I’m in ‘the city’ and coincidentally today was the service of a friend. I decided to attend.
Turns out nobody knew he was ill.
Until just the other day, when news got out that he was not well, and then the next thing anyone heard, he was dead.
Now here we all were, in the middle of the day, sitting in a Greek Orthodox church on the upper east side.
I had no idea he was Greek.
I did not know him exceptionally well. Even though our acquaintanceship spanned thirty years. This man was the lover of a friend of mine. He was also my mother’s gardener. Together they created an Eden of gardenias and mint and basil in gorgeous pots on her terrace, penthouse, midtown. To another he was a fellow acting student with whom to spar in the lead roles of Death of a Salesman. This man, now deceased, was many things to many people. But by all he was much liked, in a word, he was irreproachable.
Everybody in the church knew him at least as long as I, most longer.

The eulogy was delivered too low, and not a word of the lovingly crafted composition was heard.

The last time I saw him was at a Halloween party, a year ago. I sat with him at a round table in a fantastically decorated room. We talked about my mother’s garden, and how sad it was that she sold up and moved away. We both loved that p

retty terrace. When she left, ‘it was the end of an era’, we agreed. I was glad to see him.

The biggest celebrity at the service was Bolt of Lighting, that was her name, or something like that. She looked no more than a very stylish sixties, but everyone whispered she was at least eighty. She had a raccoon coif and all swept up into a fat ess shape. Her mod-outfit was also black and white, and her black, very high-heeled shoes had red insteps, like tongues.

Bolt of Lightning was the first in line to go view the open casket.

I have heard of this habit, seen renditions on the television and in the flicks. But never personally in the embalmed flesh. The two to my left, friends, indicated they wished to join the line of mourners. Thus, I felt compelled and trudged with them down the aisle.

I had the inclination to swoop my eyes around, check out the church and gather in the crowd, but I did not dare, especially after I noticed a friend in a front pew, was crying. His face only ever before seen laughing, jettisoning pith and wit, today was set with sadness, eyes wet with tears.

The open casket was a sight to see, a first for me. The nose looked so much more pointy than I remembered. The skin was an unsettling muddy purple. A Halloween mask. I could not stop from flinching. Amen, friend.