The Big Shot

BLACK MOURNING GLORY

 

Cars are in line, almost at rest as far as the eye can see around the corner. There must be at least thirty behind and  heaven knows how many have been placed in proper lines for the procession. We move very slowly. As each family, each carload of friends, business associates reach the chapel door, the driver stops. His passengers walk slowly inside and the car behind moves a few feet closer to the first destination.

 

Jessie is dead. Two days ago he was vibrant, winner, a champion dancer, a lover. Now he is being honored when he is not cold yet. There is no more room behind the mahogany casket for more flowers, wreaths. Wanda, his lady, wears a simple black dress. A long strand of pearls hangs loosely around her neck.  She sends the overload of flowers to the atrium.

 

There is silence in the chambers as the priest, In his white robe and mitred hat enters the chapel, walks solemnly down the aisle, up three steps to the bier. Either he is a practiced actor or is truly overcome with grief. I opt for his acting talent. From where I sit, I can just see the tip of Jessie's large nose as he sleeps forever on the white satin
pillow. That is enough for me. The priest drones his adoration of a man he never met.

 

The woman seated in front of me, who I cannot help but notice, is wearing a bright flowered dress and is carrying on her shoulder a large yellow purse. She's whispering loud enough for half the chapel to hear her. 'This is a farce,' she declares. That Jessie was a put-on-fake. He was a lousy actor who got an undeserved break. His dancing was mediocre but he had such great partners, he got away with it, and a lover, no way. I knew.

 

I could not take another word of the degradation that woman was espousing, touched her shoulder and merely said, 'Madam, shut up.' She said a lot more, stood defiantly and walked up the aisle and out the door. The priest had not stopped his orating, didn't even notice the commotion.

 

A lovely voice came from the balcony. I thought immediately it must be one of Jessie's wives. The lady sang like an angel who just got her wings, but she couldn't finish 'I Love You Truly'. Her voice quavered, her head lowered and poof she was gone.

 

I looked again at the open casket. Jessie's nose was more visible. Was I imagining it or was I just sitting straighter? I slumped a bit. The service was over. The casket was about to be sealed when bedlam broke loose. Jessie rose, laughing, prancing around, 'You guys thought I was a lousy actor, didn't you? Now you know I wasn't. Outside, everyone, outside! There's eats, drinks and me to talk about. Time, Newsweek will be running this story next week. I expect to be on the Today show, too, maybe The View.

 

Right now I'm going to wash this white stuff off my face and find that lady who almost sang 'I Love You Truly.'  And he did.