My first submission:
The Script
Sitting on my mother’s bed, putting on these fancy black socks, I look out the window and see my friend’s car here to pick me up. This is the opening credits. This is where that list of names pops up.
The reason for the fancy socks and her picking me up is a funeral. This is the setup, the plot. This is the premise. This is what the events revolve around. This is what everyone pays attention to. Our friend’s brother tragically died in his sleep a few days ago, on his birthday. My friend and I were going to the funeral to support the deceased’s brother.
Socks pulled ankle-height, black shoes tied and shiny, I look at myself in a full-length mirror and deem myself ready for the funeral service. I walk out the door, and the heat hits me like a brick. It’s far too humid for this suit, but it’s the proper attire. It’s costume design.
I get in the car. As we drive to the funeral home, I look out at the verdancy of late spring flying by. We make small talk. You don’t really know what to say when you’re on your way to a funeral.
“Do you think you’re going to cry?” she asks me.
“I don’t think so. I mean, I have never met him,” I respond. I never knew the boy that died. My presence at the funeral was supposed to be a sign of solidarity with the brother of the deceased.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s kind of sad: I cry more when I watch a movie than in real life.”
“You know, you’re right. I think I’m the same way. Except I can’t remember the last time I cried at all. I’m a wall. I’m stone cold.”
We reach the funeral home. As we walk through the door I took in my surroundings: fake plants, uncomfortable chairs, cheap wallpaper. This is the set. I’m standing in the crowded hall, at the tail end of this snaking line that leads to a dead body, around a bunch of people I don’t know. That’s understandable though—the deceased went to another school than I, and was two years younger. Anyways, these people I don’t know—they’re the cast, the extras. They’re everyone looming in the background, filling in the frame. All these people stand around, some quiet, some awkwardly laughing with their friends. They try not to seem too happy. I don’t hold any ill will against these kids though, because they’re too young to be familiar with funeral protocol. Around me, jumpstart conversations pop into the air and fizzle out like hushed fireworks. You don’t really know what to say when you’re at a funeral.
The snaking line moves with relative rapidity, taking me through fake room after fake room. Looking at the funeral home, at all these fake surroundings, it’s like they are trying to convince me that someone really lives here when there isn’t a casket present. As if some wholesome all-American sitcom family like the Tanners or the Bradys usually occupies these halls, but they’re out getting ice cream or catching a ballgame.
I get off that looping roller coaster of a line when it reaches its resolution. Before me is the family of the deceased: mother, father, and brother. The main characters. The leads. This is the first time I’ve met the parents, and already I have to tell them how sorry I am about the death of their youngest son. How’s that for an icebreaker?
I take my place in the back of the room. It’s standing room only—sold out. Relatives of the deceased start to talk about him as the funeral proceedings begin. I hear how this boy, who died too young, was a beautiful person, a lover of his family, and a future jazz legend. If you ever want to feel like a waste of life, go to as many funerals as possible. You’ll hear of how a fifteen-year-old filled his shortened life with love, and you’ll wonder why it’s taken you so long to get your shit together.
Consisting of the deceased’s grandfather talking to the crowd gathered, Act One concludes. His grandfather, during his oration, chose to garner laughs and focus on the good times, rather than the sad. Next, it is the deceased’s brother’s turn to honor memories publicly. Instead of talking at length, the brother, an aspiring musician himself, chose to perform an old jazz number on guitar accompanied by trumpet. The trumpet’s wailing note matched perfectly the interior feeling of most gathered. I could practically see that song seeping floating and seeping across the room like a cold mist. It sent a cold shiver down my spine. A chilling, moving soundtrack.
That’s when it started. My throat constricted. I felt a pressure in my face. Imagine a dam about to burst. Imagine all those people sitting on the Berlin Wall, trying to break it down with their bare hands. That is me. That cold mist of a song still floating through the air, my eyes begin to fill with tears. Slowly but surely, drip by drip, tears begin to flow onto my face. From there, I let them drip onto the hotel-print carpet. I don’t want to stop them. I am proud of this show of emotion. I wipe my eyes and look around. I look to the immediate family: tears, just like mine, have made tracks all down their cheeks. But then it hits me: their tears aren’t just like mine.
To them, this is real.
This is their son and brother.
But to me, this isn’t real.
Even though this is really happening, and I’m really here, to me this is as real as Gone With the Wind. My tears are just conditional. Pavlov’s dog. I’m trained. Cause-and-effect. But I didn’t cry at my uncle’s funeral. For me, 9/11 was just another television show. I didn't feel a thing when my great-grandpa died.
To me, this is just another movie.
I’ve never
really
cried.
-Alec Moran
This is the end. This is the end credits.
Now leave your seats,
and have a nice day.
