Death Rituals

   Every now and again – not infrequently, but not regularly either – I’ll have a chat with my favorite cousin, Kylie. She’s in Philadelphia, which is a hell of a long way from here.
 
   We’re the same age, give or take. Same vintage is more like it. Meaning we see eye-to-eye on most things.
 
   Our most recent chat was mainly to do with our uncle Roger, and how we both violated the Family Code by not attending his funeral.

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   A little about Roger: He was married to aunt Claire, middle sister to both my dad and Kylie’s mom. I knew Uncle Roger well enough to know that he was a stand-up sort of guy, if altruism’s your cup of tea. Two quick stories will give you an idea of what I mean.
 
   Story One has to do with Roger getting his inheritance. Roger’s father owned a sizeable chunk of farmland in upstate New York, up around the Finger Lakes. It was set up so that the land would automatically be sold when Roger’s dad croaked, so that Roger and his eight brothers and two sisters wouldn’t end up squabbling over it – yes, that’s right: ten siblings had Roger. My mom told me the story about how Roger got his check back in ’78 for his piece of the pie, after his dad died. My mom and Roger and Claire were out to dinner at Pizano’s, occupying the Mob Booth, which Roger had apparently reserved ahead of time. My mom and Claire didn’t even know that that booth could be reserved by regular people like them. It was a semi-circular leather setup, tucked away in the back corner of Pizano’s, all dark and secret-like, with candles and fake grapes and whispers. Basically, it was the Rizz. Anyway, after a couple bottles of cab had been consumed, Roger laid his check on the table, for all to see, with a trembling hand, and told about how he got it. The check was for $31,000, one-eleventh of the land sale. Mind you: Thirty grand was more than twice Roger’s annual salary as a high school math teacher back in 1978. My mom and Claire gasped. And they gasped again as Roger dipped the corner of his handsome check into the red-vased candle in the center of the table, and announced “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” as a flickering flame consumed the whole wad, right there in front of them.
 
   Story Two has to do with Roger’s lifetime membership card for the Elks. According to Roger, my grandfather – my dad’s dad – gave Roger that card. My grandfather was a Big Shot in the Elks, so he could make that sort of thing happen. The card itself was an impressive sight to behold. It looked like one of those original Diner’s Club cards – with period-impressive graphics, some typewritten member details, and the official Elk seal, all done up in gold. No one in my family even knew that lifetime Elk membership cards even existed in the world, and they sure as hell didn’t know someone in their own tribe had one. Roger whipped it out at a Mexican restaurant the night before my dad got married for the second time. Not in a bragging sort of way, mind you – it was just a visual aid for a story he was telling. Anyway, I could tell my dad was pissed because he started to twitch and purse his lips like he does. Roger could see my dad’s agitation too. What my dad was wondering was this: Why hadn’t his dad given him, his dad’s only son, that card, instead of giving it to some random son-in-law – a teacher, no less? Anyway, here’s what Roger said to my dad after registering the pain of the thing: “I know it seems kind of flashy and all, but I’ll tell you something: I tried to use it to get into the Elmira lodge about a year ago, and they turned me away at the door. They thought it was fake.”

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   “So, wait a second, Kylie. You’re not gonna go to uncle Roger’s funeral?” I asked. “I’m kinda surprised to hear that.”
 
   “Why’re’ya surprised? I mean, the roads are terrible. It’s like blizzard conditions right now. I bet a lot of people won’t make it,” Kylie replied, matter-of-factly.
 
   “Oh, I’m just surprised ‘cause I can’t remember a time when you’ve ever missed one of these things. I mean, ever.” I wasn’t exaggerating. The Kylie I knew was not one to brush off official family business of any kind.
 
   “Whaddya mean? What things?”
 
   “Seriously,” I said. “You know. Weddings and funerals and whatnot. Obligatory family stuff.”
 
   “Oh, well, I’m done with it, man,” Kylie said with a pinch of glee. “I’m so done with this shit. It’s getting ridiculous. I’m sick of these death rituals!” After a moment’s reflection, she added, “When I die, I just want someone to dig me a great, big hole, out back by the walnut tree – you know the one, back there by the shed – and just chuck me in.”
 
   “I’m right there with you.”
 
   “I mean it! Will you make sure of it? I mean, will you make sure John doesn’t have me injected full of embalming fluid and caked up with makeup and put on display like a sideshow freak?” Kylie was asking me earnestly. “Please?”
 
   “I’m your guy. So long as you promise to do the same for me.”
 
   “You got it! I will! I mean it, too.”
 
   “I know, Kylie. I know.” I said it because I knew that she did meant it. “Hey, how about a nice This Way to the Great Egress sign for your ‘celebration of life’ shindig? I’m assuming you’ll want a throw-down party instead of a stuffy, old funeral, right?”
 
   “Oh yeah, a throw-down, for sure. Maybe a couple kegs. A DJ! Some Solid Gold dancers. I could go on. Gimmie The Works, cuzzy-wuzzy.” And then, after a thoughtful pause, “But, I don’t get the This Way sign thing, though. Whaddya mean by that?”
 
   I told Kylie about the old P.T. Barnum stunt where he put up a bunch of signs that said This Way to the Great Egress at his American Museum back in the 1840s. Barnum’s New York City museum was so popular that people would linger around there all day – flattering, I’m sure, but old P.T. was irritated because the loafers were taking a bite out of his profits. He just wanted them in and out, see? Throughput, old buddy! Throughput’s the name of the game! So, he had a bunch of these signs made up and he placed them all throughout the museum, and many a customer followed the signs, too, looking for the great new Great Egress attraction – whatever that was. The gullible ones followed those signs straight on out the back door of the museum, never realizing that “egress” is just a fancy-pants word for “exit." Once they had exited, of course, the museum door would clink-clank-lock right behind them, leaving them to wonder and my maybe chuckle about how good old P.T. Barnum had pulled one over on ‘em.
 
   “Yeah!” said Kylie. “Good thinking. I’ll need one of those signs for sure. For my Great Egress. Will you make it?”

*          *          *

   I have to say: It really struck me to hear how Kylie didn’t want her body embalmed and put on display and such. I joke you not, I’ve had those very same thoughts. I mean it. Just ask my wife.
 
   Is there some shared, ancestral message coming through the eons to Kylie and me? I do wonder.
 
   All I can say, for certain, is that when my spirit decides to close this particular chapter, I’d much prefer that its used-up receptacle (my body, I mean) simply becomes worm food, rather than a creepy Wacko Jacko experiment. Why on earth would I want to have my expired meat and bones pumped full of anti-freeze and hermetically sealed inside some tacky, varnished box? Or incinerated inside an industrial furnace? My body, my choice, dude. Please just quietly throw my old carcass into a hole, and be done with it. Throw a flower in there if you’re feeling extra fancy, but no more than that. Please.
 
   That way, maybe my physical remnants will have a fighting chance at becoming a part of a walnut tree, or a hawk, or something meaningful. Something that’s not going to get tangled up in the zombie apocalypse and/or any AI-orchestrated horrors that might be playing out in Future World. Most importantly: Something that’s not going to inadvertently trick my spirit back into this very same trap using the tired, old “step-into-the-light” ploy.
 
   Hands off! I say to all the misguided, modern morticians, who, I think, must be play-acting at being Egyptian high priests. Much better to have the door to this physical realm clink-clank-lock right behind me, so I can Get On With It. I can simply exit stage left, and maybe even have a chuckle about how old P.T. Barnum pulled one over on me.
 
   This Way to the Great Egress, indeed.
 
   My wife has my back on this. And, apparently, my cousin, Kylie, does as well. I’m a lucky guy.
 
– O.M. Kelsey