone knew how funny death could be, there’d be plenty of Dr. Kevorkian’s assistants invited to dinner. He had the right idea.
I knew it would happen. Some closed group of friends and relatives are talking about my atheism. They say I’m a disgrace, that I shouldn’t think like that. I have lived my life better than most hypocritical Christians, yet I can’t think differently. Bullshit! Why the fuck not? In science you must prove your theories and replicate them to be considered as facts. Why is religion exempt? Now another hypocrite from that group is staring at me. I wish my middle finger worked. His hostility barely controlled. Such model Christians. They would have me believe what they believe or face retribution. Sounds like middle eastern terrorists talking. Now that’s funny. God’s flock with AK-47s and improvised explosive devices (IEDs). Amen. Genuflection. Use the beaded loop to pray with. Rosary breads. A benediction.
“Is his make-up smudged?” I heard that question come from the corner of the room. I don’t know who said that? Doesn’t matter. Of course, because I’m wearing make-up. The dead can be handsome, too. It’s what they do here. Make the dead look alive and sleeping. Can’t help feeling a girlish giggle, but it’s all mental since I can’t speak. Mentally I see myself smile.
As far as my life has gone, I say Veni, Vidi, Vici, I came, I saw, I conquered. Well, the first one happened a lot, but not according to the standard meaning. I saw much. I conquered? I need to add a pinch of hyperbole to make that one seem true.
The Latin speaking, Julius Caesar. I’ll bet his penis sword found many vaginas to conquer. ‘Vagina’ is the Latin word for ‘sheath.’
I wonder what else they do to a dead body, which is never divulged? ‘Insanus homo,’ that’s me. A ‘crazy person.’ But one with a skewed sense of humor. Low brow, you know.
My wife and daughter visit again. The best part of this wake is them. I think it’s OK for them to leave now, but I doubt they will. I wouldn’t be here either if it wasn’t for my exigent circumstances. I should have been quickly cremated, my ashes poured into an empty coffee can (there’s a fireproof disk in the ashes that identify whose ashes they are) and buried in the back yard or scattered into the wind or water or mixed into some mud. Wait. I have a better idea. How about flushing me down the toilet. People can visit me in the toilet. It won’t be a ‘waste’ of their time, though it’ll certainly be a shitty experience. However, in the end, ‘Mors Vincit Omnia.’ It’s truly ‘death that conquers all,’ but before that moment it’s the remembrances of young love that gives a middle finger salute to death.
Is that a chill I feel? I shouldn’t be feeling anything. I can’t ask for gloves, hat, nor insulated underwear. Well now, maybe there is a hell. I could keep warm there. But then I’d start thinking, again, and I’d ask myself, “What horrendous or frequent kind of sins could possibly and fairly send a person to the blazing, firepits of hell for an eternity? Does the punishment fit the crime? Good thing I don’t have to worry about that kind of illogical bullshit.
Wow man! Now I can even sense peoples’ thoughts. Don’t need to hear their speech. How could I possibly have such power? I’m dead, so WTF is happening here? I calm myself while listening to the crowd. Many people have knelt by my side. Some of them smile (I can hear their stretching lips), then some kind words, which I probably don’t deserve or angry words that I may deserve. It’s standard to have an average person die, then have certain relatives and friends talk as if he/she were a pure-hearted saint in his life. Such a beloved angel he was. He loved everyone and everyone loved him. If it was possible to get rid of all the verbal bullshit and fakery in the world, earth might only have a population of a million humans.
Now I hear people who disliked me. They’re whispering counterfeit niceties, but vengeful thoughts. That’s to be expected. I know who most of them are by their perfume, cologne, bad breath, speech pattern, tics, references to work, or family, etc. Mad? Am I mad about that? No. I’m mad at myself for making them feel that way. I’ve been undiplomatic, profane (many times correctly), spraying controversial ideas (most people are logical, reasonable, except in one major subject in life. It’s a waste of time attempting to reason with them in their specific areas of denial), sometimes too harsh and hostile, too truthful at other times and aggressively inquisitive, arrogant, and just plain wrong (that’s my specific area of denial). How do I feel about religion and God now that I’m dead? Show me proof. It’s as simple as that. Have your God come to earth and visit all the people who are amputees and make their amputated body parts grow back normal and healthy limbs? Belief and faith, without proof, is like a child believing in their invisible friend. Faith and belief are only strongly held opinions. Strongly held opinions have created so many different religions. If there is a God, he/she/it failed the religion courses. A God is simply a comforting, mental construct with no substance. My invisible gnome is sitting with my shoulder, whispering into my ear, telling me what to say so please don’t get pissed off at me. It’s my gnome God telling me to say and act this way. Are you laughing at my God? You really don’t believe me? Add volatile sarcasm to my unruly behavior list. That’s how I feel about the subject. Please prove me wrong.
I see an aunt and uncle standing at the back of the room, near the exit door, looking as if they were criminals wanting to escape and not wanting to be seen. It’s thought of by more than a few in this room to be their sacred obligation to attend the funeral and attend the wake of a relative. Their obligatory thoughts don’t bother me as much as the overtly sweet, covertly bitter friends and relatives who are so sticky sweet in person that getting too close to them causes a pseudo-insulin, diabetic attack. Life and its inhabitants are a puzzle, and people are often deceptive mazes, puzzles with a few missing pieces. It’s difficult to figure them out except on a superficial level. However, I know two important things about people; they show you what they want you to know and see of them, and you see and think what you want to about them. Neither is accurate. Listening to them won’t give you an accurate view. Watching their actions will show you who and what they really are. I have few friends because my bullshit detector is the grand, deluxe, royal model. This superlative model often rings then produces the smell of bullshit. Damn thing. I hate it when it does that to me, too.
Not politically correct? That’s what a few people are thinking. Honesty and deception are kings and queens in this room. The room is not in disarray now. The remaining people have been gathering into small groups. Chatting. I’m listening. There’s one group with an old man telling a joke. He said, “When God said, ‘Let there be light’ Chuck Norris remarked, ‘Say please.’” Awful! Boring! It’s Dingle Barry telling the joke. He’s still telling those old, worn-out Chuck Norris jokes. That’s the trouble with old men like him and me. We tell the same jokes over and over as if it was the first time. Anyway, he was a friend in high school. But our clique referred to him as ‘Dingle Barry” (not the regular meaning of a foolish person, but the high school definition of the tiny balls of poop that stick to anus hairs. The name got shortened to ‘Dingle,’ then ‘Ding.’)
We were all arrogant assholes when young. Perhaps assholes like we were survive longer. Life isn’t fair, so you ‘man-up’ or ‘fuck-up’ and with immature teenagers, it may take years to man-up, making fuck-ups frequent. It worked that way for all of us. I have little feeling for most of the people here. Maybe death has robbed me of serious feelings because I’m not acting civil. But the older I get, the easier it was to understand who I had been and what I am now. I hope there is a vast improvement because I don’t like myself for all the sad memories of myself as a supreme jerk during my young years. Joining the Navy was my cure. I’m thankful for that.
I can’t help thinking of my friend Art. He’s dead now. I wish he were here. I miss him. He was a big guy, our groups protector, you might say. Bullies stayed away from the rest of us nerds. We gave Art his nickname immediately. ‘Fart.’ It was too easy. Not that he farted frequently, but just because ‘Fart’ was so obvious. He wasn’t pleased but went along with it since we all had self-slandering names.
One time a large football player challenged Art, saying, “How’d you get the name Fart?” The guy leaned toward Art and sniffed, then straightened up, pinched his nose, and said, “P. U.” (from the Latin word ‘puteo’ meaning putrid). The footballer shouted, “Now I know why!” The entire football team laughed until Art punched the guy so hard in the chest that the guy flew backward as if shot from a cannon. The guy fell to the ground, onto his back. Startled and embarrassed he looked up at all the laughing faces of his teammates and spectators. The guy stood up but rocked back and forth from dizziness. When he shook his head to clear it, he started to walk toward Art, but the football coach put his palm on guy’s chest and yelled, “Get your ass in the locker room.” The coach had witnessed the punch and Art’s size, so he tried to get Art to join the team. Art’s retort was something like, “Not happening. I’m waiting for something tough to come along, like the U.S. Marine Corps bootcamp.” The entertainment of hearing what happened provided the students the next day was hilarious. He was going to be a Marine when he graduated. Semper Fi (Semper Fidelis. Latin for always faithful).
We all went to see him after school. I told him that I should have taken care of that bully because I had karate. “WTF do you know about karate?” he said through his disbelieving laughter. “Don’t laugh,” I remarked. “Whenever I shave, I use Hi Karate cologne. The lime smell lets the bullies know not to mess with me.” I was joking, of course, so when I smiled, Art’s room became jammed with laughter. Then I added, “Hell, man, I’d have kicked him in the balls so damn hard that they’d pop out his ears and hang there like bulbous earrings. Pardon my French.” More laughter. That’s all I needed to make my day; a shitty joke that somehow gets laughed at. I’m used to ‘dry spells’ when it comes to laughing at my jokes.
Art was laughing, but his head was looking at his lap and he was steadily shaking his head from side to side as if he thought I was hopeless when telling jokes. When it got quiet, I teased Art. “Good thing you don’t know karate, ‘cause if you do join the Marines, your first salute might kill you. Also, be really careful if you get bored and do something just for kicks.” The next thing I heard was several forceful sounds of, “Shut-the-fuck-up!” They weren’t said in anger, and smiles followed.
I hear ice clinking in drinks in plastic cups, a dull clinking, not a ringing sound as they would be if glass was used. They have a nice sound like monotone bells. There’s punch, soda, and liquor for the adults. The inebriated, being shaky and unsteady, are clinking the ice the most. I can now hear loud, silly laughter, alcohol fueled, so once secret thoughts are becoming exposed. As in the Latin ‘vino veritas,’ (in wine there is truth), the same can be said of most alcoholic drinks. The alcohol reduces inhibitions and there are vocalizations of what the person really believes and has kept hidden, or just silly, idiot words and actions. Too much alcohol acts like a truth serum. And it’s funny seeing them make fools of themselves. I smile because I know from experience what I’m talking about. As an adult, I rarely got drunk. Too much to say and no filter. But speaking of no filter, I hear Pecker (Jim) Becker’s garrulous, loud voice as he was slurring his words making them so I can barely understand him. Oh, shit! He just said ‘fire,’ so I know the story. Jim’s telling about our ultimate prank at a band concert in the local convention center where he worked part-time as a ticket collector. I used to like magic tricks, and, at home, I had a Magic Palm Fire-Gimmick (producing fire in the palm of your hand) I got in line for the concert, with my other friends behind me. When I got to Jim, I set a spot on my left forearm on fire, while showing the ticket in my right hand. Then I moved to Jim’s left shoulder, keeping my left arm visible so the fire could be seen by the remaining ticket holders. Instead of handing him my ticket I showed him that my left forearm was on fire. Jim waited for people to see the fire, while my other friends screamed as if in panic, for added effect. Then, as if he were angry, he shouted, “Hey, dumbass. It’s against the law to bring a ‘firearm’ to the show! “What? What do you mean?” The small fire still burned in its protective, asbestos shield. He tuned to the line of people. “This guy’s dangerous. He wants to bring a firearm into the convention center. What do you people think?” The girls were stunned into silence and the guys reacted with looks simulating WTF. I yelled, “You can’t stop me. That’s against the twelfth Bill of Frights, God dammit. But OK. I’ll get rid of the firearm.” I pulled out a wet handkerchief (from a zip-lock bag in my pocket), smothered the fire and yelled, “Do you smell bacon burning?” I turned and stood side by side with Jim, along with my confederates. We all yelled, in unison, “April Fools, in June.” We all broke out into belly cramping laughter, bowed to them then carried on normally while listening to the clapping behind us.
I almost forgot to mention Doug Pitts. His name was really Douglas Pitts. When he first joined our group (he transferred from another school and had no friends, so we let him join us) I thought about his name. It was too formal for our group of misfits. I broke it down to ‘Doug Pitts,’ then ‘Dug Pitts,’ then ‘dug pits,’ so his nickname became ‘Digger’ since he ‘dug pits.’ We joked with him about having a career at the cemetery, and the unbelievably, shy and quiet Judy interjected, “Working in a cemetery? Now that would really be the pits.” This gathering of nerds had become close. We liked each other (mostly) and supported each other (mostly). Art had a lot to do with that. He was a quiet leader. We all turned to him for advice, but not for jokes. Mainly I was guilty of telling the awful jokes and suggesting pranks.
Speaking of pranks, at another meeting we started talking about doing pranks. One Saturday we all got together and went to Spencer’s Novelty Store. We bought all kinds of pranks, but I got the ‘fart’ stuff: fart noise makers, fart spray and fart powder, plus a slow releasing fart bomb and a woopie cushion. In all we had the chattering false teeth, the snake-in-a-nut can, fake crime scene tape, fake poop, fake spilled fingernail polish, car exhaust pipe whistlers, and more. One way or the other we used all of them. We even glued coins to some of the tile floors (usually quarters) with a glue that dries to a rubbery texture so it would not cause damage during removal.
The principal and teachers most have been ecstatic to see us graduate or quit
school. Stormy was the only one to quit. His mom and dad divorced, and his life fell apart. He was frustrated, angry, unfocused on academics, so he quit at the end of eleventh grade. It’s hard to believe that, during this chaotic sound in my wake, that I can remember this stuff. But my thinking seems mostly ‘self-centered,’ not on the people that are here, except for immediate family. My thinking isn’t on my death, but some of the joys I had in life, especially with friends in high school and college or outside of school activities. But these people are home-town friends and relatives who attended high school with me.
Oh crap! I hear Uncle Dennis starting to recite the ten commandments. I try not to laugh. I think, “Only ten? There should be thousands of them now.” Holy shit! Look at him. Sure, he’s older and has lived longer, but he looks ancient, like a gnarled Jupiter tree. Aunt Julia died several years ago. If looks could kill, then Uncle Dennis is a murderer. He was strange; always chewing on a tiny stick.
The family usually uses Polazzola and Sons funeral home. My guess is that’s where we are now. Antonio Polazzola is a drinker, in the red-veined-nose alcoholic sense. However, his sons keep his good reputation intact. He’s dead now. Come to think of it, so am I. His sons are close in age to me, so we were acquaintances. Tony’s grandson(s) son(s) will probably replace Tony’s sons. We were the same age and Italian ancestry to talk about. Tony had an addictive taste for spaghetti and meatballs. He’d go home, after preparing corpses, eyelids half shut with fatigue and torment his wife until she’d make spaghetti and meatballs for the next day’s dinner.
Before my death I asked my grandson to bring a cup of extra-hot fireball candy to my funnel and set it on the food table. I also asked my granddaughter to put a few fake bullet hole stickers on my casket. They were to watch the effect and have fun at my funeral. Antonio Sr. was also famous for saying, “Cremation is your last chance for a smokin’ hot body.” The guy was interestingly weird. One of his sons, Tony Jr., told a small group of us, in confidence, that Tony Sr. craved roast beef after a body was cremated. Roast buttocks Au Gratin? BBQ Spareribs, prime rib, and he had a special liking for liver and onions. Funeral Home staff have a morbid sense of humor.
This wake was not my idea. It sucks ass. However, my wife told me years ago that she wanted to offer friends and relatives a chance to say their last goodbye. A last goodbye with me looking like a painted mannequin. I don’t want people to
remember me as I looked in death. I want them to love or hate me as I looked in life. I see that Danny Weatherwax (Stormy) and Brad Burdick (Dick Head) are unable to come. Last I knew Dan was in Alaska. He owned a big machine, gold hunting crew, and Brad, the hunter, trapper, even in high school, was in Africa as a hunting guide for all the macho men who wanted to kill something. Both these guys did those jobs at first. Now they own the company that provides what is needed for the job and let others do it for them.
Speaking of life, “Eternal life.” I’ve heard those words all my life having been brought up Catholic, with Irish and Italian parents. But I learned to question my childhood, involuntary indoctrination concerning religion. The word ‘devil’ is a commonly used word in my family. Interesting that the word ‘evil’ is within the word ‘devil.’ Satan and Santa? Curious. Poe says, “… evil is a consequence of good, so in fact, out of joy, is sorrow born.” Some word meanings are only clear via comparison. I think Poe was saying that you only understand ‘good’ by comparing it to ‘evil,’ and you only understand ‘evil’ by comparison to ‘good.’ Ever since college, I’ve been fascinated by English words. Wordsmith defines my interest in their Latin derivation and the etymology of non-Latin words. Anyway, ‘eternal life’ are the words I’m focused on. That concept scares the hell out of me. Living for eternity sounds eternally boring. Eternal life, for me, would be far worse than death and the resulting oblivion. But, if there were such a silly thing as eternal life, could I still have sex? Will I still be able to tell dirty jokes and non-politically correct humor? If I gave God my middle finger salute, how would that be interpreted? What would the punishment be like? Is there still free-will? Can I think, eat, dress, travel freely? What would God be doing? Watching people as if they were enclosed in a glass-walled ant farm? Will there be laws in heaven? Will they be thoughtful and realistic? Are the ten commandments updated? If there are laws, can I be unlawful? Can I lie, curse? What would the consequences be? Would my weenie roast if Hell really existed? Will there even be such a thing as sin? Will I be the same age as I was when I died? That would be disappointing for the ‘babes’ in heaven. Will there be adequate health insurance? If I can be a teenager, can I still have wet dreams and masturbate? I sure hope I can masturbate. That would be a stroke of luck. I’d want to keep my fingers, wrist, and forearm in decent shape. Exercise, exercise. Gotta stay in decent shape. Can I still fart a lot? I like farting. It’s fun to make different quality, vibrating noises as Mr. Methane did for a living (farting music). Will people who have eternal life still need to pee and shit? If so, there must be vast amounts of toilets, and what about the waste? What is done with the dung? (waste disposal plants or fertilizer for plants)? Shitting is an ugly necessity on earth. I’d like to get rid of that bodily function. What will the social structure be like (the poor, middle class, the rich)? Will there be jobs? What kind of jobs? An eight-hour workday? Will ‘time’ itself exist as it is on earth? Will I get a better personality? That might be useful. No one really knows because we all know that the last refuge of religion is ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ What a great cop-out. Without an explanation of the details of ‘life after death,’ then oblivion is so much more appealing. Damn! Listen to me as I wander off in thoughts and questions. I must pay attention, but it seems like the more I think, the more I want to think and know. I’m getting a little carried away and not paying attention to my friends and relatives. But why worry. It takes my mind off some of these people. It’s as if they have been unmasked and they appear hideous. However, much revealing story- telling is going on. Now my mind is in a dizzy whirl. How could that be? Can the dead still have a ‘mind?’ Is it my brain’s reaction to the iron oxide in the formaldehyde solution? Now that’s funny. Iron oxide plus oxygen produces rust. My brain and thoughts are getting rusty? So fuckin’ funny.
How many people in this room, especially the one’s whispering sanctimoniously about God and eternal life, have really thought about what it might be like to have eternal life? Is it better not to think? Perhaps denial is much easier, plus it won’t cause one to lose faith (the voluntary abandonment of logic in a specific area). In abentia lucis tenebrae vincunt (in the absence of light, darkness prevails).
Some people say that I’m not often playing with a full deck. That’s true. I’d give away a king and a queen so I could have the Joker twins. Sometimes jokes just flash into my mind. I saw a pigeon land on a pile of shit. What should I call the pigeon? Maybe I would call it a stool pigeon. Crappy joke. My kind of fun. Oh, another one. A pigeon lands on a frog. The pigeon became pigeon toad. Ah, yes, my casket? It’s the last thing I’ll ever need. Bad jokes to adults but funny to kids.
A distant cousin says that I look good. The make-up job was good, she says. WTF! Make-up job? Like in mascara? Eyebrow, eyelash coloring? Cheek rouge? Oh, shit! Am I wearing lipstick? Damn good thing I’m dead or I’d crack some heads.
Will there be ugly, average, and pretty/handsome people, with varying IQs, different physical strengths and weaknesses, birth defects? Wow! I see trouble brewing in paradise. Competition means there will be winners and losers, jealousy, deceit, greed usually involves negative results. So much to think about. But it’s easier to deny. That makes it simple. Besides, I questioned my dad’s religious indoctrination, but am I one in a thousand? A hundred thousand? Oh, fuck it. I know what happens after death and it’s nothing supernatural. Is it possible to be
wrong? Of course, but it’s not probable. There are billions of possibilities, but ninety-nine percent of all the possibilities that anyone can think of, are highly improbable to occurring. Probabilities, however, will likely occur given enough time (some of H.G. Well’s science fiction inventions have come true). If pigs had wings, I’d ……………….
Damn! The smell of the crowd has thinned. The crowd came, they saw, they conquered. Well, at least, they left alive. I need some marijuana gummy bears. Cancel that. I need a few people to smoke some weed and fill the room with smoke so that I can sniff it. A memory just came. One night I got stopped by a police officer. He came to my open window and could smell the marijuana. He said, “How high are you?” I said, “Your grammar is not correct officer. You should have said, “Hi. How are you?” He stared at me and started writing a ticket. I said, “Do you need me to check the spelling and punctuation?” Ding was sitting shotgun, just barely containing his laughter. The cop handed me the ticket and said, “Get going before you get another ticket for being a wise-ass,” I said, “Would that ticket be for verbally assaulting or just plain insulting an officer of the law?” He stared at me, mean faced. I said, “Sorry about that,” then drove off. In the rearview mirror I saw him staring at my car.
Marijuana. Is too much of a good thing bad? Scientific experiments have shown that to be true. But it’s a common-sense idea. It’s a commonsense idea I had grown to hate during my four years at a liberal farts sex college. Women recover so much faster than guys. All happiness, joy from our senses gets boring quickly if overdone. The chafing doesn’t help either.
The coffin is jostled by kneeling movement. They are kneeling before me. I’m still the king. The thought makes me want to cough in my coffin. This is like a person who is locked inside his body, but from a different cause and so much more fun being a ‘fly (spy)’ on the wall.
It’s my wife and daughter that are the most frequent visitors to my casket. That’s a good feeling to take to the furnace. It’s warm and touching. My wife’s perfume tells me, again, who it is, even before she speaks. At this moment she can’t speak through her tears. Her speech gets drowned out, but she presses lightly on my shoulder. My daughter whispers, “Poppa,” so I know it’s her kneeling next to
her mom. Her hand is lightly placed on my hand. Such kind words are emotionally
stated by both. We’ve always been remarkable close, my wife, daughter, and I. Ubi amor, ibi dolor. Where there’s love, there’s also pain. The Latin phrase should really be Ubi vitae dolor est, ‘where there’s life, there’s pain.’ I hope they recover quickly and realize that ‘life goes on.’ Be happy. Now they both get up and prepare to leave. That emptied whatever humor had remained in me.
Suddenly, I’m wondering, why am I using Latin phrases? That’s strange. I never took courses to learn Latin. Can’t really explain it. I can just do it. I don’t know how. But Latin is a dead language, so, maybe it’s the language of the dead, also. I’m certainly dead. I always wanted to learn a second language. Death is one of those mysteries of life. You need to die to see if you’ll have an experience like I’m having. If you do, you’ll be the life of the party without anyone knowing it. Your wake will be all jokes, laughs, hearing what relatives and friends think of you, learn their secrets, too. Fun, no physical pain, some mental pain when you divine the truth of what certain people think of you, know their ugly secrets. It can be a heart-breaking experience knowing the true assholes in your life. Will you also be awake at your own wake, eavesdropping and laughing at the crowd that has come to see you off Ad meliora, toward better things?
It must be closing time, so there is now a steady stream of the remaining people are approaching me one last time to say goodbye (the dearest ones). The room grows increasingly quiet, then it’s empty and, in my head, I suddenly hear Simon and Garfunkel singing ‘The Sound of Silence.’ Now at peace, I hear Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison, The Beatles, Toby Keith, and a plethora of my other all-time favorites. Then I hear the poem ‘IF’ by Kipling. Then I recite Frost’s poem, The Road Not Taken, from memory. Then a quote barges into my dead brain. Voltaire. “God is a comedian playing to an audience that’s too afraid to laugh.” A Boring God? No sense of humor? Another reason to greet oblivion gladly. What did God say after he created a man and a woman? “Jesus Christ! I should have done much better than that.” Damn right! Peeing and pooping should have been omitted from that grand design. Just think how many trees could be saved when billions of people don’t need toilet paper and their buttocks won’t need to be split. It’s a shame I wasn’t asked for suggestions on body design. I’d suggest a six-inch-long middle finger so there’s no mistake about your message, and it can be seen from a longer distance. Perhaps, and most importantly, there needs to be more of a separation between the human body’s reproductive system and its sewage system. Need better
eyesight, too. No one should ever need glasses. Having to wear glasses obviously shows God’s weakness in ‘design engineering.’ I could go on and on and design a better body than our supposedly divine creator.
I’m thinking of all the people I have known and can remember. Those whom I’ve hurt and those who have hurt me. To those I hurt I apologize. To those who have hurt me, I say, “You are forgiven. Go in peace. Enjoy your lives, and if you see fit to do so, forgive me.”
Everyone is gone. The funeral staff arrives, and I am wheeled, by Mortifer, the bringer of death, and his assistants, down the hallway, into the elevator and brought to the basement where the crematorium is. It’s nighttime, of course, and that hides the smoke from the cremation. Will I smell? I hear the furnace door open. I’m wheeled inside. Incredible. I don’t feel any heat even at 1,800F degrees. That’s damn hot. The temperature of the sun’s visible surface is about 10,000F (the core is millions of degrees). There’s a sudden flash of fire and I wondered, “Did I just fart big time?” One last thought. Inis vitae sed non amoris, the end of life but not of love for those dear to me.
If Dylan Thomas had had my enjoyable death experience, he would not have written these words after his father’s death.
“Do not go gently into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Dylan Thomas
I wonder if Dylan would accept a final but weak tantrum. Rage is not for me, so if I see Mr. Death, I plan on giving him (male, female, “it”) a double-barrel, double middle-finger load of ‘fuck you’ bullshit.
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