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{i wanted a goth disco party} ann tinkham I can’t believe how many people turned out for this service. In general, these things are a big downer—a stiff church service mixed with Toastmasters for people with performance anxiety mixed with a hanky-heavy therapy session. In my opinion, these events need to be reworked. Think: funeral-tainment. Multi-media staging, fire, ladies on stilts, jugglers, contortionists, piped-in audio and video, a virtual trip down memory lane. Normally, it starts with a priest who never really knew the deceased, but is acting as though he’s the Peoples’ Priest—a receptacle for all grief everywhere. God, I hate that word—deceased. Can’t they come up with a better word for a life well-lived? Deceased just sounds like someone took a black magic marker and blacked you out of your high school tennis team picture. What’s with the black blob? Oh, that’s where Carly used to be. Instead of deceased, what about glitter-illuminati? Think: Glenda the good witch in the glitter ball. I told everyone I envisioned a Goth disco party. Before you judge, hear me out. The thinking is this: people could still wear black and look pale and suicidal without being judged. Then when everyone is sobbing into their hankies, a disco ball is turned on and disco music would pump through the chapel and peoples’ tears would be startled back up into their tear ducts. There would be a moment of head turning, bottom-shifting, and eyeballing—everyone thinking that the organist got the wrong play list. But then Rose, my plant, would get up and start doing Saturday Night Fever-up-down-up-down with her finger--through the aisles. Then, like the Pied Piper of mourners, she would summon the sobbers to the dance floor. Discoing Goths in pews. However, when I pitched my vision of the dark disco soiree, people just looked at me with pity and trembling. I could imagine their thoughts—she always was a little “off”. Off what? I wanted to ask. Off the wall. Off my rocker. Off the map. Off the wagon. Off the deep end. Off in outer space. You can see that “off” gets a bad rap. Whereas “on” gets a lot of respect. On target. On track. On the wagon. On point. On task. On time. On to something. On is a type A, straight A student who is part of the A team. Now that I think about it, off and I were made for each other. So, I’m combing the pews (AKA really fucking uncomfortable benches) looking for David, my ex, but he’s not here. How can I tell? Well, I don’t see any extremely bald, pointy heads. Initially, I picked him for his curly golden locks that proceeded to fall out faster than a chemo patient in the years we were together. It was as if the genetic coding for baldness set off an alarm bell and the hair follicles took their cue. I couldn’t break up with him for that reason, so I had to find something else and I had a handy excuse—inability to manage a refrigerator. I explained that it was traumatic to live with someone who refused to monitor science projects. The way it worked was when I couldn’t take it anymore, I would take all his pots and Tupperware upstairs to the toilet and empty each green, blue, purple, and pink mold-laden container into the toilet and flush. Sometimes the morass would get stuck and stop up the toilet and I would have to plunge David’s science projects, all the while preparing my break-up speech. I eventually said, “Your approach to refrigerator management doesn’t work for me.” From my vantage point, breaking up with someone over hair is absurd. I mean, how picky can you be when you no longer have any body parts? I’m scanning some more and I don’t see Jade, my friend of 20 years. We had a falling out two years ago because she thought I was trying to steal her trapeze artist husband. Although it would have been fun to use a trapeze as a prop, her husband would not have been my first choice for circus sex. Oh no, that would have been Hilary, who did make it here today. And, believe it or not, he’s a mess. I didn’t realize he cared so much about me. It gives me pleasure to see him in pain. Hilary is a failed organic farmer turned porn webmaster. I only know because he used photos from our tryst on his site. A lesbian friend of mine discovered the photos—My porn name was Ready Betty. Can you believe it? Couldn’t he have come up with a better moniker? I mean, really. As long as I’m up there my naked glory for the world to see, couldn’t I have been something like Sally Spread-um or Tight Cherry (they both sound a little jelly-like). The most unexpected people turn up at these things—like formerly bulimic sorority sisters with orange hands and toxic perfume and loudmouths with Farrah Fawcett hairdos who super-glued themselves to you in high school. Then people like your siblings can hardly be bothered to fit it into their schedule. My brother snuck in during the final prayer. Note to self: be ghostly and haunting in his bedroom tonight. And the other surprising thing is that some of the people whom you thought loved you don’t look particularly broken and the people whom you had no idea cared so much about you are falling to bits and pieces. Speaking of fragments, my mom is making her way to the altar; she’s dressed like the mother of the bride. The bride of Frankenstein, maybe. This should be interesting. Oh boy, she’s launching into my whole life story while gasping and choking back tears. My brother is up there with her, holding her up. Oh God, not the story about me not being able to walk down the aisle as a four-year-old flower girl. Don’t I have some say in what parts of my life are recounted? That was not my finest hour. But look, everyone, I’m walking down the aisle now. In fact, I’m flying up and down the aisles. Figures I’d get over my shyness, now that I’m invisible. Mom’s collapsing and can’t finish. She always was a drama queen. Now my brother is reading her words very stiffly, but with a smirk on his face. He just read, “No one should ever have to bury their child.” Okay, I’ll give her that. It’s true; there’s something unnatural about the next generation going before the previous. Oh God, now she’s making everyone cry—sniffles and snorts—free-flowing mucous throughout the pews. People pulling tissues out of their purses, cleavage, sleeves. Ever notice that just about anywhere is acceptable for tissue storage? One cool thing about being dead—no more mucous issues. Tissues be damned!! Another cool thing is you don’t give a damn anymore about what people think. You get to fly around, and say and do whatever you want, because you are silent and invisible. I’ve never felt so free. Everyone is so glum about me going, except for me. Hey everyone! Look at me up in the rafters!! Now watch me fly across the flying buttress. Wheeeeeeeeeeee! You don’t have to be down in the dumps. It’s actually awesome being dead. Really. In fact, if I had known then what I know now, it would have saved me a lot of worry. I would have known that something magnificent awaited me. I want to stand up here, or rather flutter overhead and tell all these weeping willows that THE BEST IS YET TO COME!!! Now the priest is saying his dutiful bit about God bringing peace and solace to the living. Hate to tell you, but this God dude has yet to make his appearance up here. To think about all the time wasted on something that doesn’t exist—people paying their dues, pretending they’re all holy rollers, and jockeying for position at the Pearly Gates. There’s no line, gates, angels, halos, harps, or judgment day. Just pure energy and light. I know—difficult to understand. Believe me, you’ll understand soon enough. Death is the hardest for control freaks. Basically, you have to let go of everything—including your head, torso, limbs, and digits. I know saying it like that made it sound gruesome, but I’m trying to prep you for what’s to come—nothingness that’s everythingness. I know it’s hard separate from a form that defined you. But what you discover is that it actually confined you. Death is like a caffeinated (or insert drug of choice here) rollercoaster ride for eternity! Think about it. No more bad hair days, cellulite, expanding waistlines, drooping butts, turkey necks, jowls, wrinkles, bags under your eyes. No more headaches, insomnia, anxiety, high blood pressure, back pain, arthritis, inflammation, or fatigue. Being formless has its perks. It is so dreary and somber in this chapel. I wish I could play some Goth disco on the organ and liven things up a bit. I just flew over to the organ and am trying to press down on the keys, but I can’t exert any pressure. I’d love to see the mourners’ faces when a ghost started playing Goth disco at a funeral. Okay, you’re probably thinking funeral humor isn’t funny; I should respect the grieving. But the thing is death isn’t what everyone thinks it is. It’s not the virtual annihilation of life; it’s actually the liberation of life. But you won’t understand that until you get here. You have to be part of Club Dead to understand. We here in Club Dead laugh at the living—all of their petty nonsense and worries are inconsequential—debt, taxes, bills, jobs, rumors, gossip, office politics—all of that is the pettiness of the living. We look down on the living. Too bad I didn’t get any say about my own funeral. It’s surprising that after all the cumulative effort that goes into a life; one short service with lilies, hymns, homilies, and eulogies wraps it up and sends you on your way. A little tusch push as you board the one-way ticket train. I now see everyone comforting each other, clutching their programs with a smiling photo of me on the front. Wish I could tell them that I’m doing better than ever. That’s my one complaint about this whole system. In death, you can’t comfort the living. |
