ABSTRACT
I had the package funeral. It was in a run-down wedding chapel
five blocks off Las Vegas Strip, behind a junkyard littered with pink
Caddys. I was squeezed in between a couple of teenagers who barely
stopped pawing each other long enough to say “I do,” and two drunk
oldsters reeking of Formica. You could tell it was a funeral because
the jefe, obviously channeling Lady Gaga or some such, substituted
a snazzy black and gold cape for the white, gold, and pink wedding
version. Otherwise, it was the same: themandatorywitness, twirling
his hands in some possessed drug dancewith his demons, in the fifth
row; floating cherubs, bloated and chipped and discolored, smiling
on my demise in fat-cheeked dimpled glee; three live streaming
cameras around the room, one of which actually worked. One of my
kids had promised to watch it live, but her work schedule changed,
so she was waiting tables instead. S’ ok . . . it’s stored for six hours
before deletion.
