I was at my father's funeral. Neatly bedecked in black with the requisite pill box hat and veil. Tissue in hand, I did my best to keep up the sobs.
What if?
What if Dad suddenly got up out of his coffin and started in on his old dance routine? The flesh dangling under his chin like melted cheese, wagging to the tempo. Everyone would gawk, at first, then old Aunt Martha would speak up.
"What a horrid tie!"
"Oops, missed a turn there." That would be my cousin, Bill.
"Never could dance like his brother," Ned would say. Ned, Aunt Martha's decrepit hubbie, was 93, sick every day of his life, but refused to die. He'd even managed to outlive six of his seven children.
No one seemed to be the least surprised that a dead man had arisen and was doing the two-step.
What if?
Aunt Martha's tugging on my arm.
"Dear, I know this is a bad time for you [No, Aunt Martha, this is the event of the century], but I simply must tell someone...I'm gay."
"That's nice Aunt Martha. What about Uncle Ned?"
"Oh Ned hasn't been able to get it up since 1967. I never should have taken him to Expo."
We chat about her new love, Claudia, a 60-year old candy striper originally from Guatemala, who crochets doilies for United Church bazaars in her spare time.
"Are you all right, dear?" Aunt Martha is tugging on my arm again.
"Yes, fine."
The minister is now at the "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust" part. This man must be buried and buried he must!
What if?
The minister has a drinking problem. He's telling the congregation that Lot's wife turned into a pillar of rocky road ice cream and that the parting of the Red Sea never happened, unless you count that time Moses went to the local brothel during a full moon.
I can hear cousin Bill's pasty-faced wife complaining.
"We're spending a fortune on the babysitter."
"Yes, honey."
"We have to leave as soon as this is over."
"Yes, honey."
"You never told me if he left you anything in his will."
"He left me his chainsaw, honey."
"Chainsaw?"
"Yes, honey."
There's blood everywhere.
The sermon continues.
"What hymn is this?"
Ned leans across Aunt Martha and spits on the floor, yellow phlegm he's been saving up since last Tuesday. Aunt Martha silently hands him a hanky.
I lied before. Ned has actually been dead since 1982. Preparation H seems to help.
The minister wraps up his sermon.
We all leave the church and climb into assorted cars. I step into a waiting limo. A bloody Mary is on the seat tray and The Who is playing on the car stereo.
What if?
Roger Daltrey's 1969 hair has become sentient and taken over Istanbul.
"Where to luv?"
I look up into the rearview mirror and see the cab driver's face. I'm holding a half-empty can of ginger ale.
"That's not The Who."
"No, luv. That's Robert Goulet."
"I guess I'll go home," I say, more to myself than to him. He nods, puts the car in drive and pulls out into traffic. I give him my address and he picks up speed.
The scenery is boring. I've seen it thousands of times. Instead, I look at the back of the cab driver's head. Short brown hair, a bit of dandruff on the collar, a smattering of freckles on his neck.
What if--
But I'm home now.
Copyright 1988, 2025
