A Jazz Band, a Chorus Girl, and Six Crap-Shooters

Three men, each a resident of our small cooperative apartment house, have died within the last year. The first was murdered on a trip abroad, the second and third died of cancer. None had reached old age, with the oldest in his early sixties. The widow of the murdered man invited those who had known him to her home. The guests, liberally supplied with alcohol and seated around the walls of a living room filled with the Soviet-era art that he had collected, told stories about the dead man that illuminated his personality and his attainments. If the widow of the second man held a memorial gathering for her husband, she didn’t invite us. The widow of the third man, about two months after his death, invited us to an “Irish wake” to celebrate his memory. We attended it last week.

He had emigrated from Ireland as a young man and immediately found employment in the financial industry, where he worked until the last year of his life, when he was probably too ill to continue. He was a slim, dapper, good-looking man, who, as a volunteer, kept the garden in our building’s courtyard green and beautiful. He always had a pleasant word and a smile when we encountered each other. A graduate of University College, Dublin, he spoke with a charming if slight Irish lilt. I knew little else about him, however, and hoped to learn more at the wake.

The wake’s venue was a watering hole in the financial district, which was devoted that evening to the memorial gathering. A Dixieland band was playing with great brio when we arrived, and it continued playing, with the briefest of intermissions, during the two hours we spent there. We joined about 75 people, crowded into the space, where waitresses brought drinks and hors d’oeuvres to the guests. Beer seemed to be the beverage of choice, although some were drinking wine. Most of the guests were prosperous-looking middle-aged men, probably colleagues of the deceased. At one point in the evening, his widow handed out sheets of paper on which were printed the lyrics of a few popular songs, two of which were sung by female guests to the accompaniment of the band. The atmosphere was loud and lively. Everyone appeared to be having a good time, even the widow and their son, although I felt that sadness continued to puncture their pleasure in the presence of so many friends.

The word wake derives from an Old English word that means “watch.” In a traditional Irish wake, people sit by the body until its burial, a time often marked by the consumption of alcohol and much merrymaking. Although our fellow resident had been buried two months earlier, his wake otherwise corresponded to the Irish tradition, with much jollity and even some dancing. The guests told amusing stories about the deceased, but none of the stories gave us much insight into the man himself, except for one important fact: he had aroused the affection and respect of the many who had come to remember him.

The music and animated conversations that surrounded us reminded me of one of the stanzas from the "St. James Infirmary Blues" - I want six crap-shooters for pallbearers, a chorus girl to sing me a song, place a jazz band in my hearse wagon, to raise some hell as we roll along. That seems a good way to go. I hope my wife will invite all my friends to a festive gathering, give them plenty of booze, and ask them to tell amusing stories about me. A string quartet playing Mozart would be more to my taste than a Dixieland band, but Mozart would probably not arouse the kind of high good feeling that we found at that wake. I like the idea of a chorus girl singing me a song though, but I suppose my wife would veto that suggestion. As for the six crap-shooters, they will have carried me off before the party, raising hell, I hope, along the way.