convention hall, coffins and mourners everywhere
crowding the horizon. Over there, the dancing
Hassidim; yonder, the phlegmatic Peloponnesians.
Every religion, every class is accommodated. But I’m
here on business. I roll my mother’s wheelchair toward
a couple of idle morticians. “Could you watch her for a
moment?” I ask. “I’ve got to meet someone at the bar.”
“Certainly,” they answer. I can tell they’re about to give me
that creepy mortician smile that says: You don’t know
what we know about what happens next. However,
I don’t have time to humor them. I’ve got business at the
funeral home bar—
— which turns out to be a lovely place, warmly lit and
crowded with genuine, friendly folk. No rude barroom
jocularity here. Indeed, they make quiet, respectful
jokes. Occasionally one will place a comforting hand on
another’s shoulder.
I’ve come here to meet my friend, but time passes and
she never shows up. “Your friend is late? Get it? She’s
your late friend?” says the gentleman next to me. I laugh
politely. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Sooner or later she’ll
show up. They always do.”
But she doesn’t, so I decide to head home. Once off
the barstool and onto the floor, I realize that everyone
here is extremely tall. Even I seem to be taller than
when I came in. “Mourning will do that to you,” says
the gentleman next to me. “Sadness does it. Let me
show you,” and he makes a sweeping gesture with his
hand. The scene is transformed. We’re no longer affable
people at a funeral home bar but tall pine trees in a
forest. It is winter. The air is clear, cold. And though we
stand together, each of us is somber and alone.
---from Forty-Nine Guaranteed Ways to Escape Death
Copy Rightⓒ2007 by Sandy McIntosh
---from Forty-Nine Guaranteed Ways to Escape Death
Copy Rightⓒ2007 by Sandy McIntosh
Inside the Regent Theatre Milk Bar, Brisbane, ca. 1936 / State Library of Queensland, Australia
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