November 1st. My brother Philip and I join the “Day of the Dead” revelry at “Forever Hollywood” cemetery on Santa Monica Boulevard. By the time we arrive, the sun has set and prayer candles of orange and blue have been placed on top of tombstones throughout the grounds. The winding walkway leads us to the reflecting pool commemorating the Douglas Fairbanks, father and son. The surrounding area has been set up with decorative, skeletal altars celebrating family, friends and even Hollywood icons that have passed on. One group has spread a buffet over an above ground crypt, complete with tablecloth and candelabra dripping its waxy tenants. I decide that I like this holiday very much, predicting that it may prove to be my favorite in years to come.
Honoring deceased ancestors is traditional among several diverse cultures; and such celebrations are traced back as far as ancient Egypt, China, Japan and Aztec Mexico when departed souls were venerated during the great festivals of Osiris, Ching Ming, Obon, and Dia de los Muertos. My favorite is an African tribal ritual mourning the dead over a three-day period. On the first, they physically fight to beat out their anger; the second, they weep; and the third, they feast in honor of their loved one’s final rite of passage. Also traditional are “Irish” wakes where everyone gets drunk, cries, fights and then doesn’t speak to each other until the next wedding or funeral. Say what you want, but there is something civilized about this admission of feelings. Certainly Americans observe Memorial Day, but it usually entails ribs, beer and a four-day workweek. And yes, there’s Halloween, the dead conjured up by children pushing around a oujii board in the attic, sugar dripping from their mouths. During his interview for an HBO special on “6 Feet Under”, Alan Ball asserts that in America, death is a topic largely avoided, that most of us have a hard time acknowledging grief. I don’t know about the rest of the country, but I can relate to that.
Later, my brother and I splurge at Sushi Ryo on Western near an “adult magazine” shop and a Chinese/Donut take-out, common in the Los Angeles Basin. For you outsiders, don’t be fooled, the best sushi bars are often in grimy strip malls. Over our spicy tuna, we talk about our father, a subject we have managed to skate around. We agree that not a day goes by that we don’t think about him. He was a memorable person, bringing a bright light to every space he filled. Both Philip and I were with him when he left this life. I don’t conjure up the night he died very easily. Don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to talk about it. Maybe that’s why I feel part of my life has been stilted, rendered somewhat immobile, as if in wet cement. I’m stuck in the Bubble Lounge in lower Manhattan trying to decide whether the CPR I learned during my 6th grade swimming lessons will revive my father.
In the past few years, defibrillators have become a mainstay in public places. Many people over sixty have them installed at home. After the Angry Man’s sister in law, an ER doctor, bluntly announced their 85% success rate, I had to leave the room. I thought I was going to be sick. Instead of honoring my father’s life, I’ve been avoiding my own grief.
When I find the courage to go back to March 25, 2002, I remember it to be a perfect evening. I was working for Disney, preparing for the premiere of “The Rookie” in New York. Bob was a huge baseball fan and many of the old timers he knew would be attending, Fred Lynn, Willie Mays and Yaz, among them. I was thrilled he could be there. I arranged for him to meet me at the hotel where we would hook up with my brother and get dinner. It all sounds so boring in retrospect, but the thing is, we had a great time. We motored down to Raoul’s on Prince Street in Bob’s Chrysler LeBaron, (I liked to call it his old man car). Bob had a few martinis, smoked a pack of Benson & Hedges and expostulated about his favorite subjects: sports, politics, Marilyn, Jack and Bobby. But he also took the time to tell us how proud he was of us, how he was grateful that Phil was pursing his music, that Siobhan & Frank were wonderful parents to their children, that I had followed my dreams. He gave me some much needed advice, was saddened by the disappearance of a family member, worried about my mother’s health, thought the democratic party was going to hell in a fast car. We talked about so many things of relevancy, snatches of this conversation come up even now, and I think, is it weird spiritual coincidence, or did he have a gut instinct that he would be leaving the earth soon, just as soon as he shook hands with Willie Mays? What I remember most clearly, for myself, is looking across the table, through the smoke, and smiling, thinking, “I love this man. I really love this man”. And I should feel lucky that I have that, that there was no unfinished business, that we had a pretty honest relationship.
When people ask about it, half of them will say, “What a way to go. Steak, martinis and jazz”. My friend Vanessa, who was performing at the club, recounted, “One moment I was looking over and there was Bob smiling, one kid at either side, and the next moment, he was gone”. It was as quick as that. I even thought I could see him the doorway, trying to tell me that it would be OK. Later on, the doctors said there was nothing I could’ve done. That if the EMTs couldn’t revive him, I probably couldn’t have either.
His exit strategy was especially poignant as Philip and I steered the LeBaron through a freak late March rainstorm, meeting my sister at a truck stop along I-95 truck stop during the eight-hour drive she had from Massachusetts. But the rain. It blinded us, threatened to deter our way, but we refused to pull over. I think my brother would have driven to the very bottom of Florida if we hadn’t been on autopilot.
My mother stretched out her arms to us, already having emailed family and friends, arranged for his body to be transported to Virginia, requested death certificates, written his obituary, and kept herself busy, busy, busy. How do you fill a space that’s been occupied for over forty years? Two days later, strangers occupied the pea green velvet pews of the Elkton church. The minister started her sermon with: “I didn’t really know Bob…” Having only lived there for about four or five years, there was no way she could have fully appreciated the spirit he was given. Thankfully, an old friend, Big Jim, recalled some funny stories from the Pittsburgh days and my cousin Rob got up and spoke. Three of my oldest friends flew in from Sudbury. My mother’s family had moved mountains to be there. My oldest brother, Frank, gave a moving eulogy.
When I got back to LA, and my bed, and my desk and all of those cards and phone messages that are so very nice, but what do you do with all of them? I couldn’t think. And for the past three years, I’ve been avoiding the memory. It’s so painful, that I’ve adopted forgetting as my anesthesia. But the drug wears off eventually, and the energy spent trying to forget is really the aspect that brings the most pain. I knew my family was grieving as well, but when you are 3000 miles away from the inner circle, it becomes easy to isolate those complex emotions. And once you’re in that isolation, it’s so difficult to move away from it. It becomes the womb of wounds.
I recognize that I probably remain in shock, although it’s a combination of shock and gratitude. Emails announcing that Miss Trouble will be performing at the Bubble Lounge I cringe at, but I’m grateful that I was there, with my father. That he wasn’t alone. That Philip and I were by his side when he left this world, holding his hands, and that we were able to share a good meal, some loud liberal politics and a couple of Beefeater martinis for the road.
It was good to walk through this labyrinth of the dead and see people with hopelessly sad memorials for children, girlfriends and soldiers lost too young, but also to see people laughing, as if the skeletons they had erected were the source of humor and the dead were laughing right along. My father would have liked that. So, my brother and I decided that next year, we are going to create an altar for Bob, who’s spirit justly rightly deserves to live on and inspire others to love their life, whistle a happy tune, enjoy the subtleties of barbequing.
According to Oaxaca tradition, family should put out things that the dearly departed loved. That would be a very dry martini, garnished with green pimento stuffed olives, steak medium rare, Sinatra on the ipod. I put on “You Make Me Feel So Young”. This is the day I will remember, and by remembering, celebrate, my father.
