It was hard leaving Brenda. Morton Pinkney Fitzgibbons III looked out the airplane window at his own reflection in the blue lights. His parents didn’t like Brenda. They hadn’t even allowed her to come to the airport. They were always saying disapprovingly how he hadn’t been the same since he’d met her. They didn’t bother concealing their relief that his college was so far away, or smirking that Brenda’s family finances didn’t run to bicoastal airfares. This way she couldn’t “pester” him, they said. Morty had spent the past four years giving it everything he had to get into a prestigious college, but he wondered if he didn’t hate himself a little bit for giving in so easily, for not standing up to them. But heck, just a few months ago he’d been a little kid.
They were absolutely right when they said he wasn’t the same, and about time too. He’d hardly dated any girls in prep school – date-nights at his all-male school were so formalized he’d pretty much backed off and let his mother do the heavy lifting. None of the girls she picked were easy. She must give them a questionnaire, or a job interview, or something to determine their absolute hopelessness as potential girlfriends. Right from the first Brenda was different. Not just a girl to “begin”, to “experiment” on, as he had imagined in his lonely self- projections. She was the girl. In restaurants people already turned to stare at her and she was only seventeen. It actually was kind of insulting the way his parents attributed his new maturity completely to Brenda. Showed what a spineless jellyfish they’d always considered him.
That jellyfish, swimming down the darkly stained oak halls of his worthless school, that wasn’t his real self at all. Anyone who knew anything knew that. Look at his reports: “Morton seems to have deep reserves he has yet to draw on” and “excellent work but hardly to capacity.” The school psychologist said, “Doesn’t let anyone get close” and “polite but uncooperative.” Like you could study The Prince in class all day and then make a “buddy” out of the school shrink! What kind of retard did they take him for?
That creature walking through the halls of Asbury Prep had been more like an animated corpse, or an “astral double”. The real Morty was sleeping, was gathering power. Gathering strength. The real Morty wouldn’t waste his time with their version of “leadership” – because their version of leadership was servanthood. The real Morty was a Champion.
Pretending to empower you, the school actually harnessed you. Drained you. They demanded lying, insisted on evasion, mandated phoniness and reveled in fakery – they didn’t care who the hell you really were at all. And it wasn’t just Morty who noticed it. Not a kid on his floor dared reveal his true self. Every authentic interaction sapped you – because it turned you into a sap — better hold your fire. Save enough force so you could become who you needed to be, who you were meant to be, later on.
The plane was taxiing to its runway. Morty kept his face averted, absorbing the blue light, so his father wouldn’t attempt conversation. He felt a strange prickling inside his forehead, but it wasn’t pain. When he met Brenda he was taking pills for ulcers, pills for attention, for sleeplessness, for cluster headaches. Turned out all he needed was sex. That as the big secret they had been keeping all those years! He guessed it was like being in the army – they kept you deprived to keep you passive. Once you discovered that, you mastered confidence. Each time he locked loins with Brenda freed him a little more. The soggy curtain that had separated him from the universe since childhood fell away. He didn’t need the pills anymore. It made better financial sense to sell them. When he felt this tingling in his forehead he imagined himself head-butting the universe — breaking the glass that separated him from the world.
Morty picked at the weird fabric of the airplane’s window curtain with his thumbnail. What was this stuff? It was some kind of man-made junk, not plastic, not cloth, more like Fiberglas. That was the trouble with the world these days. Nothing was real. People had been pushing fakes so long they forgot what reality was. Sex was real.
Connecticut dropped away below him until there was nothing left to see. But still he kept his face averted, hoping his father wouldn’t pull the trigger on another awkward, pathetic conversation. He liked his father – would have said he loved him if love wasn’t a feeling now reserved for Brenda alone. But his father was a decoy, some kind of “staked goat” offered to lure him into letting down his guard.
His father used to write music – had a band even back when they lived in Stoneyport – but one of the incontestable facts about Stoneyport was that if you lived there year round, you were nobody. So it was just their summer place now and his father was too busy tending other people’s money to waste any more time on progressive jazz. “Progressive jazz” wasn’t even a “thing” anymore, even, nobody did it, nobody had even heard of it. His father’s time was up. The old man tried not-so- subtly to blame the kids – they all did that — that was the way grown-ups operated – you were the reason for everything! They did it for you! Guilt, the gift that keeps on giving. At school they were always after you to “assume responsibility”. The school’s motto was “No excuses.” If the dog really ate your homework you needed punishment for having such a freakin’ unruly dog. Morty had been trained to recognize buck-passing by the best-in- show. He knew exactly whose fault everything was. Take his mom for instance. She was a screamer.
She had a super-simple business model: just yell and scream till you get what you want. Amazing how effective it was. Nobody would pay to get that in the real world – not since the concentration camps closed – but in interpersonal relationships “Making a Scene” was the strategy to beat. No one was willing to go up against her. Nobody could outlast her. The thing that really got his goat was she pretended, in the midst of epic rages, to be a competent, polished adult. Oh, yeah, she set herself up as judge as well as executioner! A day didn’t pass without a tweet, email or sticky note about how he had failed her perfect standards. He was sick of it, really. The degrading scenes, the room searches, the “white glove” inspections. He had long since learned to leave nothing personal, nothing of any importance in his room.
He could imagine her prowling around when he wasn’t there – feeling up his underwear and sneaking looks beneath his mattress, hoping to find the weed, the smokes, the girly mags she could get her wail on about. Nothing there; but there were always Brenda’s phone calls and text messages good for a public session of electro-shock; a thong trophy lifted from her son’s blazer pocket or the wet scrap of bikini discarded on the cabana floor. Scream-a-thon if Morty was using condoms; Shriek-
a-thon if he wasn’t; take your pick. Good thing she couldn’t get a hold of Brenda’s mom – there was no dad – or she would have made her life a living hell. But Brenda’s mom was one of those unlucky females forced to actually contribute to society instead of just yelling at people – she lived at work – and hospital dispatch don’t take personal calls.
Morty’s mom was fat. That was her real trouble. Morbid obesity. Her body was so swollen that from a distance she looked like a tiny block placed atop a big one. If anyone ever said anything about dieting – even diets in general – Elsa the She-Wolf went right upstairs and cried. Then she came downstairs and screamed harder. She actually forced her kids to eat ice cream. Bizarre. Morty could burn it off and his father preferred alcohol but it wasn’t doing his little sister any favors. His mom’s fashion solution was to wrap herself in shawls. Not working. Who asked for a Hungarian peasant woman for a mother? Frankly, it was embarrassing. There was his tall, distinguished, tired father partnering Hulda the Witch to school events. Bad.
She was sitting behind him now, talking to Gracie in a baby voice, trying to “persuade” her not to kick her father’s seat back. Gracie was ignoring her — poor Gracie wasn’t able to stand up for herself yet, so passive aggression was all she had going. What hope could there possibly be for her with an example like that? She was finished before she started. Morty knew – he had been forced to listen – that she wasn’t in the “popular” group at her school and surprise! Screaming and threats failed to fix the situation. Face it: his mom made everything worse. Your misery was her modus operandi in life.
Morty hated leaving Brenda. Everybody said college was so great, but what if college turned out to be another Asbury Prep in disguise? A place where “Gentlemen’s Agreement” meant upperclassmen torturing underclassmen for three long years? Could he stand it? It would be a relief getting away from his parents. His Mom was getting harder to fool – and his dad was sinking so fast it was politer to avert your gaze.
Mom had allowed Morty to invite Brenda to his pool party. It was all a trick of course. She was trying to find out if they’d been “seeing each other behind her back”. Belligerent as a tank in her red-skirted suit she’d gathered steam watching Brenda lounging in her invisible bikini, belly jewels and hummingbird tats. Swim-suited Morty tried to convince his Mom that his circular red weals were “wrestling burns”; that was a hard enough sell, but when Morty’s father rubbed sunscreen along Brenda’s shoulders Hulda blew like Vesuvius. Only coming down at midnight to make herself spaghetti.
On the way to the airport the screaming was particularly intense. She lashed them, beat them, drubbed them all with waves of sound; then, the minute they hit the ticket counter she snapped out of it like the psycho from Three Faces of Eve. Sybil from the suburbs.
Now Mom was taking Gracie to the bathroom. Didn’t trust an eleven year old to go alone. Morty closed his eyes but he could imagine the horrible scene in the aisle, his mother’s huge hips bumping into everything, her tight black dress riding up in little ridges around knees and waist. He vividly imagined her falling into the laps of a pair of horrified strangers, struggling with flight-attendants, burping and farting and shrieking while the pilot appeared personally to help place her in restraints. If only.
There must be something pleasurable he could do with his imagination; playing Vice Cop3 or texting Brenda a note to send when cellphones were allowed. But completely unbidden a new thought popped into his head. What if they were dead? All of them.
Now a new vision; himself walking down an antiseptic corridor, a doctor shaking his head like a metronome. Repeating, “I’m so sorry, sorry, sorry…” Then Morty could call Brenda, even in the middle of the night, never mind about her beauty sleep, telling her, “We’re rich.”
Because he would be, wouldn’t he? Even though his parents moaned and groaned about the expense of two homes and their crushing load of debt, there were retirement funds and college accounts and a pile of insurance because Hulda wasn’t getting left penniless like her own mother had been.
Morty and Brenda would go to Europe — she had never seen it — he could show her all the places he knew and all the places he didn’t know. Wasn’t making love to Brenda under all the bridges of Paris the only education really worth having?
He reached in his pocket and felt the satiny scrap Brenda had left for him, and it was so reminiscent of her all the blood left his tingling forehead and tumesced between his legs. Morty pulled down his tray table to conceal his excitement.
But how could he do it? He summoned up the whole of his first class education: the difference between a wish and a goal was a plan. Three people were a lot to ask for. How about a car crash? That would be a start. Get him out of college and visiting a hospital, then he would see what he could do. His parents were renting a car to drive back home so they could see Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon and all the other boring obligatory stuff. His father always drove because of his mother’s bad back, and he always carried coffee in case he felt sleepy. Morty still had plenty of sleeping pills; easy enough to give his father a doctored thermos as a thoughtful, parting gift. His mother never drank coffee, she insisted on Earl Grey and if you couldn’t provide that, God help you. It was a plan. A shy, modest beginning of a little plan, but unmistakably, a plan. He drummed his fingers ecstatically on his plastic tray table.
His father had obviously been awaiting just such a conversational opportunity. “Hungry for airplane food?” he teased. Morty said, “Hungry for everything.”
(Lectern flanked by flowers. A screen with a glamour pic of a young man in his late 20’s- wistful, engaging – someone you’d have liked to know. A young woman, mid twenties, dressed for a funeral in a very tight fitting suit, steps up on the stage and picks up the mike with a becomingly abashed air of charm & professional sweetness)
MARCI Hi, I’m Marci, and I’d like to say a few words about Glenn Godiver. I never saw myself as a person who gives eulogies, but Glenn and I had that kind of relationship. We called it The Mutual Autopsy Society. You do me and I do you.
(She acknowledges audience laughter)
Right? He was so funny! Sometime it took me like a minute to get the joke!
(Trying to be serious.)
If you knew Glenn, you were one of the very, very privileged few. He was a private guy, and although he had more friends than anyone I’ve ever met, he didn’t let just anybody in. But he was SO worth knowing! I mean, what a guy! Am I right? Every guy wanted to be Glenn Godiver and every girl wanted to get with Glenn. At least that’s what he would say!
(Laughs)
Naw, you couldn’t stay mad at that guy. At least I couldn’t. What a sweetie pie! He was as sweet as pie.
(Tries to chuck the photo under its chin. Presses a button on a remote and the pictures change to Marci & Glenn together or with groups of young people. Traveling, partying.)
There he is, right where he always wanted to be, the center of attention. He wouldn’t leave while the party was still going on! When I was going through my pictures I can’t tell you how many I found where there I was on the sofa asleep, waiting for Glenn to feel ready to go home. There’s one! Because while we were dating those six happy, happy months, I was always looking for some alone time. Not just face time, face-and-body time.
(Inappropriate picture, obviously sex. MARCI freezes on that picture)
Uh oh! How did THAT get here?
(Fake embarrassment. She zooms in on just the faces, which get a little blurry.)
That’s better! I mean, this is the family hour. Lots of little ankle biters wanting to pay tribute to Uncle Glenn, as well they should. As well they should. So where was I?
(Takes her jacket off and hangs it on the mike stand. Underneath a skimpy lace camisole)
Is it just me or is it getting hot in here?
(Comes to sit on the edge of the stage, making herself comfortable. Fake radio DJ voice)
I’m Yvette DaBomb – welcome to Pillowtalk. It’s dark outside, rain is falling and it looks like we’re locked in here together for the duration, so why don’t I show you all a good time?
(Tinny laughter)
Yeah, without Glenn the party will never be the same. I remember when we broke up – I broke up with him, contrary to the story I KNOW he was telling some people – it was all about issues. Trust issues. He used to say to me –
(bad Nicholson impression)
You can’t handle the truth! And I told him you’re the one who can’t handle the truth!
(Starting to get steamed)
Telling everyone you were looking for a nice girl so you could settle down, I mean, that wasn’t true, was it? He just wanted to see inside every pair of undies on the West Coast. And I mean, that’s OK! I say, God bless him! But don’t go around telling me who I can hug. Who I can text! Who I can talk to!
(Reining herself in.)
Oh, he had issues. But I liked him just the way he was. I accepted him. I think that’s what love is; you’ve got to accept people so they can accept themselves. But Glenn was a difficult person to satisfy. He was always looking – you know – for that next little “tweak”. There was always just something that needed fixing, something that could be better. “Added value”, he called it. Am I right? That’s why he was such a successful entrepreneur; he was always looking for ways to add value. Like he wouldn’t tell me my breasts were too small; he’d always say, “Look at these.” And he’d show me those pictures on his phone. I know the police said afterwards there were no pictures of breasts on his phone and of course we don’t want to remember him that way. But I know what I saw. Glenn was a “seeker”. Always searching for…something better.
When I got the implants he was so happy at first! 32B to a D is a big jump!!
(Cradles her breasts – shown off to good effect in the flimsy camisole.)
He was like a kid with a new toy, that’s for sure! He said he only wanted me to be admired, he wanted “the real Marci” to come on out. He would tell me some of you – don’t take this the wrong way – were saying behind my back that I wasn’t right for him. I have to say you guys were making it hard for me to be your friend what with all the back chat I was hearing.
(Works to calm herself)
Naturally I wanted to check his emails and his Facebook page after he was saying things like that! And we trusted each other with the passwords – in spite of what he probably told you – plus he always used his dog’s name – Welliver – as his password and you just don’t forget a thing like that. Imagine my shock when I found out those implants he had begged me to get and then to show off to his friends – were another point against me! “Not exactly wife material” people were saying! That kind of thing!! Yeah, I was upset at first and it led directly to our breakup.
I mean, he was setting me up! Am I right? He was setting me up to fail! Then I saw him doing that with other people he said he was “mentoring” (air quotes.) This is the hardest thing to admit about Glenn – that he acted like an asshole sometimes. Like his left hand wouldn’t see what his right hand was doing! I put it down to his competitive spirit. Just like Welliver – that dog never could resist using his teeth! Grrrr! Had to get his teeth around something!! I mean, he’s a dog! So when he plays, you expect him to play rough.
There I was stuck with this big bill! Not to mention getting a full Brazilian every two weeks – I mean was that for him or me? Oh, you don’t mind the pain, he tells me. You like it. I mean, why would you do this otherwise? Why would anyone?
I told him flat out, I’d do anything to please you. I admitted it. What’s it gonna take? You’ve got me, so tell me what to do. Glenn could be generous, but usually he was more generous after he’d been satisfied. You know what I’m saying. I mean the guy would give you the shirt off his back – he did give me the shirt off his back – of course I was naked at the time! (Laugh). He took my clothes! But he did have a way of dodging responsibility. First guy into the restaurant but when it came time to pay the check, I mean, where was he? Am I off course here? I felt he leaned just a little too hard on his friends, didn’t you? But we forgave him! He said to me, you can work it off. Clean my house and …other ways. Called me his little porn star! (More sex photos) Then he sold me that crappy car that never worked! But I still had to pay for it! I have to say that made me kind of uncomfortable. Goddess or porn star, Glenn, which is it? Oh, he was itching to make a porno! Said, we’re all going to make a million dollars! Doin’ what comes naturally!
I warned him, Glenn, if you do, the jury will come back against you! Everyone will know you’re not the saint you pretended to be. But he says to me, Marci, there are no male sluts. There’s female sluts and goodtime guys, that’s what and there’s no coming back from it. (Flips through the pictures in frustration, looking for a good one.) Not like breaking up made any difference because we couldn’t stay away from each other! We were combustible, all right. He always said he never came so hard with anyone else. Even jacking off! It was always me he wanted to think about.
So we forgave him! Didn’t we always? I know he was pulling these same stunts with other girls – you Jeannie and you Rebecca – he showed me your emails & texts. Bet you didn’t know about that! But who could say no to this guy? Look at that! (Zoom close-up of the photo) I mean, who could resist those eyes? Awwww! That’s what he seems to be saying. Awww! Make me! Ya gonna make me?
(Switches pictures)
I know we were all getting sick of THAT picture.This one was taken the day he died.
(Naked torso making the “strongman” gesture)
He was so proud of his body – as well he should have been. He was in the gym two hours a day turning ugly flab to rock hard muscle. Sweat is fat crying, that’s what he used to say! Oh, he used to slap my ass to get me going! Beat my ass until it hurt. Clocked me too, once, till I saw stars. I’m not saying I didn’t deserve it sometimes. We knew how to push each other’s buttons. He was easy to tease because he had this fake persona and he wouldn’t admit that he had. I mean, I had lost everything– put all my skin in the game – he made sure of that. I said, “I’m all in.” I was completely dependent – but he was still pretending he was free as air!
I forget whose idea it was to take these pictures.
(Several shower photos).
They’re good, right? I mean this could be an Old Spice ad! “Habit Rouge” is what I mean to say. That’s the stuff he liked. Called it his “hunting coat.” But he did need new photos for his page because he was so much better toned. He was bench pressing like 260 – he could lift me with one hand. I have a photo of that somewhere here.
(Shuffles through the photos – some of them are crime scene.)
How did THAT get there?
(Fake surprise.)
Oh, that’s right. I’m helping the police. It’s something only I can do, because I was closest to him. I was the last to see him alive.
(Puts on professorial glasses, takes out a laser pointer)
Look at this. Don’t you think there had to be at least two murderers? That’s the first thing I said to them. I mean, who could take advantage of this guy, he was so strong! I’m surprised they didn’t wait till he was asleep – you know, and vulnerable. But the police think the attack started right here in the bathroom. You can see there’s a shell casing from a 25 caliber there on the tiles. So she shot him, I guess. Or that guy did – you know, the people that broke in. Glenn was in trouble with lots of people he owed money to. He had all these sketchy roommates and then there were the thousands of girls he’s disappointed! Looking for a wife!
(snorts in disbelief)
What a line! “The perfect girl to share a family and kids. Happily ever after. You know, he said that after death families are raised up together and come together in heaven. I don’t know who he’s with now, though, since he spread himself so thin. He did have a rough upbringing you probably all remember – he talked about it enough. Inspirational, that’s what it was. But he couldn’t get away from that family fast enough.
Who knows? I’d really like to know how heaven works. Maybe you get to select your own company. Bring anyone you want! That must be where he is, don’t you think? Because he suffered when he died. Heaven’s the right place for those who die young. He didn’t get the chance to do the really terrible things – you know those things the living regret, those things we can’t take back or ever undo.
But the first shot didn’t kill him – you can see here where he went and stood over the sink, probably trying to figure out what had happened. You’ve got to ask yourself, what did he see, there, looking in the mirror? A guy whose pretty face was shot away? The police are being real boneheads about this, saying the shot came last! I mean, I wasn’t there, but ask yourself, what kind of sense does THAT make? Who breaks into a house to attack a guy in a shower with a knife? It’s just the stupidest thing that I can think of. But have it your way, Officer Malarkey.
(Rolls her eyes.)
You’re the professional! State-sponsored. servant! Twenty years of crime scene reconstruction! I’m just a girl who loved the victim, who lived there and cleaned the place and picked up after the owner! Naturally my DNA is everywhere. I cleaned up the dog poop too, if Glenn was too lazy to walk Welliver. Dogs need walking twice a day! Right! But I couldn’t be there every minute! I mean, I had a life, too! I have bills to pay! I had to work! I was trying to have a life too! I even joined Linkups because I said, if you can date, I can date. You know what he said? He said, “I’m not comfortable with that.”
(Mimics Glenn)
He made damn sure I texted those guys I wasn’t coming! “My ex isn’t comfortable with that!” Then I asked him, so when are you going to GET comfortable with that? Don’t I deserve a little hottie of my own? Somebody taking care of me? How many girls does one guy get?
“When I get married” he said. “You can be bridesmaid at my wedding! I’ve got my eye on the perfect girl – she’s saying no right now” – he meant you, Kira – “but I’m the guy that turns No into Yes.” And he was, wasn’t he! He so often was. That was his rep, all right. He always knew how to change your mind and make you want it, that thing you said you would never do. He kept digging till he got what he was after.
He asked me, “what am I doing wrong with Kira? How should I play this? She says she only wants me for a friend!”
I did wonder if he’d met his match. What do they call that – the Murphy effect? If you leave every territory after you’re finished with it, looking for new fields to conquer, I mean, eventually you’re going to fall off a cliff! Am I right? Pissarro and Cortez and all those guys! Stepped off the world! Right into a pile of skulls.
He probably would have made you marry him Kira, whether you wanted to or not! You’d wake up the morning after, asking, “What just happened?” I say you dodged a bullet! But nobody dodges every bullet and not in a tiny enclosed space like that shower. Got him right in the jaw till he was spitting out teeth. They say those low caliber bullets ricochet around in a person’s head. I mean, this one bounced right off his skull! Under the skin. He has hardheaded, was Glenn! Proud of that hardheadedness, too!
(Raps on her own skull.)
Don’t be such a pussy, he used to tell me! You gotta be all business if you plan to get things done! The police say those low caliber bullets are the choice of mobsters. You know, mob hits. “Execution style!” I told them, “Look for bill collectors. He was having trouble hanging onto his house and blaming me cause my credit was in the toilet and he had to hire the moving van for my stuff.” But Officer Numnutz says, doesn’t your grandfather have a .25 that’s gone missing? I mean, WHAT kind of relevance can that possibly have? My grandfather can’t find his own teeth! Everyone has guns, especially around here. And people gravitate to the little, light ones. “Concealed carry.” But I’ve never even SHOT a gun. So don’t look at me!
So Numnutz says – I’m sorry, Officer Mendez, I see you over there but if you can’t tell the truth in a eulogy then where can you tell it? He says to me, Look where the guy ran down the hall. Follow the blood trail. So Glenn’s getting away and they came after him with knives. These are the defensive wounds – here and here – where Glenn grabbed onto the knife for a moment and held it. They’re slippery, those things, with the blood flying everywhere.
Here’s where they gave him the “coup de grace”. Slit his throat. I mean, probably, judging from the blood pool.
(Acknowledges audience gasps)
I mean, GROSS right? That’s what I said! Heinous stuff! So here –
(blurry photo of sock clad foot and bloody shoulder)
Here’s where she dragged him back to the shower. Now why would she do that, Officer Mendez asks me. Maybe she was trying to revive him, Officer Bananas, if that’s really your name. Trying to wash off all that blood. Forgive me if I can’t remember every little detail about everything. I’ve got stuff on my mind. I mean, my best friend just died! Died at the peak of his life! So how do I know what murderers would do?
Maybe he hit her. Maybe it was self-defense.
(Picture of Glenn working a punching bag)
You know, hit out at her and she was just defending herself. Like I tried to tell you, he was really strong. He owned guns too. Unregistered ones. Proud of that. I know I saw one somewhere. And he had to use a knife to cut the rope when he tied me to the bed. Oh, didn’t I tell you about that? I thought I did – it was all about that porno he wanted to make. He first wanted to shoot it in the woods. That was his big idea. Or maybe on the hood of a car in rush hour traffic! Impossible to reason with the guy. Shake some sense into him! What about the looky-lous! They’ll know about you, about us! What about Kira! What will she say? She’ll drop you like a hot potato. The cops say “everybody has an alibi”. Well duh! I was miles away! But do you think the people who – I mean the people who did this if it wasn’t professional – would even remember? I mean, you’d want to forget a thing like this as fast as you could, wouldn’t you? If you loved the guy? And everyone loved him. He was the sweetest, most thoughtful, most generous guy who ever lived.
(Fumbles with papers on the lectern, starts to cry)
Can we get an appletini up here? That’s what he always ordered for me. Appletinis. He said, “I like the smell.”
I miss him. We had so many plans. We were going to walk the Freedom Trail. Together. Before we die. We swore a blood oath. Everyone says that it’s fantastic, that you come back from that trip a different person.
OK. I see you asking me to wrap things up. To cut it short (throat slitting gesture) I’m getting the hook! Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it. That’s what Glenn used to say he loved most about me, that I knew how to laugh at myself. Before I go I wanted to lead us in a song. (Quavering voice) If you get to heaven before I do
Coming for to carry me home – come on everybody, you know this one! Tell all my friends I’m a-coming after you! Coming for to carry me home! Swing low – sweet chariot –
Alysse Aallyn 