78
Stage One
[shock and denial]
Will and Trust already signed and printed, I just finished writing the final directives that are to be observed; so, I will be placed where I want to be laid to rest, and so on. I wanted to remove those decisions from being made by people who just didn’t know me, didn’t really understand me, and most likely really didn’t care what I wanted. So, in the chronological hierarchy of the events that I experienced and enjoyed in my life here in Lower Topia, I made my decisions based on where I would like my ashes to be placed: first, the stream in which I cooled my feet as Tucker and I walked in the heat of the summers, then maybe the park where I sat and watched clouds pass overhead as Tucker dug his endless holes in search of fresh roots, the beach on which I dreamed and Tucker swam, or the garden I laid in as I smelled the aroma of those pretty flowers, as Tucker laid with me.
Let me explain why all this drama and doom. I’m only 78, in fairly good health, with normal blood pressure and success in following a weight loss regimen. Why should I think I would die. Well, the realty is 78 is the average maximum age reached by most men. But, more importantly, the population here in Lower Topia is exponentially growing beyond the seams of the very fabric my neighborhood can endure. I am statistically at that point with my existence here, whereby, I should expect someone or something is bound to smash, slam, into me; thus, being a reason for my demise. It is a known fact that Tucker and I walk in the middle of our neighborhood streets, both of us aimlessly daydreaming. Moreover, the other weapons of choice in 21st Century America could be any of the following: a tornado, a snake, a congressionally approved automatic assault rifle, or maybe I will be ‘done-in’ by the damn survivor of all millennia, the virus. So, allow me to celebrate my 78 with you. Discover with me, if not for the first time, that I am not your nemesis, to be accused of all your misfortunes, to be blamed for the pain you have, and the reason for all the bad choices you have made in your life. At some point in your life, you were old enough, as my argument and opinion proclaims, to have made your own path decisions; change what personalities you do not want to have so as not to become your own personal nemesis, nor mimic the characteristics of the person you do not like, who never did fit into your life’s ambitions. You are old enough to make your own crutches on which to lean on or from which to fall; your choice. It’s time to help me help you discover and happily share my celebration of being 78 without any of your personal encumbrances, opinions of me, nor negative mindsets about me, thus, getting in the way of my revel. Be fairly forewarned and advised, that you watch and read carefully this script I offer you, “78”. Because, in a few revolutions of the same sun that I am in awe of, its cyclic travels will allow you to also experience your own 78. By then I will not be around for you to apologize.
He was into his 90’s, maybe 95. I always felt George was so much older than me. But his death made me realize that wasn’t true at all. I wasn’t even a generation younger; well almost. I felt his aches and pains. We grunted the same way as we got up from the lunch table, and held on to our chair from which we had just lifted ourselves off, until we had mastered our balance. 95 and 78 were just two ends of the same pole in the same era. He died the other day. And, today I was at his funeral. As a general rule, I do not attend funerals if the only person I knew at the funeral is the deceased. I didn’t really know his wife; probably wouldn’t recognized her if I passed her in Publix. I definitely didn’t know any of this extended family, or if he had any still alive. We were good friends, more than acquaintances, who would meet for lunch once a week. There were the other guys that joined us for lunch, 6 altogether; we were all retired. Our association covered well over 20 years here in Lower Topia. I coined this group’s moniker as ROMEO’s, which was short for ‘Retired Old Men Eating Out’. They hated that nickname, and would rather disguise their age as best as their eyes would allow them to do so. George’s death was a really tough blow to their realty. So, I went to the funeral for my friends, and ultimately, I guess, for George, too.
Who would care if I was there or not; not my dead friend. His dead. As far as I can tell, and without any disrespect intended since some of my best friends are dead, death is that final stage in our life. No turning back now, no returns. That only happens on TV. I once spent a considerable amount of useless time googling what were the very last words famous people spoke just before they died. Try it. Fascinating results. Steve Jobs had a classic realization just has he died; apparently it was recorded. “Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow!” was his declaration before he died. I only hope I’m as classy. But knowing how I have been holding my New York tongue at bay since I moved to Lower Topia, I can just hear what my last, finally released, exhaled words would be. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!!!” Please forgive me in advance.
So, I attended his funeral, with reverence, not just because he was a friend, but mostly since our mutual friends, our weekly lunch group, would also be attending. Some people find it comforting, attending someone’s funeral. I guess it makes them feel that they did a good deed or something like that. Me? I have lunch with this group every week. Bad enough I don’t go to the Friday-Night local high school football games with them. If I don’t show up to George’s funeral, well, I’m not courageous enough to find out how that decision would have made them feel about me. There was six of us, now five. Each whispered my name, “Charles”, as I approached them one at a time. They stood in a line, shoulder to shoulder, against the funeral parlor’s reposing room wall. Something similar to a middle school dance, teenage boys, and a gymnasium wall. Mechanically, in their appointed turn, they reached out with their calloused hands, one or two of them with their twisted arthritic bones, to clasp my extended hand.
“Hello.” “How are you?” “Good to see you.” Greetings and acknowledgement, added to not just a handshake, but more of a grasp with the hands pointing to the ceiling, and the thumbs aiming outwardly as our palms pounded into each other; our fingers then wrapped tightly around each other’s hand. It would be a blend of a manly handshake and a ‘high five’. I never held their hands before. That was weird. A couple of them actually added the “man-hug” to the ritual greeting; right shoulders bump into each other, while the right hand remained clasped, but now buried between our bodies, touching each other’s bodies. Way too personal. Soon the left hand had found its way to the opponent’s back; pounding the crap out of our male comrade. Keep it manly, damn it; should be the mantra. Who the hell invented this man-hug? I have to “Google” that later tonight.
Randy, Saul, Ralph, Peter. Their cumulative personalities could very possibly label all of America’s retired old men. A heap of dispositions covering a wide range of personalities: single-minded [same as narrow minded, but more kindly], literal [closed minded or overly perfect interpreter], honorable [fair minded and ritualistic], staunch [as in a political pundit or a social pandit, depending on personality], nerdy [perfect representation of the 50’s or 60’s, as in the 1900s], obsessive [words in the same sentence repeated, repeated, and repeated], PTSD [i.e. Veteran, divorcee, social victim or a confused mess of everything], lonely [needy, always grabbing your unrequited attention, the ultimate ‘close-talker’], gun fanatic [enthusiastic collector, power freak, or self-imposed victim that feels they need protection], conservative [reactionary to moderate], financially secure [how in this world can a ‘day-trader’ ever feel secure], widow [always considering a singles cruise as a just outing], liberal [progressive to moderate], family oriented [Hallmark enthusiast or family cultist]. I’m not sure where I fit in that list; don’t tell me if you know. At lunch, as they discuss the various sports teams [their trusted common ground], and players [how do they remember all those statistics?], I watch them, as if I am experiencing an out-of-body moment, from beyond the lunch table. Their dance is perfect; a well-rehearsed, orchestrated movement of conversation. Resting only to take another bite of their lunch, always in unison. They always seem to stop at a respectable distance from debate when one of them makes a comment with which others deeply disagree, finding that approved interpretation that comfortably fits a workable compromise, or to fall into a just and dutifully polite silence.
“Hello Charles.” Randy’s greeting. Always the gentleman, Randy said his hello with sincerity, and a polite smile. I felt his warmth. “Hey Randy. This is a tough event for us guys to attend.” Randy agreed and suggested that, “we should have an empty seat each week that will always remind us of George.” He continues, “and one of us should always order his fried popcorn shrimp with honey mustard on the side. We can share it during lunch and it will be like he was still there.” Randy’s suggestion, which wasn’t the first time I heard it suggested, was getting a bit over the top, and out of my comfort zone. Why would I need to eat someone else’s favorite dish? Not sure if I would like to think a spirit of George was lurking around my lunch every week.
“Hey Charles.” Was Saul’s greeting. Similar, but somehow uniquely different from Randy’s. Can I do this three more times? They were patiently waiting their turn to greet me. Saul was a bit more in the moment, let’s man-hug, show our brotherhood, type of guy. Pulling me into him with the strength of lunar gravitation force, our embraced hands snuggly buried between our bodies, with his free hand trying to burp the crap out of me from behind. Okay Saul, our bodies have touched long enough, I beseeched privately. “Hey Saul. How’s it going with you?” I was trying to keep in his tone and level of guild mentality. Saul was all about our little society, our corner of the world. Even though I never joined them at those football outings on Friday nights, he was very open about keeping me in the clan. Saul answered, “We’re surely going to miss George. He was the cornerstone of our group; always with the football schedules and plans telling us which game we would go to see. You need to come with us, Charles, maybe one time. Those game hot dogs are amazing. That’s George’s wife over there. I only met her once, at Walmart. She and George were shopping there when we met. I don’t think I could ever go shopping with my wife any more. I don’t have the patience to do that now; actually, never did.” “Yeah, I hear you. Going shopping with your wife is a challenge.” I agreed. “Charles, you’re divorced,” Saul needed to keep everyone honest. “I know Saul. I am. But I was married once. And I remember those days.” I corrected him. Where are we going with this conversation. At George’s funeral? Oh yeah, kinship.
“Hi Charles. It’s good to see you. And, thank you for coming to say good-bye to George.” Ralph was unique in his blend of sports and social manners. Surely, he was a welcomed break from Saul’s physical assault on my reason for being here today. Ralph never cursed, never belched during lunch; never even a quiet burp hidden by a hand over his mouth. At least not during our lunches. Like all these guys, I really don’t know him very well outside our weekly meals together. They knew each other more then I knew any of them collectively. I only joined them for lunch because of the years we had been acquaintances since we first met at the Lower Topia dog park. They invited me to join them for lunch, and to this day I don’t know why. “How are you holding up to all of this Ralph. I know you knew George the best of all of us. His loss must be especially hard on you. Please know I am truly sorry for your personal loss of a good friend.” Saying this was difficult since my mind lingered on the fact that Ralph was almost as old as George was. I know death is not a stranger for anyone, but when someone your age dies, suddenly you feel very vulnerable.
I continued to move down the line; there is one more lunch mate to greet. I could tell Peter was trying to stand good-naturedly patient as possible as I finished my conversation with Ralph. He was the last for me to say hello to, and waiting for the previous introductions to be over was beginning to weigh heavily on his patience. I glanced over to him; I saw he was exasperated with anticipation. Finally, I was standing in front of Peter; yet, for some reason, my attention was still with Ralph. It was obvious to Peter, which was followed by Peter placing his hands first on my shoulders with each finger separately, but in sequence, then collectively pressing all of them into my shoulders at the same time. He succeeded in ‘grabbing’ my attention. Then he slowly moved each hand down from their assigned shoulder to my attached arms; firmly digging those fingers into my flesh. He pulled me towards him. It was obvious that he was trying to distract my lingering attention to Ralph. He succeeded. And now I was beginning to become uncomfortable with the passion associated with his touch. I tried to reduce my cringe so he wouldn’t sense it. My head finally turned from Ralph towards him, followed by my body, now totally into Peter’s mesmerizing gaze. “Charles. Great to see you. Thank you for coming today.” He poetically, as in an orchestrated dance, finished his salutation with a man-hug; his was gentle, but firm enough to remain manly. The pat on the back consisted of two quick taps, then a push from the very same hands that cradled me moments before, so as to entirely release his grasp on my body. Why did I feel a sense of empty serenity from this encounter? We smiled. Great, I am done with the greetings.
Keeping in line with my brethren, I stood with them along that one side of the funeral home’s theater where we had just completed our dance. I took the next available spot on the wall. For the first time, I saw that there were at least fifty chairs in this room, all aligned into orderly rows and columns, covering most of the carpet under them. Either a well-planned carpet or arrangement of chairs, it was evident that what carpet was not covered by the chairs was left to border those chairs, neatly corralling the entire sitting area. Inside this arena of chairs were one vertical and one horizontal aisle intersecting each other in the center, which appeared to be intentionally included as part the arrangement of those chairs. These passageways afforded guests easy ingress and egress from the sitting area. Sadly, almost all of the seats remained empty, so these walkways remained unused. My lunch group felt more comfortable standing.
George’s widow was sitting at my end of line. They apparently gave her a place of honor, asking her to sit in this oversize leather arm chair; which seemed to swallow her as if she were Alice in her Wonderland. Her chair was adorned with buttons which tufted the leather fabric into evenly distributed indentations of valleys and mounds. It looked very comfortable, almost cozy to sit on. Its wing-back design was strictly European as the wings curved well above her as she sat between them; helping to sustain her with a sense of luxury. I felt that this wing-back chair was the perfect chair for the widow. It wrapped around George’s wife, gently framing her so has to cradle her, providing her with a needed sense of security, almost as if the chair was hugging, protecting her. She was, after all, the center of our attention, our care and concern. She was the widow, mourning the loss of a life-long companion. However, I also believe the Funeral Parlor had an alternative motive, placing her in this chair in front of the room’s entrance. They needed to give her a job that a more formal arrangement of bank stanchions would have accomplished with less graciousness, cordiality. I can only imagine that she was asked to sit there in order to be the immediate greeter for the visitors as they entered into the parlor; then to politely guide them towards the maze of prearranged chairs and passageways. I unknowingly didn’t follow those plans; I had decided to say hello to my friends first. Now, after the fact, I felt obligated to move to her from this side in order to introduce myself to her. I felt awkward, almost embarrassed with the impending introduction; not my favorite role to take. Going to her from this side wasn’t going to be problem. There was no one else in front of her, so I really couldn’t be blamed for cutting into the line to talk with her.
I’m standing in front of her, we acknowledge each other’s stare. Thankfully with Saul pointing her out to me moments ago, I was confident that I was standing in front of the widow, the center stage of this performance. I walked to her in order to complete my ceremonial display of commiseration, and the real purpose for being here. Why didn’t I ask? Too late! I’m directly in front of her now. “Hello.” I started the intro. Damn it! I should have asked one of the guys to tell me her name. I don’t know her name. My self-berating was ongoing; it needs to stop if I am to think of something to say to her. I just can’t stand in front of her without saying something. She has generous eyes; she seemed willing to welcome me, to share this moment with her. But I still don’t know her name. She looked at me kindly, gently; not with remorse, but rather with interest and attention to me and to what I needed to say. There is this comfort that was beginning to surround me, to invade me with a sense of ease, of purpose for being here. There was no evidence that she was crying. Her eyes, however, were really sad; the wrinkles around her eyes complimented her sorrow nicely. The folds of her brow and cheeks neatly framed her eyes with wavy concentric circles. Her eyes were shallow, somewhat sunken, gently settled into her face, neatly encased in a grey hue, indeed showing her age. Her stare was full of attention, not harsh, not sad, but resolved and interested in the person about to speak to her. She unknowingly relaxed my greatest fears of having nothing to say. She accomplished what I couldn’t do for myself. So, I just allowed the words to form and then be said out loud.
“I am so very sorry about George not being here with you, with us. Please know we will miss him dearly. I always looked forward to seeing George each week for lunch. He was very kind and had so many wonderful stories to share with me and our friends. I will surely miss him.” I gestured with my hand to the lunch group standing to my right, her left. I was hoping she would be able to associate me with these guys, and realize that I was a part of the lunch group to which George belonged. Peter and Randy were watching us as I finished my introduction. I wish I knew her name. I know I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for the lunch group. I really had nothing more to add to my opening comment, but I didn’t want to just walk away. I stood there, completely uncomfortable, but suddenly feeling a great deal of concern for this quiet grieving lady. I hope my eyes reveal to her that I cared. The thought of what she will do to pass away the hours tonight when she returns home without her husband really bothered me. I’m getting desperate for a lack of conversation; I felt obligated to add something. It’s only been a few seconds that seemed to turn into an hour of unfulfilled time. Maybe just one more sentence. But what? Her stare showed recognition of my awkward countenance.
“Thank you, Charles.” She knows me? “It was so very kind of you to come today. Not many people that knew George are still alive to be here with me. So, I do appreciate you sharing this day with me.” She just blew my indifference about coming to this funeral away with no effort at all. Suddenly I saw a purpose in being here. I was to keep her company on this very sad day. I bent down to kiss her; she tilted her head, lifted and offered her cheek to me, so as to make it easier for me to reach her. As my lips touched her face, I felt her warmth and her soft skin; it was so thin. I felt her teeth through her cheek. She wasn’t wearing any perfume, but rather it was just a clean fresh aroma. What a lovely lady she is, what a fool I was not to think I belonged here. I nodded, and smiled. She supported the feeling that there wasn’t anything else that needed to be said right now. She politely moved her head so it again rested on the back of her chair. I returned to the wall with the rest of my friends. They all turned as I approached and took my position; acknowledging my deed with approval and gratitude. I felt good.
The room remained quiet. A deafening silence, as if there were sound absorption pads on all the walls. Maybe a total of 20 people showed up to say goodbye to George. Actually, that did make sense. She was correct. Most of his family and many of his friends had passed a long time ago. George’s widow would be alone tonight, for sure. I guess this would be one of the downsides in getting older; living longer than everyone else, you outlive everyone else.
Just before the formal funeral service was to begin, the parlor manager slowly walked up to George’s widow. He probably had to discuss details and procedures of the service with her. As he approached her, and her gaze was now completely distracted by his advance, I stole a look at her, her features. A frail lady. Small statue, she definitely would be that invisible driver I drove behind on the interstate the other day. So small, the driver seat would conceal her presence from anyone driving behind her. Her face was heavily wrinkled, which seemed to help her frown effortlessly hold its grasp on her sadness. Her wrinkled face was framed in a shadow of grief; her countenance dark and shallow. Her eyes were being pressed by the heavy burden of her brows. Her lips sagging with the weight the gravity of grief. It seemed that her cheeks were no longer able to pull the lips back to caress the dimples that had created the smiles long ago.
I stood close enough to spy on the manager’s opening greeting. “I am so very sorry for your loss. May I ask how old was your husband?” It was an awkward moment, an uncomfortable question I guess, for both of them. The reality that the parlor’s manager really didn’t know George at all became obvious. He was just a stranger. All of his inquiries would help advance the fact that he barely knew George, and the hope he would be able to gather enough information so as to make his remarks to the attendees. With the immediacy to become an acquaintance, and to accomplished this in the 5 or 10 minutes of a personal interview with the surviving spouse, was a trick he must had mastered over the decades of performing this ritual over and over again.
“98” the widow softly replied. She added, “Two years older than me.” “So, you’re 96,” the funeral director added showing some regret for doing so, and possibly wishing his patron wouldn’t take his question as an intrusive insult. But the widow apparently wasn’t upset at all by the question. On the contrary, the old lady started to smile, and from those hollowed eyes still able to produce an intense stare that was about to make a declaration of fact, she replied, “Hardly worth going home, isn’t it?”
Charles/Charlie
Lower Topia
