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AN INVITATION
TO MY FUNERAL
I am (was) fifty-nine years old.
Almost no one knows that I have three daughters. It has been a well-protected secret of mine for many years. Things often come to the fore after a man’s death, into the light of day, as they say. So here it is. Now you know.
My girls are grown women. Funny that I should use that word, girls, because I always told them that they were not “girls” but “ women,” or better still, “people.” Admittedly, I didn’t do such a hot job raising them. I barely knew what to say to them at times, retreating to the shelter of shallow talk about the weather. Perhaps the most helpful piece of fatherly advice I ever uttered was when I told Kathleen (and I remember this distinctly), “Fuck it, do what you want, it’s your life.” Although raising daughters presented me with a mysterious assignment, it was better than having boys. Boys all want to kill their fathers. Read your Freud.
The worst parts of me rubbed off on Irene, I’m sad to say. She doesn’t know when to stop. Deep down, she’s just like me.
MY GIRLS, MY GIRLS
From left to right, Mary, Irene, and Kathleen. And me, in the urn. She is a lot of fun however, a blast to be around. She can make even a toothache fun, if you know what I mean.
Kathleen, she’s as hard as pool table slate. She might be gay now, I’m not sure, but we don’t talk about it. Oddly enough she married a gay guy who was still discovering that part of himself. An alto sax player no less. They were married in Las Vegas (always an ominous beginning) and then were divorced there a few years later. If I remember correctly the wedding chapel was next to a Dairy Queen, and “Nevada Divorce” was next to a diner with a mean $1.29 breakfast special. She still shoots a lot of pool, but thankfully has a real job. She’s angry. I can’t say that I blame her.
My baby - Mary, Mary Sunshine. Shit, she breaks my heart, as naïve as a seal pup. We protected her, no doubt. Mary has those saint-like qualities of her mother, although she hardly knew her. Thank God for genetics, because she sure as shit didn’t get that from me.
And now they’re all here in Reno trying to figure out what
to do with me. It’s a terrifying sight watching three women from a blue ribbon dysfunctional family deciding what to do with their dead reprobate father. I’d rather be alive, because there’s a double elimination nine-ball tournament that I am missing just because I blew out one of my coronary arteries. If I had known that I was going to die in fucking Reno, I would have arranged to have my body transported to Vegas and put on a funeral pyre next to The Sands. That’s one thing they haven’t done in Vegas yet, provided for quick theatrical funerals. Maybe they’ll have to build a new casino, “The Ganges,” just for that one. But I checked out suddenly. A spasm, a cramp in the arm, and it was over. I cashed in my chips in less time than it takes to put a hundred bucks down on the Pass Line.
So here I am, piled into a cheesy gold colored urn that looks like a bowling trophy, while Mary makes sandwiches for all the fuckin’ fucks that won’t come by to see me because they’re playing in that pool tournament. This place is called Dempsey and Sons, so if you get a chance…you know.
My daughters will be there, and I believe they could use the support. I would have preferred to die in Vegas, but that’s one thing you can’t control. Usually wakes and funerals do not last this long, but you will have the opportunity to pay your respects on the 29th, 30th, and 31st. And yes there will be an afternoon viewing on Saturday the 31st. We did have a viewing this past Friday and Saturday but I couldn’t get the word out in time. You may not believe this but they don’t have broadband where I am now. My daughters have a tough time making decisions, so they hedged their bets and spread the chips out over the table. You can relate to that, I’m sure. Kathleen, Irene and Mary would love to see you. I'm dead after all, so it's not so important to me. The whole thing is sad to watch, but I’ve found out one interesting thing - ghosts don’t cry.
Sincerely,
Albert Dunne, deceased
from
THREE THE HARD WAY
by Linda Eisenstein
currently at the
Milnerton Playhouse
Milnerton
Cape Town, South Africa
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Kendall
non-member comment
Surprise!
I read all the way through, thinking this was you, talking about your daughters. Surprise ending. So then, do you have daughters? Or sons, for that matter? Just wondering.... Terrific script! Was it a one-man play, a monologue all the way through?