My father always said the worst thing about getting old was watching
your friends die. Second worst was diminished distance off the tee.
Now that I’m over sixty, I can attest he was right on both counts.
Nonetheless, even death and the rituals that accompany it, somehow
never fail to offer up a little comic relief. On the other hand,
there’s nothing funny about losing yardage.
Of course, the memorial services for friends in show business
are always filled with laughter because on those occasions you have
talented, funny people telling stories about other talented, funny
people. However, non-pro deaths offer their own moments of black
comedy. As cases in point, I offer the following two examples.
After my mother died, my father, my sister, her ten-year-old son and I
went en masse to buy her tombstone at a place called Swink Monument. I
have no recollection exactly why we picked them, but price may have
been involved. Their office was in a mobile home surrounded by a
concrete slab, on which various markers were displayed. (In case you
haven’t guessed, this is in North Carolina). My father, following
through on his philosophy to the end, picked neither the grandest stone
nor the plainest. Then, we went inside to fill out the paperwork,
except for my nephew who remained out doors, skateboarding through the
monuments.
Dotsie Swink, the heavy-set woman who was assisting us, took down the basic information, then asked a question I’ve never heard before or since: You want slick on top?
My father always said the worst thing about getting old was watching your friends die. Second worst was diminished distance off the tee. Now that I’m over sixty, I can attest he was right on both counts. Nonetheless, even death and the rituals that accompany it, somehow never fail to offer up a little comic relief. On the other hand, there’s nothing funny about losing yardage.
Of course, the memorial services for friends in show business are always filled with laughter because on those occasions you have talented, funny people telling stories about other talented, funny people. However, non-pro deaths offer their own moments of black comedy. As cases in point, I offer the following two examples.
After my mother died, my father, my sister, her ten-year-old son and I went en masse to buy her tombstone at a place called Swink Monument. I have no recollection exactly why we picked them, but price may have been involved. Their office was in a mobile home surrounded by a concrete slab, on which various markers were displayed. (In case you haven’t guessed, this is in North Carolina). My father, following through on his philosophy to the end, picked neither the grandest stone nor the plainest. Then, we went inside to fill out the paperwork, except for my nephew who remained out doors, skateboarding through the monuments.
Dotsie Swink, the heavy-set woman who was assisting us, took down the basic information, then asked a question I’ve never heard before or since: You want slick on top?
Our expressions revealed our confusion.
“On the tombstone. You just want it just slick on top?” she said, pointing to a sample on the floor with the top polished and the sides untouched. “I mean, there ain’t no sense paying extra to get slick on the sides, cause the guys at the cemetery are just gonna knick it with the mower every time they cut the grass. People don’t think about that, but I do because I’m in the business.”
We had not thought about it. We went with just slick on top.
“I think it’s a wise decision,” said Dotsie, as she lit up a Salem. “You know Perry Sigmon, who owned the bottling plant? Well, they do everything first class, so they got slick on the sides for his stone. I couldn’t talk ‘em out of it. Then, a year later, I was in Eckerd’s and his widow came up to me in the check-out line and said, ‘Dotsie, I wish I’d listened to you about not gettin’ slick on the sides. They got these high school boys cutting the grass out there and they just ride those mowers around that graveyard like they’re in the Daytona 500. I swear, Perry’s marker is so banged up my daughter won’t even go out there because it breaks her heart to look at it’.”
We thought about that for a minute as we listened to the sound of the skateboard.
“I mean, I’m taking money out of my own pocket,” said Dotsie, “But I’ve got to do what’s right. Now, before I run the card, would you like to have a word of prayer? Some folks do because it helps them get closure, but it’s totally optional.”
Years later, in a different part of the country, my wife was in the hospital with her father as he lay very close to death. Sensing the end was near, he requested his lawyer and accountant, Al Miller, be called in to make some final changes to the will.
That afternoon Miller, a dapper 84-year-old, arrived and expressed his sorrow at seeing his longtime friend and client in such bad shape. Then the session began with my wife interpreting the instructions from her father, who could barely speak above a whisper. After a few minutes, Miller put down, his pen and said, “Let me ask you both something. How much do you think I paid for this sport coat?”
Getting no immediate reply, he continued.
“Pretty nice, huh?” he said, stroking the sleeve of the jacket. “Wool-silk blend. Got it in Florida. Originally it was over a hundred dollars. Now, I would never pay that kind of money for a coat, as my friend here will tell you,” he said, gesturing to the man in bed, who did not have the energy to confirm this assertion.
“So, I see the coat in the window,” said Al. “And I notice they’re having a sale, so I say to myself, what’s the harm in taking a look? I go inside, I try on the coat and the thing fits me like I had it tailor-made, not that I would ever do such a thing. Anyway, I’m thrilled, but I don’t want to seem too enthusiastic, so I take it off and try on a couple of other coats. Then, I try on a pair of slacks. Then I try some cologne. Meanwhile, this kid who’s waiting on me is starting to sweat. He thinks I’m some crazy old guy who’s lonely and just wants somebody to talk to. They’ve got a lot of people like that down there. My daughter-in-law is a social worker in Naples and she deals with them all the time. Anyway, I’ll cut to the chase because I know we’ve all got other things to do. We go back and forth this kid and me and by the time we’re finished I get the coat for twelve bucks! Twelve bucks for a sport coat you would not be ashamed to wear anywhere—a business meeting, a brunch. I’m on their mailing list and they just sent me a thing saying they’re having a shoe sale next month. I’ll be down there anyway, so I’ll swing by. Why the hell not?”
Then, after fingering the lapels for a second, Al Miller picked up his pen and said, “Now, what was it you wanted to do about the grandkids?”
Tom Maxwell is a former director of The Groundlings and TV writer. He now lives in Vermont where he and his wife operate Fairy Tale Farm Bed and Breakfast.