A Good Man Has Left Us
Humor made a gut-wrenching loss somewhat easier to process.
The trip to say goodbye to dear relative began with the most thorough – dare I say “enthusiastically handy” – pat-down by a TSA agent at Sky Harbor Airport, in Phoenix. The plump, straw-haired fellow poked around as if searching for a cube of
C-4 plastic explosive that he knew I’d hidden in my thong Fruit Of The Looms. Fighting the urge to protest, I had to admire his professional tenacity.
Once the federally approved grope-job ended and the TSA agent’s gloved hands were mercifully out of my pants, several comments flashed through my head, one after another:
• “Now that we’re done, care to share a cigarette?”
• “In certain rural counties of Alabama, we’re now legally married.”
• “Any sign of testicular cancer?”
• “The least you can do is offer to buy me dinner.”
• “Next time, can you talk dirty? Make me bark like a dog and write bad checks?”
• “And with that, let the refractory period begin.”
Alas, I wanted to make my flight, so for once I kept my snarky pie-hole zippered shut.
Having met my brother, Jeff, at the airport, we were bound for Indianapolis, where family and friends were gathering to honor Uncle Sid, a brilliant, humble, soft-spoken, extraordinarily generous person.
A leader in his field, civil engineering, Uncle Sid was world-renowned in his specialty, cement chemistry. Although he retired many years ago, his technical papers continue to be cited, over and over, to this very day, helping students and colleagues alike navigate an extraordinarily complex subject. It was no surprise, that, after his passing, condolences to his family came from throughout the world. In fact, one professional conference simply … stopped … and honored Uncle Sid with a well-earned minute of silence.
Professional accolades aside, he was an even better human being.
Truth be told, I hesitate to share that “federal foreplay” scene – and the slew of goofy experiences that follow – since they took place during such a somber time. However, my lifelong tendency has always been to shoehorn humor into pretty much any challenging situation. And if doing so helped others process their own grief, all the better.
On that note …
Following an uneventful four-hour flight, my brother Jeff and I schlepped our carry-on luggage toward the car rental section of Indianapolis International Airport. While hustling toward our reserved minivan, I couldn’t help but notice the unusually large number of artworks that adorned every corner of the airport. (Indy is noted for this.)
At one point, I spotted a distinguished-looking gent peering at a modern piece. As Jeff and I ambled by, we could hear him saying to his wife: “This work really … speaks to me.”
In a flash, my vividly off-kilter mind – always set on “spin cycle” – came up with what I’ll call a micro-story:
“Existential Air”
Retired Columbia professor Farquar Pennington III, sporting a tweed jacket and holding an unlit pipe, strolled through the chic Lower East Side art gallery, stopping to gaze at one of the wall-mounted pieces. The 70-something Pennington, dramatically adjusting his designer scarf, gestured with his pipe toward the work as he spoke to his long-suffering wife, Margot.
“The lines in this work are sublime,” he said, pursing his lips in self-satisfaction. “Their parallel nature and bold structure speak to … yes, yes … human suffering. The inevitability of order amid chaos. The linear geometry of despair itself.”
Margot’s gaze shifted back and forth between the object and her husband.
“I’m deeply moved,” Pennington added. “This work is really speaking to me.”
“Farquar,” Margot said. “That’s an air vent.”
≈ The End ≈
The morning of the funeral, as I adjusted my tie in the hotel room’s bathroom mirror, I heard a knock on the door. Jeff, who’d apparently emerged from his own room, was ready to leave for the memorial service.
Then I had an idea.
“IF THAT’S THE ESCORT SERVICE, COME ON IN! I bellowed toward the door. AND DID YOU BRING THE RIDING CROP AND MELTED BUTTER THIS TIME?!”
What I expected: “Grow up, Larry. I’ll be downstairs.”
What I heard: another knock.
“I saw that your door was cracked open,” one of the hotel’s staffers said. “Just checking on you.”
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered, red-faced. “I thought you were my – ”
“No problem,” he said with a stiff, awkward smile. “I understand. I really do.”
“No, no, really … I could’ve sworn my brother was there.”
What he said next gave me pause. “Sir,” he said as he backed away, palms facing outward, “I’m not judging …”
Oh, yes he was.
En route to the funeral, we stopped at a local Starbucks for a nice jet-lag-fighting cup of what I like to call Liquid Hope. (Prone to depression, before my morning coffee kicks in I’m little more than a hapless brain stem in Spiderman pajamas … even in my own time zone.)
The one other fellow in line, a Lycra- and helmet-clad cyclist, hemmed and hawed over his drink option, trying to decide between a Pumpkin-Spice Kale/Kombucha Macchiato and an Oat Milk Cortado With a Pompous Hint of Cinnamon.
Although my cortex was still mostly offline, the delay gave me enough time to form another idea, the second gem in just a few minutes.
Once the Road Warrior completed his order and ambled toward his bike – his ultimate selection: a Gluten-Free, Sugar-Free, Joy-Free Latte – I approached the barista and smiled.
“Good morning. I’d like a coffee. You know … just a coffee.”
The purple-haired server, a rail-thin 20-something hipster weighed down by what I swear must’ve been a 10-ounce nose ring, looked relieved. Her likely internal dialogue: Easy-peasy. The old coot wants a simple brew …
“Will that be Short, Tall, Grande or Venti?” she inquired.
I rocked her world. “Medium.”
Hesitating just a second, she said, “Uh … Grande it is.”
That’s when I said it.
“I normally prefer a half-caf. But could you please make this five-twelfths regular and seven-twelfths decaf?”
Oh, if looks could kill. On the plus side, she got a nice tip.
After a gaggle of cousins, kids, co-workers and codger compadres met at Uncle Sid’s house after the funeral, we reminisced about the dearly departed.
The previous evening, I’d reminded everyone of the time this brilliant man – the quintessentially bookish, absent-minded professor – once tried his hand at sailing while holding a bound volume on the subject while out on the water. I wasn’t there at the time, but, based on the description I’d heard, I can picture Uncle Sid frantically flipping through the pages … as the 12-foot dingy slowly keeled over.
Another guest of honor – pizza – soon arrived at the gathering. The night before, my cousin Julie had asked everyone what they’d like on their pie. No veggies for some, no pepperoni for others.
I’d chimed in: “I’ll take anything. As long as there’s no cheese or tomato sauce.”
That evening, looking around the dinner table as everyone buried their grief in comfort carbs, I shared something I’d heard years earlier: how every single Jewish holiday can be distilled into three steps:
They tried to kill us.
The didn’t.
Let’s eat!!
Having booked an early return flight out of Indianapolis the following morning, my brother and I headed south on Interstate 65 before dawn. Driving our rental minivan on the empty road, I recalled a trick I’d occasionally play in similar situations.
Well, why not now? I thought.
I gently (and, I’ll add, safely) veered an inch or two onto the road’s rough shoulder. Then, closing my right eye while steering on the I-65 with my left, I let my head loll back and forth and hung my mouth open. At 65 mph, it looked like I was literally fast asleep.
“Larry!” my brother screamed, reaching for the wheel.
I smiled and steered back onto the center of the lane.
Let’s just say Jeff wasn’t thrilled. Can’t win ‘em all … and I’m okay with that.
On the flight back to Phoenix, one of the first-class passengers boarded with – get this – an emotional support Komodo dragon.
I awakened the morning after returning from Indianapolis feeling a gnawing sense of emptiness over the loss of a wonderful human being. During one of the eulogies, a brilliant overview of the man and his accomplishments, Uncle Sid’s son-in-law had kept stressing about the importance of character. He’d said …
“If someone has character in abundance … nothing else matters.”
“And if someone lacks character … nothing else matters.”
My uncle was, first and foremost, a man of character. And, imagining him frantically flipping pages while his sailboat was capsizing, I realized that he also was a character.
Rolling out of bed, I wondered where Uncle Sid’s soul, his very essence, had gone. Half joking to myself, I asked the Cosmos for confirmation that the ol’ boy was doing well.
“Gimme a sign, dude,” I said aloud before padding toward the kitchen to brew a cup of Liquid Hope.
Before leaving the bedroom, I tossed a portable phone charger onto my bed. And, at that moment, something – some felt sense – compelled me to turn around.
Glad you’re doing okay, Uncle Sid.
One day, I hope we can meet again.
Kudos and hugs to several of the fine folks (and super wordsmiths!) in my Write Hearted community, for their valuable support and feedback: Brigitte Kratz, Kathy Ayers, Dana Allen, Alden Cox, Rick Lewis, Linda Kaun and Neha Patel.
I can't decide if it'd be fun or scary as hell living inside that head of yours. A whole bunch of both, I suspect. Was this a public groping at the airport, or were you taken to a more private location?
Wow, what a wild ride!!!