WIT AND HUMOR – A FUNNY SITE BY BOB WAYNE

Vita.MN is sponsoring the Summer Story Contest and my friend Dr. B cajoled, hinted,suggested, recommended and derided me into submitting a story. The requirements were pretty simple.

It had to be about something that happened “last night.” It had to be humorous, wild or unusual. And it had to be between 300-600 words. I can write 300-600 words in my sleep.

Of course, being awake, my first story wound up over 900 words.

So I wrote another one right after that and managed to limit it to 589 words. That’s the one I submitted. The following story is the 900 and some-word utter failure of self-limitation…

THE FUNERAL

When the first pair of Harleys rumbled through the graveyard gates, I knew this was not going to be your average funeral. But then, what’s an average funeral? I’d been working here for ten years and hadn’t seen an average funeral yet.

We stood behind the funeral tent watching them roll in. Two by two; side by side; rattling and shaking their way through the graveyard. At the head of the river of gleaming steel drove the hearse, threading its way through the winding road to the grave site.

As they pulled up parallel to the tent, we realized that the casket was dangling from ropes strung between the two front Harleys. I don’t know if we were more amazed at the skill required to drive through Detroit traffic with 600 pounds of casket and corpse strapped between their bikes or just the sheer audacity to try and pull it off.

As they shut down their bikes, six guys in black leather rushed forward to grab the ropes and ease the casket to the ground. The two riders on either side peeled off and parked their bikes in front of the hearse.

Six backs bent, six blackened, greasy hands grabbed onto the casket. They heaved. Our boss shuffled over to guide them to the lowering device.

The rest of the bikers fell in behind the casket and followed the guys carrying that fine piece of polished cherry furniture to the tent. They set the casket on the lowering device and backed up a few feet. We had folding chairs set up for them but no one sat down.

They were all wearing black leather biker jackets that said Renegades on the back with MC Detroit under it. I had no idea what that meant. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask them. The Rabbi approached the end of the casket and scanned the sea of grim faces. There was nothing left for us but to wait behind the tent until they were done.

The hearse driver was waiting for us. He pulled out a pack of Parliaments out of his suit and offered them around. We all took one and lit up.

“So what’s the story,” whispered Hoss. “This’s gotta be a good one.”

Hoss was one of those guys you either had to call Tiny or Hoss. Right now, he looked like a kid in a candy store. I gotta admit, the boss and I were just as curious.

The hearse driver just shook his head and kicked at the artificial grass poking out from under the tent.

“The guy was on his honeymoon. The whole club was going with them on a 600 mile road trip.”

He took a long drag on his smoke and then knocked the ash off with the tip of his thumb. He stared at the coals for a few seconds.

“It started raining. The guy lost it and laid the bike down. They were both experienced biker s and stayed with the bike.”

We could hear the Rabbi droning in the background. He was speaking in English. It always fascinated me how Jewish funerals sounded pretty much like Christian funerals. That is until the Cantor started singing in Hebrew. That part always threw me. But there was no Cantor at this funeral. Guess no one wanted to spring for the extra tab.

“The bike started sliding towards the edge of the highway. They might have been alright but the guardrail was one of those old style rails that had the flat, sharp edge rather than the newer spring style. The guy ducked. She caught it in the center of her face. Split her head in half like a melon.”

“Shit!”

“Jesus Christ!”

The boss just shook his head. He’d been doing this for 30 years and not much put him back on his heels. “So why are we burying him? Sounds like he made it okay.”

“He didn’t take it well.” The driver threw down his cigarette and crushed it with the toe of his wingtip.

“Guy put a .50 caliber black powder pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Guess he was an antique gun collector.”

We all nodded. It was kind of a guy thing to do. Blowin’your head off, that is.

The Rabbi stuck his head around the corner of the tent and caught the boss’s eye. It was time to get to work. We all walked around the corner of the tent. I walked to one end of the lowering device and Hoss reached the other. We lifted the corner of the lowering device and pulled back the artificial grass covering the hole. We let it drop.

I flipped the lock on the lowering device and triggered the ratchet. The casket swayed gently as it descended into the grave. That’s when I heard a funny tinkling sound. Kind of like coins dropping on a wood floor. I checked the lowering device and then something caught my eye. An Iron Cross sliding across the top of the casket. Then a switchblade bounced off the side and dropped into the hole.

I’d been doing this long enough to know that Jewish tradition was for family members to grab a handful of dirt and throw it in on the casket. But every culture had its own ideas of respect for the dead.  The rabbi might have been horrified if he’d seen it but I recognized it for what it was. Tradition…