Anatomy of a Trumpet

"A darkly humorous short story, and deeply personal tapestry of a family, LA, regret, life coming to a close and the elusiveness of letting go." -- Irving Schmeckel, The Cucamonga Literary Review.

We are on the wings of a fluttering angel descending on Hillside Memorial, one of two Jewish funeral homes in L.A.—this one, the one along the 405-freeway, convenient for visitors of the dead to do a hit and run.

We are close on a trumpet. Once upon a time its brass a majestic sheen, the lead pipe and valves now scratched, the instrument attached to a red and black guitar strap—a life’s worth of tunes, but out of key.

Medium shot on a casket, the trumpet, a signature prop, is clutched by dad, ninety-three and dead, dressed in a purple suit, yellow tie, solid makeup job and a hairpiece that’s working just right, right on time for the big finale.

In a draped area in the back of the chapel standing over the casket are the Saidel Brothers. Close in on me, Howard, owner of five college degrees; fifty-four, in an unworn black suit and tie my wife Adela bought at the Men’s Wearhouse in Albuquerque on the way to the airport. My yarmulke-less receding hairline covets 1.5 tortoise shell readers, the smile you see, nothing but humor and relief that the father-son game is over. My little big bro Scotty, thirteen years older, yarmulke-covered bald head, and meager build, with San Diego sun-tanned wrinkles and dressed frumpily in black jeans, black dress shirt and black sport coat biproducts of last night’s Costco, run twenty minutes before closing.  Looking down on dad, Scotty’s face might as well be in the frozen food section packing a million tiny icicles of anger.

“He can’t be buried with his trumpet,” Scotty says.

“Those were his wishes, bro.”

“Jews can’t be buried with metal.” Scotty starts the show—heavy breathing, not hyper, but crying has arrived.  “He played that trumpet at every single one of my birthdays.”

“Until your twenty-first,” I say.

“And my high school graduation. Dude, there’s no way we can let Dot bury his trumpet. That’s insane. It’s a family heirloom.”

“She told us over at the free buffet this morning he wanted to be buried with his trumpet and it’s in his Final Arrangements video.”

“I thought she was joking and I’m not watching that video, it’s morbid.” Scotty’s crying spins out, becoming unbecoming for such an old guy. “We can’t let this happen. It’s sac religious and I need it. I can’t move on with my life knowing his trumpet is buried with him forever. Can’t we just take it?”

The side drape dramatically opens revealing Dot, stepmom from Planet Cunt—Scotty’s nickname for dad’s second wife, formerly Miss Kentucky 1971, a freshly minted widow dressed in a black sequin dress.

“You absolutely cannot remove the trumpet,” she says. “This was your father’s wishes and it’s in his video. I have the power as his executor.”

“Executioner,” Scotty says.

“And only heir,” she says.

“Are you kidding?” Scotty asks rhetorically, his preferred method of questioning. “We find out during his funeral he didn’t leave us anything?” His forehead crinkles as he looks to me to mediate, but before I intercede, I’m taken out of the moment by a powerful waft of Old Spice, dad’s cologne.

“Dad’s cologne is making its final appearance,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s so gnarly, did they drown him in Old Spice?” Scotty asks Dot as he notices a floor fan blowing hot air.  “Is that how he died?”

“The sense of smell is evocative,” I say. “Creates an immediate connection with someone, particularly someone dear. The use of a loved one’s favorite fragrance on their remains at the visitation can bring comfort to the family during a very stressful time, immediately creating a touching memory of better days. Some people are so connected to a particular fragrance that the fragrance, even on someone else, can elicit a wonderful, nostalgic response.”

“Dude, did someone write that for you?” Scotty asks.

“You have five minutes to say your goodbyes, boys,” Dot says. “The funeral needs to start on time and your father’s friends are waiting to say their goodbyes. Trumpet stays. He wanted it in his arms exactly like that. It’s in his Final Arrangements video.”

Dot looks at her iPhone and turns it to the boys. Dad’s face. Dot hits play. Dad’s talking.

“I want my trumpet in my arms,” Rusty says in a closeup on video.

Dot tucks the iPhone into her purse and exits frame. Scotty starts crying. I remain stoic, alive, and well and move to stand over our dead dad. Every parent dies, but not all of us can say goodbye the way I’m about to.  I am Howard. You are Howard. We are all Howard.

“Dad,” I say. “Don’t take this the wrong way, you look better dead. Surprised, not surprised you didn’t leave us anything. But nothing, literally? No photos, or clothes?” I take the time and take in that the game of father and son is over. “You were awesome when I was a very little kid and I’ll always miss dad one point zero. I saw the part of your video where you want me to deliver a great performance for your eulogy. I’m no actor, so I’ll try to do you a solid. I’ll help with your lasting impression because I know you believe your legacy is important and the audience will be paying attention to what I say. Have a good day.”  I tug on Scotty who’s hysterical. “Your turn.”

 “I’m too mad, can’t say anything right now. He left me nothing. I don’t need his money, obviously. It’s the principle that he left me nothing. I must have the trumpet.”

“Let go,” I say tugging at his coat.

“Let go of my coat. I can’t deal right now.” Scotty touches the trumpet’s mouthpiece. He sniffs his fingers. “J&B,” he says with his eyes closed. “Memory of him playing it at my bdays.” He opens his eyes and looks at me. We both scan the room. Scotty pulls at the trumpet. It’s stuck in dad’s rigor mortis arms. “I need the trump et.”

“Leave it, dad’s final wishes.”

Scotty tries to move dad’s arm. He leans into the casket, and with one arm against the inside of the casket, and the other on the trumpet, he yanks it out. Out of frame, Dot shows and snatches the trumpet.

“Where did you come from?” I ask.

“You literally appeared from nowhere,” Scotty says.

“Scotty, how dare you disobey your father’s final wishes,” Dot says. “The trumpet stays. It’s in his video.” She tucks it under dad’s arms in its final resting place. She takes off one of her six gold costume jewelry necklaces and ties it around the trumpet’s valves to Rusty’s forearm—connecting the instrument to him for eternity.

“I never saw his will,” Scotty says.

“And you never saw his video,” Dot says.

“I can’t handle it,” Scotty says. “And not how I want to remember him.”

“You’ve run out of time; Artie is waiting to say goodbye. That’s a wrap, boys.”

Scotty dips into the casket and hugs dead dad, inconspicuously tugging at the trumpet.  He whispers, “dad, how could you? I know the trumpet is your first born but come on… and your hairpieces too. I could have used them.”

A kitchen timer ding. Dot holds the culprit—one of those dial styled gizmos and says, “Time’s up, funeral needs to run on time.”

The door opens. Ta-dah. Artie, oh Artie, you’ve aged like raw hamburger meat sizzling on the Venice boardwalk. Camouflage black cargo pants, V-neck black tee, and Member’s Only black jacket. Call the fashion police! Good for him, kept his tan, but his hair abandoned the island of Dr. Morose. Artie stands checking out the casket, avoiding a looksy at his dead pal. Me and Scotty step back. Artie shuffles closer to the casket, chickening. Dot holds Artie’s hand and guides him to the casket. Artie peeks.

“Oh, Jesus, Rusty,” Artie says. “You are dead.”

Scotty leans into my ear and says, “I’m going to run over to the Target across the street during the Rabbi’s opening monologue and get a toy trumpet so we can do a swap. Dad wouldn’t know the difference.”

Rabbi Heller pops out from behind the curtain. Classic Jew—mid-sixties, maybe five foot three, wire-rimmed glasses, wavy dark brown hair (dye-job), dark brown three-piece suit, and maroon velvet yarmulke.  

I ask, “Where did you come from?”

“Yeah, you literally appeared from nowhere,” Scotty says. “Is that in dad’s video too, characters just popping into scenes?”

“Service starts rolling in ten minutes,” Rabbi Heller says. “The order of eulogies is Artie hitting lead off, Scotty up second, Howard third, Miles hitting clean-up and closing, each doing a tight five.”

Rabbi Heller leans over the casket. Get this, he says, “Rusty, that’s the order, right?”

A beat. Dad’s voice says, “The order of eulogies is Artie hitting lead off…” Dot holds up her damn iPhone. Dad’s Final Arrangement Video Starring Dad’s face is paused. She presses play. Dad’s video rolls, “Scotty up second, Howard third, Miles hitting clean-up and closing, each doing a tight five.”

“Turn that off—it’s morbid,” Scotty yells then exits out of frame.

Rabbi Heller stands at the podium in the chapel facing a congregation of a dozen or so wishing to send Rusty Hyman Longacre off to the afterlife. Miles Longacre, the youngest of the Saidel brothers, who kept his father’s last name after their parents’ divorce, sits front row to the right of Dot. Miles is fifty-one, wearing mustard yellow slacks, a Kobe Bryant Lakers 8 jersey, and a purple vintage sport coat, eerily like Rusty’s death costume. The aisle separates Miles from us, my wife Adela of eighteen years, our two kids Gabe, age fourteen and Rose, age seventeen in the front row, with Scotty on the far left shielding us from Miles. 

“Welcome, but before we officially begin,” Rabbi Heller says. “Some housekeeping. Given we’ve got the Depends crowd in house today, I’ll skip the part about where the bathrooms are, but in case you’re in the swollen prostate crew, it’s just outside the chapel.” Rabbi Heller waits for the joke to land. It doesn’t. “Our staff working the service today were big fans of Rusty, and to Dot and the boys, we are all sorry for your loss. There are four eulogizers this morning and they’ve agreed to keep to under five minutes so we can vacate the chapel no later than eleven-thirty.  We need to turn the room for the Karlin’s who lost their beloved Mitchell—great man, great doctor, great philanthropist, who gave so much to this community. Mitchell left us too early but did it on his own terms. God bless you, Mitchell. This gives us an hour and change to celebrate the life of Rusty. Who doesn’t love a quick service? Raise their hand.” The audience offers smeared looks of confusion. “I knew Rusty for forty years, seven months and twenty-three days. Our relationship was more like a prison sentence. Kidding. Guess that one didn’t land either. We’re here for Rusty’s celebration of life.” Dot raises her hand. “Yes, Dot?”

“He said not to call it a celebration of life,” she says. “He wants everyone to be sad that he died.”

“Is that in his Final Arrangements video too?” Scotty asks.

“Yes,” Dot says.

“Rusty was one of the funniest comedians I’d ever met, but what he really wanted to be was a dixie band trumpeter. I admired how he wished he volunteered for youth basketball in South Central, but what’s clear is he didn’t have enough money to bribe enough to have get a packed house. But seriously folks, Rusty loved nothing more than his trumpet. That’s my time.”

Rabbi Heller waits for the applause, but since he needs to turn the room, I get his attention by pointing at my watch and then Miles says, “Rabbi Bro, it’s not Dame time.”

“Let’s bring our first eulogizer up,” Rabbi Heller says. “Lester was Rusty’s business manager for many years and had a front-row seat to his mediocre finances.” Lester, an overly tanned-white haired man in his late sixties, sitting in the third row, waves his hand, declining to come up to the podium. “Lester, Rusty wrote a part for you as the first eulogizer.”

“I changed my mind,” Lester says.

Dot stands and turns around. “You have to Lester. It’s in the Final Arrangements video.”

“Rusty wouldn’t mind,” Lester says.

“It’s in the video, Lester—let’s go,” Dot says moving into the aisle.

Scotty’s staring at the ceiling. I whistle and motion my chin for him to get going. He squints. I play a pretend trumpet. He gives me a thumbs up and leaves as Dot is at Lester trying to get him to stand.  He refuses. Dot wraps her arms around his upper torso and lifts him. Lester had pissed his pants which explains why he didn’t want to perform. This scene will go on for a bit, so I slip out too.

Scotty stands over the open casket. The trumpet is tied to Rusty’s arm with Dot’s necklace. Some things never change. Dot and Lester bicker on the other side of the curtain. Scotty unties the necklace. He asks me to lift dad’s trumpet arm. It’s immovable. I wedge my hand underneath dad’s arm and Scotty pulls up on the trumpet—dad’s arm goes snap, crackle, pop. Rusty’s arm is a backwards V. Scotty faints. I do what I normally do in a crisis. I calm. My sympathetic nervous system chills me. I plug Scotty’s nose. He gasps and arises. I get him to his feet. He puts his hands over his eyes, crack them, then looks into the casket.

“I broke dad’s trumpet playing arm,” Scotty says. “He’d kill me.”

 “He’s dead,” I say and move dad’s broken arm back in place. Scotty cringes then stashes the trumpet under the casket as Dot magically appears and yells, “Put. Back. The. Trumpet.”

“You literally appeared from nowhere,” Scotty says.  

Rabbi Heller cracks the curtain as Dot places the trumpet back into the casket as if the piece of metal were a sleeping newborn. Scotty stands in the corner like a punch-drunk boxer in between rounds of a WBC welterweight fight.

“The Karlin’s are starting to assemble outside the chapital,” Rabbi Heller says. “And we need to stay on script for Rusty.”

Me and the little big bro acquiesce back to front row of the freak show. Rabbi Heller lowers the mic, leans down and says, “sorry for the disturbance folks. Let’s call up Artie, Rusty’s best friend and joke writer.”

“I can’t believe I broke dad’s trumpet arm,” Scotty says. “I’m so traumatized.”

“We almost had the trumpet,” I whisper to him. “When the casket leaves the chapel, it’ll be closed. It could have worked.”

“I can’t get his broken arm out of my head. Do I have PTSD now? You’re going fourth, so you should run across the street and buy a trumpet from Target.”

“They don’t sell toy trumpets,” I say. “I checked online.”

“Best Buy is next door to Target,” Scotty says.

“They don’t sell trumpets, I checked.”

“Dad left us nothing and that trumpet was my entire childhood,” Scotty says.

“Time to enter adolescence,” I say.

“Are you boys done with your little dialogue scene?” Rabbi Heller asks me and Scotty.

Dot leans over with dagger eyes and says, “Boys, this wasn’t in your father’s video, keep quiet.”

She pats Artie’s back to get him on the move. He stands on uncertain ground, wobbly. Dot produces his cane and now he’s able. He slithers to the podium and gazes at Dot who’s looking behind her. The crowd is ready. She gives Artie a thumbs up.

“Rusty and I were best friends for fifty something years,” he says, still looking at Dot and patting down his whitewash combover with his skeletal hand. “Dot, dear Dot. I’m so sorry for your loss.  Looks you and I can now get on with our lives together.”

The congregation gasps. Scotty leans over to me and asks, “does that mean Artie’s been boning Dot?”

“Now’s the time to make a run for the trumpet,” I say.

“Folks, I didn’t mean it like that,” Artie says. “Dot and I aren’t having an affair, anymore.”

Squirm, Dot, squirm. But she doesn’t. We knew dad knew about it. I heard it bothered him at first, but after a while he got alright with the arrangement. He and Dot stopped sharing a bed after he had his double hip replacement and despite him announcing he was the hippest guy in town, he developed a thing for Oxy. Moron.

“I wanted to keep an eye on her when he was dealing with his surgeries,” Artie says. “That’s what friends are for you know?”

Dot’s crying is mysteriously vague. Maybe embarrassed. No better time than the present. I slip out the back exit and along the side of the chapel I go, but before I enter the temple of doom, a groundskeeper who’s having a smoke, flipping through a copy of American Turf Monthly—the horse handicapper’s rag, says at me, “Your pops was funny. He cast me as his digger. I dug his hole.”

He offers me a smoke, priming me to join his tribe. I ignore the stick. “Crazy story how he got that trumpet.”

I take the smoke to give the digger the impression he and I have a bond as smokers, a once honored stigma. The bond will lower his guard so I can pry if need be.

“His dad bought it for him for his thirteenth birthday present since he didn’t get a bar-mitzvah.”

“He told you that?” He flicks his Bic.

I don’t light up and say, “I’m waiting to savoir it. Where did hear about his trumpet?”

“I read in Jazziz—they bring the stories behind the music.”

“Never heard that story.”

“Your daddy wanted his grave to have a sloped bottom, leaning left. Saw it in his Final Arrangement video. Been here twenty-three years, first time I ever saw a how-to funeral video. Thing was kind of a crowd pleaser if you ask me.”

I thank him for the smoke, chin a bye-bye and hit the chapel door depositing the American Spirit in the trash.

I enter the casket room, lock the door, and then head down to lean over dead dad. His broken arm is in a solid V. Broken arm on dead guy wasn’t in the script—sorry dad, sometimes even the great script needs a punch-up on the set. The trumpet slips out like a lubed fill in the blanks. I put the trumpet above dad’s hairpiece. When the Saidel Brothers get their shit together, the swap will be a cinch, according to me, the wise one.

“Thanks for that stirring eulogy, Artie,” Rabbi Heller says on the other side of the curtain. “Scotty, Rusty’s second born, is up. Come on down, for the price is right!”

I plant down on the front row next to my wife and kids as Scotty stands at the podium about to give his eulogy. But he’s distracted by Artie and Dot holding hands in the front row.

Scotty turns to Rabbi Heller at the rear of the stage and says, “You can’t let Dot bury the trumpet with dad. It’s metal. Jews can’t get buried with metal. You should know better.”

“Dot paid extra,” Rabbi Heller says. “Proceed with your eulogy, I need to turn the room.”

“You know my dad would want me to have his trumpet.”

“Then he would have put it in the Final Arrangements video.”

“Plus, you’re being blasphemous with letting him be buried with metal.”

“Those were his final wishes,” Rabbi Heller says. “Please, get on with the show.”

Scotty faces the congregation. His mouth can’t make a word. He begins crying.  He waves for me to join him. I stay put. Scotty waits. He lowers his head. It sinks in. He must perform a solo. 

“The trumpet was his first born and the reason why my parents divorced,” Scotty says as he sleeve-dries his tears and continues his pathetic monologue, “He played the same trumpet at my first birthday and every b-day until I turned twenty-one. He told me I wouldn’t need a trumpet player once I was old enough to drink. That joke never landed. He brought the same trumpet to my middle school and high school graduations. When I was getting my diplomas, he played When The Saints Go Marching In and imitated Louis Armstrong. Literally, from the audience. It got laughs. My friends said I had the coolest dad ever.” Scotty looks at me, wipes his tears with his yarmulke and then looks at Connie Stevens and the publicist from the Lakers. Connie gives Scotty an a-ok hand gesture. “He blew the trumpet as my alarm on school days. He blew the trumpet when I refused to take out the trash. This all happened before Howard and Miles were born since they’re way younger than me. When Cee-Cee, our sister died last year, he played Taps, the bugle song they use in war movies.  But my best memory is when he let me play it on my birthday. I could taste the J&B on the mouthpiece. It had a smoky peat, but sweet like caramel corn. He wasn’t the dad who did sports with me or took me on vacations since my parents divorced when dad refused to get rid of his trumpet so he could be a good husband. He was a good dad. He cared about me. He leant me money for my first real estate deal when I dropped out of college. Yeah, I paid him back and kept giving him and Dot fifteen hundred bucks a month for the past twenty years to help pay their mortgage. And now Dot won’t let me have his trumpet. Do you think that’s fair she’s burying it in his casket?”

“No,” the congregation yells.

“See! Dot,” Scotty says. “Let me have the trumpet.”

“It’s your father’s wishes,” Dot says sitting on her hands in the front row, as if to warm her cat claws. “Finish your monologue.”

“Everyone agrees with me Dot—release the trumpet.”

“I made a promise to your father,” she says. “Those were his final wishes.” Dot looks at me and mouths, final wishes.

“Release the trumpet,” Scotty says as he waves his hands to get the crowd going.

“Release the trumpet,” the congregation yells.

Scotty stares at Dot as the congregation chants, release the trumpet, release the trumpet. As the chants get louder, he says to Dot, “And you paid Rabbi Heller extra to allow my father, a total Jew, to be buried with metal.”

“Boo Rabbi Heller,” the congregation yells.

“Release the trumpet,” Scotty chants.

“Release the trumpet,” the congregation chants.

Rabbi Heller, preventing an insurrection, nudges Scotty aside and waves his hands for peace in the Middle East as if he was Gaddafi. The congregation silences. “We’re here to honor the memory of our beloved Rusty Hyman Longacre. Say goodbye is always complicated. But it’s not goodbye. We will keep his memory alive by keep an ongoing dialogue with him and hold him in our heart and keep photographs near —”

“—and let me keep the trumpet near,” Scotty says then grabs the mic to yell, “Release the trumpet! Release his first born!”

Rabbi Heller snatches Scotty’s yarmulke and covers the mic like a dirty secret. The congregation gasps.  Scotty returns to his seat yarmulke-less, his exposed bald head leaning on my buff shoulder.  Agitated with a heavy breath, I slide to the right, forcing Scotty to take his head back.

Breathing heavy is usually a precursor to a panic attack. For me, it’s air fueled adrenalin. My pipes are flooded with exhilaration. The eulogy I’m about to deliver will be a lie and I’m feeling good about it. Sure, I’ll get emotional, the tears will be real, but the whole speech will be a lie. I’m doing dad a favor by cementing his legacy the way he wanted—please the mourners. My send off for dad is to help leave his legacy intact by controlling how he’s viewed. A eulogy is the perfect device. The crowd is vulnerable. Eulogizers have the power to imprint how the dead is remembered.   

 A lot of his old nameless friends on the fringes of show business are here. Connie Stevens is in third row. I’ll play a few lines to her. I’ll hold a few seconds looking at the long-time publicist from the Lakers. The story how my father made him eat raw hamburger at thirteen instead of getting a bar mitzvah as a rite of passage will be a real crowd pleaser. They knew him one way. I knew him another. As eulogies go, I’m an experienced actor. This will be the third eulogy to a third family member within thirteen months, but I’m about to deliver the performance of a lifetime.

I whisper to Scotty, “My eulogy is going burn the running time in our dramedy. Now is your shot to take back the trumpet. Easy access. Near his head.”

Me and the bro fist bump. I button my sport coat and get to the podium. I clench the fists, lower the readers, and look at the screenplay formatted two-pager.

“When my mother passed away last year,” I say and exhale loudly. “I exhaled, I felt relief. When my sister passed away, five months after her, I exhaled. I felt some relief.” My wife is tearing. It’s working so far. “Last Sunday, on Mother’s Day, I got the call. Dad wasn’t doing well. He was in hospice. We needed to see him ASAP. I knew he wasn’t doing well but didn’t know where on the not-doing-well scale he was.  We planned on seeing him over Memorial Day Weekend. But last Sunday, when I got the call, I wasn’t ready to exhale. He was the one supposed to hit a hundred, supposed to outlive all the other comedians from his era. He was supposed to live long enough to see his beloved Lakers get their act together.” Scotty jaw drops as he stares at me.  I eyebrow up, signaling him to make a run for the trumpet. Scotty moves his fingers in circular motion for me to keep going. He’s enthralled. “It’s been five days since he passed. His wife Dot, myself, my wife and children, Scotty and Miles and a few others were there with him last week, by his side. Thank you, Dot for allowing us to help dad transition. He was not in any pain, he wasn’t suffering. He was lucid and responding. But something caught my attention. He had a mic in his right hand and his trumpet in the left.  It’s how he knows how to get your attention. When he wanted to say something, he put the mic to his mouth and moved his lips. But as the days went by the mic and trumpet became heavier. He died a good death, with Dot by his side. With a mic in his hand, he exited frame, not when the opening act time allowed, but when he wanted to. He left on his terms. The way he lived his life.  He set the bar on how to live a full life. He set the bar on how to die, the right way. My dad’s ninety-two is everyone else’s hundred and twenty. He grabbed every minute from life to the very end. Death is a funny business. It plays tricks with you. You hear I’m sorry for your loss a lot. I’ve heard it a lot this past week and heard it a lot since my mom died last April and my sister the following October. Having become an expert in grieving this past year, his is a different kind of loss. Because I don’t feel relief. I wasn’t ready to exhale.  There’s only one Rusty Longacre and we each own a little piece of him. We all have our Rusty stories. He was so many things to so many people. Stand-up, musician, second husband, father, grandfather, uncle, brother, cousin, Brother Rusty.  But it wasn’t until he died that I realized who he was to me. Death forces you to stop and try to make some sense of someone else’s life by processing the memories. You try to create a little home movie in your head. It usually doesn’t play the way you want it to. That’s just how it works.  Here’s what I came up with for dad and here’s what stuck out as if they’re a deck of cards I’m laying out on a poker table: hamburger, swimming naked in the pool at our house, a frozen knife, scratching his arm, Vegas in the 70’s and helping people; a lot of people. He had me eat raw hamburger meat with Lawry’s salt as a rite of passage into manhood at age thirteen because I didn’t get a bar-mitzvah.”  It gets a laugh. I hold for a beat to play it out—the way he taught his kids. “He loved swimming naked, and would walk back into the house, and eat breakfast.” This is the part I’d love to tell the crowd he had a crooked dick, leaned abnormally left.  “Yeah, no towel, dripping with pool water, he’d have his first meal of the day, which spoiled my appetite.” It gets a laugh. I hold. “When I did something bad, he pressed a frozen knife on my forearm for five seconds. There was always a knife in the freezer. The other punishment was scratching his arm. Five minutes on the forearm without stopping.  He intentionally wanted me to remember how weird these punishments were.” Dad had no clue what he was doing. Nothing intentional about his parenting style and didn’t contextualize punishment in a way that taught me anything as a child. “It was brilliant and funny.  I bragged to my friends I never got spanked, never got grounded. His punishments made my friends think he was the coolest dad ever. It was all in his master plan. Vegas in the 70’s; watching him perform, playing backstage with Connie Stevens’ and Flip Wilson’s kids, sitting on Tom Jones’ lap one night, Elvis’ lap another, dad streaking after a show, torches of my youth made for a greatest childhood. As the home movie in my head played over and over, what I was left with was the strong impression of him helping others.  It hit me a few days ago he was a humanitarian.” Who am I kidding? No one is a humanitarian. This is the part of the eulogy where I’m portraying dad as a three-dimensional character and Scotty is buying it, clapping silently. “In between the jokes, joking around, the kibitzing, the funny sounds he made, bingda-bingda-boom, the stage time, the trumpet, the constancy of him being on; he always helped people. Yes, being funny and making people feel good is a way of helping people. But underneath that veneer was his drive to make people feel good about themselves, to give them confidence, to give them love, to care. Throughout his sobriety, he reached out to guys who had problems, taking them to meetings.  When he got his ten-year chip and I stood next to him as a kid telling me he just won an Academy Award. He thanked people, told a few stories, then handed me his chip, told me not to lose it, and to give it back to him when we got home. I remember him helping younger comics. Inside the body of a Jewish comic from Chicago was a preacher named Brother Rusty. When I left my career as a film director to go back to school to become a psychologist twenty years ago, everyone, except my dad, thought I was crazy. He was also a Navy guy. He loved talking about Veterans. When I got married, he was the only one who didn’t think I was crazy. He got it. When we had our first child, he got it. When the second one came along. He got it. He got it all.” He didn’t get any of it, but that passage had a nice flow and gave the crowd a sense he was connected to life events in my life.  “As the years passed, our conversations were always about basketball, the VA and my kids and my family, but always the topic of family first. He drew a lot of pride in seeing me serve Veterans and to have a family. All of this came into focus after he died. Death forces you to make sense of a life. I’ve received a lot of well wishes since he passed away, each saying in their own way what a great guy he was.  Pat Proft wrote, Rusty started a lot of careers. Helluva comedian. And a good soul.  That summed it up. He helped. He was funny. He was a great person. His legacy belongs in each of us. When you see a trumpet, think of Rusty. When you see a young stand-up comic, think of Rusty. When you see a preacher, think of Rusty. Try to make others feel good about themselves, ask people how they’re doing and try your best to make people laugh along the way. Rusty will be by your side coaching you, rooting you along. I’m sorry for each of your losses, especially my kids. Grandpa Rusty was the only ninety-two-year-old person who went before his time. But it’s time to lay him to rest so he can play his trumpet in heaven, see his dad Hyman and his mom Lena, and get back on stage. I hear Elvis has been waiting a very long time for his opening act to warm up his crowd.”          

I flatten the single tear with my finger as the congregation, except for Dot and Miles, give a standing ovation. Rabbi Heller steps into frame squeezing me out. I head back to where I belong, my kids hugging me. I sit next to my wife and Scotty who leans in and whispers, “dude, did you hire Denzel Washington to write that?”

“You fucked up,” I say. “The window to snatch the trumpet is gone.”

“I’m still traumatized. Can you do therapy with me on the way to the burial?”

Rabbi Heller says, “I know Miles was scheduled to deliver the closing eulogy, but unfortunately, we have gone over our allotted time.”

“Yo, rent-a-Rabbi!” Miles stands and says, “That’s not cool. At all.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve gone over,” Rabbi Heller says.

“I’m Rusty’s only cool child,” Miles says as he walks to the podium. “They all came here to hear my monologue since I’m the famous one and I’m representing Dot.”

“I’m really sorry, Miles,” Rabbi Heller says. “But that’s a wrap.”

“You all want to hear my monologue, right?” Miles asks the congregation from the podium. Silence. “Come on, why else would you be here? I mean, me and Howard were supposed to be abortions. I should have a chance to talk about me and my dad and how I gave him a second chance at his career by having him open for me on the road. Dot, come up on stage so we can kumbaya.”

“Release the trumpet,” Scotty shouts.

Miles takes the mic off the stand, paces the stage, and says, “I didn’t write anything, unlike my brothers who needed to prepare. I’m going off raw emotion which is truth and authentically organic improv. Please let me do my monologue.”

Rabbi Heller says, “I’m really sorry, but the Kaplan family is waiting in the wings.” He points to the exit. There’s a mass of mourners waiting—the faces pressed against the windows. 

“Rabbi’s double-dipping,” Miles says. 

“Another Rabbi is doing the Kaplan gig.” Rabbi Heller faces the congregation. “Rusty wanted the Preservation Hall Jazz Band to accompany the casket on its way to his final resting place. Please join the procession. If the first row can follow the casket.”

The curtain behind the podium opens. The closed casket is on a gurney ready to roll by twin ushers sporting obligatory black suits and maroon ties. Rabbi Heller raises his hands pinching his index fingers and thumbs holding an imaginary conductor’s stick and on cue the ushers push the casket into the aisle as up-tempo New Orleans Dixie Jazz music fades up.  The casket passes Scotty who’s wailing and mumbling, release the trumpet, release the trumpet. My wife and kids follow the casket. I give Scotty a brotherly push. Artie, Dot, Miles, Lester, and the rest of the congregation begin the final march.

“Time to let go,” I whisper to Scotty as we leave the chapel following the casket through a mosh pit of mourners.

“The trumpet is the only thing that makes me happy,” Scotty says.

“You’ve got your chicks, beach house in Diego and condos in Catalina.”

“Not at all. I need dad’s trumpet. I mean don’t you need anything of dad’s or anything, ever?”

“All I want in this moment is to be present. The root of suffering is attachment.”

“Dude, stop the psychobabble. I’m going to be severely depressed knowing it’s buried six feet under and I’ll never touch it or taste his J&B again.”

“Take a shot of scotch,” I say.

I stand at the edge of the chapel at the beginning of the road that will lead us to the climax and remember what my Eastern Religion professor at NYU film school would say at the end of each class. In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you. So, I tell Scotty,“It’s just an object.”

“Not at all. My past is wrapped up in that instrument. It reminds me when I was super happy. It connects me to dad forever. If I don’t have it, I’ll lose touch with dad.”

“Take a picture of it, blow it up to hang on your wall. Make a wallet size version, keep it on you. Get a tattoo of it.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Scotty says. “Jews can’t get tattoos.”

The Kaplan Klan pushes past Rusty’s rolling casket, swarming the chapital to celebrate the life of their beloved dead body, knocking down an oldster or two. The assigned Kaplan Rabbi and Rabbi Heller face off at the chapel entrance—a UFC style stare down, nose to nose until Connie Stevens widgets her arm in between the Kosher meat and while music fades up, me and Scotty drift towards the fountain of youth at the roundabout.

On the road outside the chapel is the seven-piece Preservation Hall Jazz Band playing When the Saints Go Marching In. The casket moves through the dwindling Kaplan Klan to the open road. Me and Scotty follow the casket, followed by a Dot, Miles, and Artie and the rest of dad’s congregation trails like snails on a dry beach in August as we begin our march to dad’s everlasting whatever.

“That’s dad’s song and his favorite band,” Scotty says to me as his lower lip quivers. Here comes the cry. “I didn’t know there’d be a band.”

“It was in his will,” Dot says from a few feet away.

“The trumpet wasn’t,” Scotty says back at her.

“You’d know if you watched the Final Arrangements video,” Dot says louder and flashes her iPhone, dad’s frozen image from the video appears.   

As the procession continues, the mid-morning light streaks a palette of grief like a Jackson Pollack scatterplot, filled with micro images of childhood memories like a flickering slideshow in a dark basement. Scotty’s stupid trumpeting birthdays through the years. Me at Ponyland, the little kid’s amusement park where divorced dads spent their negotiated custody time. Dad put me on Destroyer, the fastest pony, and blew his trumpet as if I were on Secretariat in the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby. Every Sunday (dad’s day) he’d meet me at the finish line when Destroyer romped me the fun, but dad would take credit when he dropped me off to mom.

Tambourine clanking cuts the home movie in my head. We’re in wide shot of rolling hills, a corpse occupied Earth, headstones and mausoleums filled with vaults making my Hillside Memorial visit markedly solace and yet dad has the gall to continue the path towards his final resting place. The ushers push the casket up a sloping hill. We’re on the one-way road leading to our climax. The band slows their tempo so the musicians can catch their winded breath.

Connie Stevens approaches me and Scotty while I contemplate the purpose of eulogies and Scotty stares at the ground. She says, “I really loved your father. He was a great man. He loved his trumpet, but he also loved his boys.”  She points at the trumpet player.   Black man, late sixties—black suit, black tie, black Stetson hat, but a rainbow of emotion—his horn, an extension of his soul and loudspeaker of God’s musical call signs.  “He played in my band when your daddy opened for me at the Flamingo in Vegas in 1978.”

“Plot twist,” I say.

“Maybe he can help,” Connie Stevens says. 

Me and Scotty catch up to the trumpet player who’s blowing a solo.  Scotty asks, “How much would you sell us your trumpet for?”

The trumpet player takes his mouth off the piece, killing a mid-riff buzz. His clinched eyebrows, pierced lips, narrowed piercing stare telegraphs agitation.

Scotty says, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars.”

The band carries the tune as me, Scotty and the trumpet player get off the road and onto the grass in between Irving Fuller 1935-2000 and Brent Wynberg 1964-1981.

“A grand for my trumpet?” the trumpet player asks.

“Our dad’s trumpet is buried in his casket and we need to swap,” I say.

“Jews can’t be buried with metal,” the trumpet player says.

“Exactly!” Scotty says. “Our dad played that trumpet in his act.”

“Rusty was a funny man,” the trumpet player says. “That piece is a collector’s item.”

“Yeah, for my collection,” Scotty says.

“Ask his wife,” the trumpet player says. 

“She’s burying the trumpet to piss me off,” Scotty says.

“What’s that joke he had about women?” the trumpet player asks.

“Cunt hairs can move battleships,” Scotty says.

“Yeah, that one.”

“Bottom line,” I say. “The trumpet is supposed to be buried with him. It’s in his will and the Final Arrangements video.”

“Rusty made a video about his funeral? He was always a crowd pleaser. Guess we’re actors in his last show. Even though it wasn’t in the script, I’ll swap my piece out for his. Be an honor to play Rusty’s trumpet.”

“I keep my dad’s trumpet,” Scotty says. “And your trumpet gets buried with him as the stand-in.”

“I’d be a man without a trumpet,” the trumpet player says.

“We’ll buy you a new one, the best kind,” Scotty says. “We just need to figure out how to do the swap before he’s six feet under.”

“Been eyeing a Bach Standard in silver,” the trumpet player says. “Give me a grand for my piece and buy me a Bach.”

“Wowzer,” Scotty says.

“It’s yowzer,” the trumpet player says.

“That’s a great deal,” I tell Scotty. “He’s our last option.”

“You mean only option,” the trumpet player says.

The baritone trombone player, yards ahead, hollers at the trumpet player, waving him back with those rhythm wrists. The trumpet player fist bumps me and Scotty—his knuckles like doorknobs. He rejoins his people and plays on as the procession drifts uphill towards the burial site. I lock on Dot. Her stance tells me she’d been onto us. 

Scotty and I argue over money. He thinks a grand and a new trumpet is too much. I convince him he has zero leverage then say, “We got our guy but need a plan to make the swap.”

Scotty says, “Dad would be so pissed we’re rewriting the ending of his Final Arrangement video.”

“This has nothing to do with his video,” I say.

The casket is parked at the open grave ready for a famished Mother Earth to swallow another brother. There is a canopy and four rows of fold up chairs. Dot and Artie sit front and center holding hands. Me and Scotty stand on the fringe of the canopy. On the road behind us is the band playing a slow tempo When The Saints Go Marching In. Rabbi Heller stands at the mobile podium next to the casket and holds a real conductor stick above his head and motions for the band to stop. They do. Rabbi Heller nods to the twin ushers. They open the casket.

“Rusty wanted to catch some rays before going underground,” Rabbi Heller says into the mic causing reverb feedback.

Scotty paces and whispers each time he passes my head, “Hey jerk monkey, this is our last chance, what’s the plan?”

“I’m glad I let go of the trumpet years ago,” I tell him.

“If you care about my mental health, you’d do something.”

The smoking groundskeeper I had a brief scene outside the chapel is sitting in the golf cart on the road with his dig partner. We exchange nods as he offers me a smoke at a distance enticing me into joining his smoker’s tribe. 

“Rusty was a dreamer,” Rabbi Heller says and then continues with an incoherent non-sequitur string of sentences as I hit up the groundskeeper for a smoke.

The groundskeeper offers me an American Spirit and flicks his Bic. Here’s my photo op as the smoking imposter, but decline the light and say, “Saving it for when my dad is buried and in heaven.” Hell, no will I puff. I quit December 31, 1999, in fear of Y2K and threat from my then girlfriend who I proposed to the next day. For a decade, I was two-pack Shakur per day and was no quitter. But Adela said she’d never have kids with me unless I was nicotine free—something about not wanting deformed children.  You see, I sacrificed a smoker’s life for the family life, and our kids turned out perfect.

I whisper something to the groundskeeper you can’t hear. I ain’t one of those plot spoilers.  Me and the groundskeeper fist bump, then he and his dig partner ditch the golf cart and head out on foot down the way, a smokestack of Spirits trailing. If there was a foggy haze, we’d be living in noir.

I chum up to the trumpet player who’s standing roadside with the muted band.  He hands his piece to me. As trumpets go, this is on the light side. Shiny and silver too. Could be a dead giveaway as a fake, but you get what you get in life. I pull him back and whisper in his ear—yeah, you hear nothing. He hands his Stetson to the tambourine player who bangs it against his hand.

A beat.  Sprinklers go on. Congregation scatters. Rabbi Heller sprints off. Me and the trumpet player hit the casket using our coats as cover.

We look down on dad. He’s drenched. His makeup smeared. About time he looks like a real dead guy. Dad’s good arm is locked onto the trumpet. The damn sprinklers are doing a fine job getting me and the trumpet player Saigon typhoon soggy.  I need an assist and tell the trumpet player not to break dad’s arm—two broken arms will make knocking on heaven’s door difficult. The trumpet player, too wet to talk, jimmies Rusty’s arm by sliding his hand under his forearm. The trumpet slips out. I hand the trumpet player Rusty’s trumpet as he slides in the stand-in. Operation: Release The Trumpet is complete.

Me and the trumpet player galosh our way across the road and take cover in the indoor/outdoor building that houses caskets above ground in vaults for the Jews who don’t like dirt. We take refuge like men on the run in an open room, a makeshift kitchen with stacked plastic flower holders lined on the counter. We paper towel dry off. A dry and beaming Scotty enters the scene and asks, “Can I now have my dad’s trumpet?”

“As soon as I get two grand,” the trumpet player says.

“Wait, two grand, you serious?” Scotty asks.

“I’m attached to Rusty’s piece,” he says clutching the trumpet. “It’s heavy. It’s soulful. It’s mine.”

“We had a deal,” I say.

“And the deal was you’d get me a trumpet to replace mine,” he says. “I’m keeping Rusty’s as collateral.”

The trumpet player wets his lips, puts this mouth on the piece and belts a few somber notes of When the Saints Go Marching In.

“Dude, come on,” Scotty says. “Stop playing. Release the trumpet.”

Scotty yanks it from the trumpet player interrupting dad’s favorite song. He closes his eyes and hugs it. The trumpet player yanks it back. Scotty grabs the bell of the trumpet with both hands and tugs. The trumpet player cold-cocks Scotty dropping my poor little big bro to the ground. Now we have a situation.

“WBC welterweight in the early eighties,” the trumpet player says.

“You didn’t have to knock him out,” I say looking down on an unconscious Scotty.

“Every K.O. I got in my career gave me more leverage,” the trumpet player says. “Moved me up the ranks. I want five grand for Rusty’s trumpet.”

“That’s extortion,” I say.

“This is more than a trumpet—it’s a priceless family heirloom,” the trumpet player says. “I’m on tour, flying out in the morning. Catch me if you can. Until then, Rusty Longacre lives on through me.”

Extreme close-up of a trumpet, it’s brass once upon a time living life as a majestic sheen, the lead pipe and valves now scratched, the instrument attached to a red and black guitar strap—a life’s worth of tunes will eternally be in key.

Close-up on the trumpet player walking down the road, the trumpet, a lifelong signature prop for Rusty Hyman Longacre, is clutched by a reborn seventy-something musician with his new instrument.

Out of frame, soars a horizontal body in a black sequin dress, tackling the trumpet player. Dot hops to her feet, snatches the trumpet, and marches to her own beat, back to the casket to lay it in its promised final resting place.

We are close on the Saidel Brothers—me, the wise one, shaking Scotty’s torso, the trumpet-less unconscious one who’s arms are spread like wings. I begin chest compressions. My little big bro doesn’t wake. I pound sand. There are things in life you can’t control, but you can control your legacy. Be of service to others, ward off greed as it creeps in, let go of things that cause you grief. There’s no such thing as a good death, only a good enough death. Let those you leave behind give the eulogy they want, let them tell their story. Let us all define who you are by sharing the different ingredients of you that make a whole person. We’ll keep you alive if only you let us go.

Scotty twitches to consciousness, and holds up an imaginary trumpet then mumbles, “release the trumpet.”

Medium shot on a casket, the trumpet, a signature prop, is clutched by dad, ninety-three and dead, dressed in a purple suit, yellow tie, his makeup, and hairpiece besieged by water, projecting an image of an emaciated corpse but his trumpet is working just right, right on time for the big finale—the happy ending Rusty wanted in his Final Arrangements video, a real crowd pleaser.

We are on the wings of a fluttering angel ascending away from Hillside Memorial, one of two Jewish funeral homes in L.A.—this one, the one along the 405-freeway, convenient for visitors of the dead to do a hit and run.

#

La vie beaucoup plus d’imagination que nous. Francois Truffaut