DEAD … AGAIN

“The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”  Hmm, ponders Isabella, who said that? Oh yeah, Mark Twain.  

She stares fixedly at the local news rag, mesmerized.  The obits were plentiful today and longer than usual, especially the one about her.  It must be a slow news week. 

Thoughtfully, Izzie pops another piece of the warm, buttery croissant into her waiting mouth, chews slowly,  dreamily and savors the rich taste. Puddles, the dog, sits quietly beside her, waiting for her bit.  Izzie absent-mindedly tears off a piece and pauses, reading on. Puddles gently nuzzles the morsel from Izzie’s hand.  As it starts to fall, she manages to catch it in her eager mouth with a quick mid-air snap.  Her eyes roll up in quiet, doggy ecstasy.

‘Isabella (Izzie) Korman (nee Piccolo), in her 72nd year, after a courageous battle with cancer, passed away peacefully surrounded by her husband and children on Saturday, March 13, 2010 at Southwest Health and Wellness Centre.eWeW   Izzie, cherished wife of Harvey Korman Sr.  Devoted mother of 5.  Sons Harvey Korman Jr., (Harriett), Herman Korman (Hermione) and Harry Korman. Daughters, Rachel Kraftsman (Ralph) and Rebecca Karly (Richard).’   

By the time I reach this point in the obit, I know that there has to be another Izzie Korman in my town and since I've lived here pretty much all my life, how come I’ve never bumped into her or even heard of her?  I know my town is biggish (about 40,000) but it's not that big.  Obsessed now, I wonder, “How could that be?  She was even the same age as me.  We should have crossed paths at the senior’s centre.  Everybody over 60 went there. Maybe she wasn’t a joiner?” 

Not understanding what is driving her, a strange compulsion makes Izzie finish reading the obit, every single word of it, which had so caught her eye –  

‘Adoring and proud grandmother of Roberto, Rachel, Reuben, Rick, Kimberley, Kacie, Katilynn, Kailee and Kassandra.’

“Whew”, thinks Izzie, counting out loud, “nine grandchildren.  They must have kept her happy…And broke.”  On she reads, unable to stop. 

‘Fondly remembered by her brothers and sister and their families:  Peter Piccolo, Pearl Pantalone, Paul Piccolo, Percy Piccolo, Parker Piccolo and Phillip Piccolo.  Predeceased by her parents, Raphaela and Kobe.  Isabella’s loving memory will live on forever in the hearts of the Piccolo and Korman families and her many, many close friends. Isabella will be remembered for her major contributions to the life and work of The Meeting Place Prayer Circle and to the community of Aurora.  

The family wishes to thank all those who have reached out to us over the last few months and offered love and support.  Friends may call at the Thomas Funeral Home, 530 Go Home Lane North (northeast corner of Go Home Lane and Yonge Street) Aurora, 905-772-2154 from 2-4 and 6-8 p.m. Thursday, March 18, 2010.  Funeral Service in The Meeting Place Prayer Circle (32 Church Street) on Friday afternoon March 19, 2010 at 1:00 p.m.  Internment Queen City Cemetery.  In memory of Izzie, donations to The Meeting Place Prayer Circle, in lieu of flowers, would be appreciated by the family.

Sighing heavily, Izzie leans back and as she slumps down, plops her head on the cushy sofa back.  Three cats, sleeping cozily entwined into one big fur ball in the bay

window, grumble at the intrusion of Izzie’s head coming ‘that close’ to them. They stretch out, languidly, hooking gnarly claws gently into Izzie’s silvery nimbus.  “Be still”, say they.  “We’re trying to nap.”  Izzie sits quietly, contemplating her navel. The catchy 70s (or was it the 60s?) phrase pops into her head as she stares down at her stomach, and she laughs softly at the silly expression which was so popular with the hippies, ‘back in the day’.

Closing her eyes, Izzie thinks back to the heyday of the second half of the last millennium and a small smile curls up the wrinkled edges of her generous mouth. Snippets of the more memorable moments run across her memory like a movie…  

There's a light over at the Frankenstein place (the Rocky Horror Picture Show)

They're creepy and they're kooky. Mysterious and spooky. They're all together ooky.  The Addams Family.

Elvis the Pelvis

45s and 8 track tapes

                        
                         Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is

                                                 

Sock it to me baby - say Goodnight Dick

Oh, so many funny and now melancholy memories.  The ‘movie’ hip-hops like the energizer bunny, sometimes going into slo-mo mode…

Women's lib

Never trust anybody over 30 

  

                                           Peacenik, beatnik

  

Drive-in restaurants and waitresses whizzing from car to car in their lace-up roller skates, trays balanced perfectly on stiffly tented fingers.

A lil’ dab’ll do ya

Love means never having to say you’re sorry

I love you more today than yesterday and less than tomorrow

Bright pink Double Bubble bubblegum, 2 for a penny and the teeny tiny comic

Black balls

Chocolate cigarettes which you could actually make ‘smoke’ with 

Flower Power

Car 54 where are you?

As the show plays on, Izzie settles deeper into the pillowy softness of the sofa, the newspaper clutched in her left hand.  Gentle wuffles come from her partly open mouth and Puddles lays her head on Izzie’s well-padded thighs, sighing with contentment.

Backward the movie spins into the 50s…

I Love Lucy

Here’s looking at you, kid

Gunsmoke 

  

                                      Phyllis Diller and Fang 

                                          
                                             Girdles

 

  

Studebakers (the car not the bar)

Queen Elizabeth 

As the 50s slowly fade into grey and the 40s start playing, Izzie settles even more deeply into the sofa, and maybe something a little more than just sleep.  Her breathing slows until it’s barely discernible.  Her right hand gives just a little twitch and her right foot moves in sync. 

Puddles lifts her head and stares quizzically at her mistress and best friend, sensing something amiss.  She nuzzles Izzie’s hand, the one that twitched.  It doesn’t twitch again.  It doesn’t do anything.  Puddles lifts her head to the heavens and howls and howls.  With a sudden start, Izzie’s eyes pop open and she exclaims, “Oh, Puddles, thank goodness you were here to wake me up.  “I think I was almost Dead” and then her eyes light on her doppelganger’s

obit… Again!” 


© 2019 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

GONE & LONG FORGOTTEN - THE END?

continued from The Beginning

Feeling squeamish, I quickly drop the pendant and step back from the shelf.  Steeling myself, I move down a few shelves and check the contents of some of the other boxes and find pretty much the same stuff for each forgotten loved one.  I hear muffled noises in the distance and I crane my neck to its fullest extent to see over the forest of shelves.  Is Joe back already?  Nope, no one there.  Why, then had I heard what sounded like footsteps?  A goose walks over my grave and I shiver.

* * *

Intent on organizing these abandoned souls so that they can be packed up quickly when Joe gets back with the boxes (funny, a thought pops into my head – boxes within boxes), I quickly develop a rhythm.  First I take out the photo, find the slip of paper with the name and address, smooth it out and prop it against the picture.  Then I take a picture of the picture, with my agonizingly-slow cell phone.  I give my head a shake in frustration and make a mental note to myself – Self, buy a new cell phone.

I whiz along, despite the tedious, time-consuming process and breathe in mightily when I hear the nearby garage-style door go up with a big bang.  Joe’s really back this time.

As he strides toward me, his lop-sided grin shines through the gloom and I feel my heart give a twinge.  My tummy starts doing a little flip-flop and I can’t help but smile big, right back at him.

Joe gives me a wonderful hug and brushes his lips across my cheek, then murmurs into my shell-shaped ear, “So, where do you want all the boxes, darlin’?”

It takes me a few seconds to process this sweet nothing, blinking in realization that Joe’s all business, with a touch of honey.  “Right here, beside me, please.  It’s a good place to start.  Oh, and look what I found.  Every box should have one.”  I hold up the narrow piece of paper with the deceased’s info on it and dangle it in front of face.  His smoky, dark-blue eyes track the back and forth movement of the paper for a few seconds and then slide into cross-eyed-ness.  Funny!  He’s doing it on purpose. 

I put my fish-face on - purse my lips out like a kissing gourami and cross my eyes as far as they would go.  I lightly brush my rucked-up lips across the top his nose.  Can’t waste a pucker, don’t you know!  Joe laughs and heads back to his pickup for more supplies.  Sighing mightily and unscrunching my face, I turn back to my shooting of the dead.  Hmm, sounds like a good title for a TV show.

There’s so much to do and so little time left to do it. 

Looking at the amount of boxes I had managed to set-up and photograph, I realize that at this pace, by the time I finish, I could be very, very old or even reduced to gray dust, in a flat box with my picture and a pendant in it.

I put out a call to all my friends in a group e-mail and beg for help – anyone, everyone and bring your friends too.  All the beer and pizza you can swallow but only after the job is done.

Oh boy!  I do a fast check on my credit 
card balance and sigh with relief, when I see that I could swing about $400.00 at the new Three-for-One Pizza joint and, of course, the beverage of choice to wash it down - beer.  I’m sure that 3-for-one will consider me their best customer after I place my order.  The beer store already does. 

I give but a fleeting thought about the possible myocardial infarction that Bruce’s executor might experience after getting my boxful (I thought I’d use one of the flat empties), of receipts to be reimbursed. Then I shrug and pucker up the ole lips and blow a very loud raspberry! 

Amazingly, about forty-five of my nearest and dearest friends and their nearest and dearest friends show up, cell phones in hand and at the ready.  I explain what needs to be done and pass my cell around so that people will know how to frame the shot.  I feel like a stewardess explaining the life vest and emergency exit procedures, as I demonstrate the placement of the slip of paper against the photograph.  Then we divvy up the sections and everyone gets down to the job.  We all work at a fever pitch, swilling water and chomping apples from the big red box of Royal Gala I had sent Joe out to buy.  Good thing his credit card had some room to spare.

We work in almost total silence but not really, as people bounce, jounce and kind of sway to inaudible music in their ear-buds.  Some hum to the music, some bee-bop and some just twitch.  The power of the rhythm is amazing.

Joe and I meet by accident in one of the furthest corners of the warehouse and manage to grab a quick hug.  Then, with a wicked grin, his teeth startling white in the gloom, he saunters off to his assigned section once more. 

I move deeper into the murkiness and pause to listen.  Is that the small door beside the big roll-up loading dock door, creaking open?  I think my ears will permanently freeze in the forward-leaning position, I’m listening so hard.

Another creak has me sprinting for the small entrance door and I get there just in time to see it close all the way shut.  There’s no one inside.  I head straight for the door and bang it open so hard, it hits the battered siding with a hollow thump.  My head and eyes on swivel, I scan the surrounding area of forest and marshland directly behind the dilapidated warehouse.

Cattails rustle about twenty yards away and I flat-out sprint mindlessly in their direction.  My white sneakers are soon blackened and wet with swamp water and a dark, musky odour reaches my nose, which makes me sneeze.  I flounder on, foolishly.  I will catch whoever has been spying on me!

I see a flash of a white and navy-blue checkered shirt and run faster, which I didn’t think possible.  Just as I was giving up hope of catching the fleet-footed runner, I hear a thud, then a splash and a yelp of pain, as Checkered Shirt goes down hard, face first in the stinky bog.

Checkered Shirt rises from the swamp with a disgusted shout and lets out a string of expletives, which would make a longshoreman proud. 

Holy shit!  My green eyes bug out of my brunette head and I start hyperventilating. 

From what I was told later, after I came to, my now very un-dead and still ex-husband, Walter, helped pick me up and carry me into his warehouse of long forgotten souls.  There I lay on one of the few empty shelves, until I manage to sit up.  

Where in the hell has the bastard been for fifteen years?