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“PLEASE!” by Conrad Romo
When I die, promise me that my brother Jaime will not sing at my funeral. Swear to me, that you won’t let him do that thing he does, that waaaarrrrrbllling vibraaaaaato thiiiiiinggg. Please, don’t let him do that. I mean I love my brother like a brother but this I can’t stand. I’m serious. This might be my finest hour and I don’t want my big exit spoiled.
I’m not morbid, and don’t want to die for a long time, but that doesn’t stop me from planning my funeral. I don’t want anything left to chance, maybe because I’ve had so many near death experiences. I’ve been nearly drowned, shot, electrocuted, incinerated, crushed and choked. How ‘bout you?
The first time I almost died was from a bratwurst. Pathetic, huh? I was ten, and had been deep sea fishing on an “all day” boat with my aunt Lucile. I didn’t bring a lunch and expected her to feed me something that day. She didn’t, and I starved until we docked then ran to a fast food stand and bought a giant bratwurst dog and commenced wolfing the thing down. My aunt was in a big hurry tooting her horn from the car and yelling at me to, “C’mon!” She had a gunnysack of bonita she wanted to get home. There was enough of the brat-dog left for two normal bites, but because she rushed me and because I’m a pig, I put the whole thing in my mouth and swallowed before I should have, and it stuck in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to signal for someone to help. I couldn’t talk. I must’ve looked pretty weird waving my frantic hands and turning colors ‘cause my cousin Robert just pointed at me and laughed. I mean, who knew about Heimlich then? Seagulls squawked over scraps and people at the stand ordered food like normal. Cars pulled in and out of the lot. I could barely see the sun setting through my tearing eyes and knew I was dying- then somehow managed to convulse the thing up. I got no sympathy from my aunt who just handed me a rag with fish scales all over it to wipe my mouth. Nice touch huh?
Then there was the time in the Mojave Desert with the Boy Scouts shooting rifles, 22’s and Army issue M1’s. My next door neighbor Freddy pointed his rifle at me and pulled the trigger. The bullet came so close I felt it graze my scalp!
And on two different occasions I flipped cars on highways with them landing upside down. I once woke up inside a mummy bag that was in flames. This was in Alaska on an abandoned barge and a lot of alcohol was involved. That one hurt.
Then there was another time in Alaska that I fell into a freezing bay in the dead of a pitch black night blind drunk and a strong tide pulled me out to sea.
One time, I even saw the white light thing, after I’d grabbed onto a power line coming from a telephone pole near Ensenada. Stupid me, I believed some Boy Scouts from troop 300 when they told me that it wouldn’t hurt. “Be Prepared!” That’s the slogan of the Boy Scouts. Did you know that? Be prepared to die, is more like it.
See the thing about my funeral is that I want it to be fun and cool. Like, before Belushi died, he and Ackroyd had an agreement that the “Flight of the Bumble Bee,” would be played at their funerals- an homage to the killer bees sketch from their days at Saturday Night Live. A nice touch, I thought. And then there are traditions, y’know, like bagpipes or taps that are often played. When a famous actor from the theater dies, the lights are dimmed on Broadway. And when a jockey dies, a single riderless horse runs around the track, there’s the 21 gun salute thing, the flags at half mast, and the 10 count bell for a heroic dead boxer. Then there’s the Air Force with four jets flying in formation before one suddenly veers off solo. How about when John Lennon died? There was a minute of silence on the radio.
But me, I mean what have I done with my life? I’m a goddamned telephone solicitor for Chrissakes!! How would I be eulogized? What could be said, other than something trite and corny that you might see on a bumper sticker like:
“Salesmen don’t die, they just go out of commission.”
And then,what? Maybe the sound of the dreaded hang-up and 30 seconds of a dial tone?
…eeeeehhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
So, this is what I’ve decided. First I want Irish keeners, two of them. Y’know professional wailers, the kind that will carry on like it’s their very own funeral. And I want Van Morrison for sure singing something, but I haven’t decided on the set yet, though something from Astral Weeks would be good. And I want a pregnant woman to jump on my casket screaming, “No daddy no!!!” And I want a couple of really hot babes breaking out in a nasty catfight and tearing each others clothes off. And I want four jackasses running in a mini herd and then one galloping off alone. And a New Orleans jazz band playing a slow dirge for the procession then kicking off into some wild party riff once it’s done. (“ Just a closer walk with Me ”)
You’ll really want to be there because Langers, serving the best pastrami sandwiches in the world, will cater. Just one bite from this amazing meal of a sandwich and all resentments toward me will vanish and everyone will think the thought that undoubtedly someone will be heard voicing: “Y’know, this pastrami is just so good, you kinda wish he could die every day.”
And piñatas, yeah, I want piñatas made in my likeness. Pinatas with my body and face that will swung at and smashed open with corked bats and the contents will be pounced on; the little bottles of booze and expensive chocolate bars and non-filter cigarettes and real good pens and movie passes and one ounce plata pura Mexican silver coins and Dodger dogs all fought over as they come spilling out.
And finally, I want to be cremated, and I want my ashes thrown into the faces of people that have pissed me off. I’ll make a list, don’t you worry, I’ll make a list you can count on that. I just don’t think there’s gonna be enough of me to go around for them all.
Conrad Romo since 1954 has been a Los Angelino. He is the producer of “Tongue&Groove,” and “Palabrazilla”. He has studied with Lynda Barry and Jack Grapes. He grew up on the other side of the tracks short, stocky and swarthy. He would like to be thought of as a ladies man, a man’s man and a dog’s best friend. We’ll spot him one at least, okay? He makes his daily bread selling stuff and is slowly compiling a collection of short stories and a CD.
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