Let me back up just a second. The last thing that happened to me was my funeral. My foursome showed up... well, you know, the threesome. To them, being in church was like being on Neptune, and they all got stiff sitting in the pews. They kept sneaking stealthy glances at their watches, and shuffled their feet, and didn't sing along with the hymns during the service. Out by the graveside they asked one of the trombone players from the band to fill out their Sundays since I was permanently absent, and that was OK with me, too.

The minister said I was a good man, and that God is generous. And while he was at it, he couldn't resist reminding them that one day they all had to be lying where I was, which was cold, rigid, and naked from the waist down. They all looked at my face and shook their heads because I was pasted over with a fresh coat of flesh-colored funeral make-up, stiff as grocery-store cake icing. And so the preacher looked them all right in the eye and said maybe it would be a good thing for everybody there to give some serious and ongoing consideration to the crusty business of life, death, and the whole elusive shebang.

I had a daughter, Patty, with my first wife. Patty broke down pretty good and called me her Daddy. She had to be helped into and out of the church by that sleazeball husband of hers. I was sorry she took it so hard, but maybe my clocking out will show her just how bad her life really is. Maybe she'll dump the jerk and do better for herself.

And my last wife was there, too. Marjorie was her name. We got married because both of us were alone, and since neither one of us had any better prospects, we tied the knot. We'd been together thirteen or fourteen years, I guess, long enough for us to stop doing most of the things married people do. At night the distance between us breathed like a third person in our marriage, and we both treated the silence and the apartness as though it deserved our respect and our devotion. When talking got to be like work, we both adjusted ourselves to not talking any more than we had to, in a minimalist kind of way. And they say irony's dead.

Marjorie got dressed up in black and was properly proper with the people who came. And when it was over she went home and took off on a ten-day bender. Paid for by a healthy chunk of my life insurance, I might add. That adventure led to a one-night stand with a guy she met in some bar - a guy from Miami who drove a leased BMW and sold upscale running shoes. He assured her that even though she was a tragically young widow, she was still hotter than a bunch of those South Beach bimbos. After that she felt better, I suppose.

For a while she felt guilty about forgetting me so quickly, but what more can you ask? I always told her, you know, if I die I want you to live a good life, maybe get married again. Don't grieve too much. Enjoy your life. So I didn't feel too bad when she went ahead and spent her overly-long mourning period taking me at my word, a happy hedonist wallowing in forbidden fun. The thing is, everybody else did all that Life stuff, too. I died, and they just went on with it. They all lived life as though, oh well, Barry's not here anymore, so we're gonna need a fourth on Sunday, and a new lover, and maybe a new trumpet player while we're at it. They all went on with it. Maybe it's true about everybody: rather than deal with the guilt of their own forgetfulness, all the people who sort of loved me managed simply to absorb it and went on about their business. Funny how memory works.

Out in the graveyard the ones who came stood around in whispering knots and did awkward little dances trying not to step on the graves next door, you know? And they said to each other, "What a shame," and they tried to comfort Marjorie saying, "He was just too young," and they patted each other on the back saying, "You never know, do you?" and "Didn't he look good?" and "He's at peace now." Sometimes I wish I could have been there to grab some of them by the throat and whisper, "Honest to God you flake, I look dead. Would you just take a fat gander at what that ham-handed undertaker did to my face!" and "If it's all the same to you I'd just as soon have had a chance to finish the back nine.

And then they buried me. They lifted my copper-colored coffin up on a squeaky green winch and temporarily masked the hole in the ground with astro-turf. They tell you they spread out that green stuff so the weepers don't get mud all over their Sunday shoes. But here's a secret: It's really there because the grave is sliced into the earth like surgical wound. They want to make sure the whole business is as antiseptic as an operating room and far removed from the dirty terror of dying because nobody, and I mean nobody, can stand for more than a fraction of a second the notion of being dead.

So the folks in charge clean it all up and in about as long as it takes for an episode of Law and Order, you're going to be sealed in a grossly expensive box, hauled away in a limousine, and buried in a hole. Everybody is going to turn his back on you and walk away and not more than one or two will ever come back to stare at your little marble marker. Dead, buried, and left alone. Get used to it.

They all shuffled and chatted there around the centerpiece of my grave. They threw lumps of red dirt and sorry wilted flowers on my face. And when they were done, because it was a cloudy and overcast day, they all went back to the church and sat down on tin chairs in the fellowship hall and ate cold chicken. On their laps they balanced soggy paper plates piled up with store-bought potato salad and greasy baked beans. Then they got full, and went home and got on with their lives. It's enough to make you humble.