By Steven L. Shrewsbury
“A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are portals of discovery.” - JAMES JOYCE - Ulysses, 1922.
Let me tell you about my uncle Bernard’s wake.
My brothers and I were recruited for the third time in two years to be pallbearers for a dead relative. Mom and Dad’s siblings only produced daughters, so it was left to the four of us boys to fill the need as corpse escorts. Having several friends, we could always pick up a few rogues to pad out the number to six. In this case, I grabbed my buddy Bob from work and promised to buy him a few rounds later if he helped out. Always up for the task up heavy drinking and heavy lifting, Bob pitched in for the wake stand-up duty the night prior the funeral.
Uncle Bernard Danker had lived in a suburb of Chicago teaming with funeral homes. Bob and I became lost, stopping at two other wakes before spying my mother’s Buick Skylark. We arrived fashionably late, which wasn’t all-bad for my elderly aunts were slobbering kisses on anyone younger than fifty.
Bob followed my lead and we took seats behind my two oldest brothers. Since they were both about six foot five and 250 pounds, they formed an effective shield against smooching aunts. As we played at hiding from the enemy, Bob told me of a bar in Joliet with a surfer motif. At this establishment, they gave one a shot…after they strap you to a surfboard…and flip the board down. Seeing as the atmosphere in the funeral parlor was positively dead, the screwy tavern sounded like a great time to me.
A line of elderly men and women filtered through the posh viewing room to pay their respects. My eyes went from these old folks to the man in the black coffin. I hadn’t seen the old fellow in years and possessed only good memories of him. Bernard was a cool old guy. When I was five, he gave me a silver dollar after he came home from Las Vegas. When I was twelve, he came to visit me in St Luke’s hospital. He brought me Tommy John’s autograph the day of my eye surgery. I hadn’t thought of this duty of carrying him to his eternal vault as more than a chore until then. Bernard was cool. The more I thought on him the more I realized that I’d really miss him. I felt like a heel. I hadn’t seen nor sent Bernard a card in six years.
After about half an hour, this little guy in a long black trench coat walked in. He wore thick glasses akin to those folks with cataract surgery wore. He fidgeted, shook and appeared nervous to me. The little dude squinted as he looked about the room, trying to draw a bead on someone he knew. No one paid him much mind. There were quite a few old guys in line that no one knew.
The viewing line thinned out some and this little man gingerly stepped toward the coffin. Because of his uneasy steps, I doubted his ability to see where he was going. I tapped my big brother on the shoulder and whispered, “Hey, Mick, who is that ol’ guy?”
“Dunno,” my bearded, gruff brother snorted. “Ya know Uncle Bernie had more old card playin’ buddies than J. Edgar Hoover had secret files. He’s Elvis’ uncle for all I know.”
In front of the coffin, the old duffer snapped into attentiveness. “You!” he cried in a loud, husky voice. “You old cocksucker!”
Those three words came out in loud, thudding grunts a drill instructor would’ve been proud to deliver. After they rebounded in the quiet room, one could have heard a pin drop. Everyone froze as even Bob looked at the old dude. This state of gestalt shock was why the little guy was allowed to perform his next act.
With incredible grace, the old man leapt up onto the closed part of the coffin lid, straddling it like a kid on a seesaw. Above his head, he held what he concealed under his long coat—A long handled ax. Without hesitation, he planted the heavy blade in the center of Uncle Bernard’s gray business suit.
“You-old-cock-suck-er!” The ax connected with the skull on every syllable, doing terrible damage. Every time it drew back, hair, and skin ripped free with it, giving out a hollow, wet noise I will never be able to drink away. Tiny founts of odd colored orange liquids and shards of bones flipped up into the air over Uncle Bernard’s pre-folded American flag from the VFW.
By the time the little maniac reared back for his sixth swing, the preacher and my oldest brother John, grabbed him. They wrestled the attacker down as if he were Jack Ruby. By that time, however, the white silk of the coffin had been bathed in embalming fluid and the smell of the floral displays was long gone.
Several old ladies hit the floor. One aged guy lost control of his bowels. Quite a few people stood like statues. Generally, it was a surprising event.
My mother, ever the paragon of strength, shook her head emotionlessly and muttered, “What is this world coming to?” She worked for 40 years in nursing home and death didn’t scare her much at all. I feel sorry for that bony sumbitch with the scythe when he comes for her.
After a brief scuffle, they pulled the little guy to his feet. Someone yelled curses at him for what he did to poor, departed Bernie.
“Who the hell is Bernie?” the confused man in thick glasses asked, straining against the hold my brothers had on him. He looked at the coffin and asked, “That is Benedict Smith, right? That bastard was screwing my wife years ago! Gave me the clap, he did!”
Bob burst out laughing. I didn’t blame him even if the older folks shot him daggers. It was all I could do to keep my guts in.
The man in thick glasses spit on the coffin. “That old prick! I never knew what became of him! Then I saw his obituary!”
Bob was in tears, lying on his side in the cushioned bench we shared. My mother shot him a look as if he farted in church.
A severely ancient lady with horned rimmed glasses admonished the defiler of Uncle Bernard, “You stupid putz! Ben Smith is next door!”
I smiled at last; ruefully pondering the fact that old people…darn them to heck…read every freaking obit religiously.
“Oh,” the little old man said and blinked. He calmed down and wetted his lips, inadvertently removing some orange fluid splashed there. “I’ll be going now.” He tried to bolt, but my big brothers held him fast. They then called in the cops who had a great time trying to figure out what to charge him with.
Bob and I went to that bar that night and got sloppy drunk. The next morning I awoke with a splitting headache. All in all, the funeral turned out very nice.