Part Three: The Funeral
I, Cass, am not a crier….except at weddings and funerals. Ti has already penned an entry on how to survive the wedding season, tear free. And because the two can be so closely related, I hope to offer our readers the same here.
The email arrived in my Inbox unobtrusively enough. A one-liner that told me of our friend Bernie’s passing. One of the professional hipsters contacted me to be sure I had heard the news and asked if I’d be coming back to Troy for the services. I told him I didn’t think bartender qualified under The Hobos Inc. Human Resources bereavement policy. He said he wasn’t sure which of the services he would be attending or which of the after-parties (there were to be quite a few), but he would call with a report. I felt badly. I knew my trips back to Troy’s local watering hole wouldn’t be the same and that Bernie embodies a special kind of hoboness. And so I wanted to pen a eulogy to our fellow hobo, Bernie. But then, it appeared in my Inbox as if Bernie himself had written, in absentia:
So a Christian burial was had for our friend Bernie and at one point the minister stood up and invited the audience to offer some thoughts, reflections on the deceased. A few people got up and offered a funny anecdote, a few characterizations (“he was beautiful,” one woman cried into her hanky). And then his brother, who descended the mountain he climbed a few years back (when his home was condemned by the sanitation department) but apparently hadn’t had time to shave or ditch the climber-gear, stood up. He cleared his throat and clenched his fist, drew it back behind his shaggy neck and then, as if launching a football, yelled, “I’ll see you in hell, Bernie!”
There were a few gasps, and a distinct cry emerged from the crowd. The minister bent to comfort the woman and then quickly stepped back to the pulpit. “Well, since no one can [ahem, throat clearing] top that, I think we’ll move along.” A handful of insightful mourners nodded and murmured Amen.
And with that short, concise battle cry, Bernie’s eulogy was born. R.I.P.
The email arrived in my Inbox unobtrusively enough. A one-liner that told me of our friend Bernie’s passing. One of the professional hipsters contacted me to be sure I had heard the news and asked if I’d be coming back to Troy for the services. I told him I didn’t think bartender qualified under The Hobos Inc. Human Resources bereavement policy. He said he wasn’t sure which of the services he would be attending or which of the after-parties (there were to be quite a few), but he would call with a report. I felt badly. I knew my trips back to Troy’s local watering hole wouldn’t be the same and that Bernie embodies a special kind of hoboness. And so I wanted to pen a eulogy to our fellow hobo, Bernie. But then, it appeared in my Inbox as if Bernie himself had written, in absentia:
So a Christian burial was had for our friend Bernie and at one point the minister stood up and invited the audience to offer some thoughts, reflections on the deceased. A few people got up and offered a funny anecdote, a few characterizations (“he was beautiful,” one woman cried into her hanky). And then his brother, who descended the mountain he climbed a few years back (when his home was condemned by the sanitation department) but apparently hadn’t had time to shave or ditch the climber-gear, stood up. He cleared his throat and clenched his fist, drew it back behind his shaggy neck and then, as if launching a football, yelled, “I’ll see you in hell, Bernie!”
There were a few gasps, and a distinct cry emerged from the crowd. The minister bent to comfort the woman and then quickly stepped back to the pulpit. “Well, since no one can [ahem, throat clearing] top that, I think we’ll move along.” A handful of insightful mourners nodded and murmured Amen.
And with that short, concise battle cry, Bernie’s eulogy was born. R.I.P.
posted by hobos in space @ 3:51 PM
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