While planning the arrangements, I told the funeral director that, at some point during my grandfather’s funeral, I wanted to get up and say a few words.
“How many words?” he snapped.
“Just a few.”
“A few is like five. So five?”
“More than five.”
“So several words?
“Yes.”
“Several is like ten. So ten?”
“More than ten.”
“Many words then. You want to say many words?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“A bunch!” I barked.
“Sir, these services are on a tight schedule. We usually have several events lined up and any delays will disrupt the flow of that schedule. That’s why I need an exact number.”
“Okay, just 3 words then: go fuck ya’self.”
And that’s when we left the funeral home and decided to have a home funeral instead. Tía Maria told me I was going to burn in hell for telling the funeral director to go fuck himself but he’s not a man of the cloth. He’s just a bloodsucker. We saved a fortune having the service at my grandma’s house, and it was more meaningful because it’s the house I grew up in. My parents died in a plane crash when I was a kid (they weren’t on the flight; they were on the ground and a plane fell on them) and I was raised by my mom’s parents Lalo and Ernestina, who went by cute little grandparent nicknames like in most families. Grandma was Nanabandana and grandpa was Papachangocomochinga. Nana and Papa for short.
I probably would have been a momma’s boy growing up but I was a grandma’s boy instead. I had a t-shirt that said “My grandma gives the best hugs!” and I wore it all the time, even on my first day of school. Bobby Dugger beat me up and sent me home with a revised shirt that read “My grandma gives the best hugs HEAD!” Papa got drunk and went to Bobby’s house and punched his dad in the throat. Yes, he was prone to violence but he also had a soft side. He used to pray with me before I went to bed, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and then he would lull me to sleep with sweet lullabies. I can still hear his phlegmy voice reciting my favorite nursery rhyme: “Hay viene mi suegra bajando la loma, se piso la chichi y hecho una maroma!” Which means “Here comes my mother-in-law coming down the hill. She tripped on her tit and did a somersault.” Of course it doesn’t rhyme in English but translations rarely do. The point is, the old guy was my role model. Then he started gambling and drinking way too much, and that’s when he became my hero.
There were many late evenings when Nana and I had to drive to the local bar to pick him up. She would send me in to get him. One night, the bar was busier and smokier than usual because a crowd had gathered to watch Papa play cards.
“Eights?!” he bellowed, drunk off his rocker. “Go fish, you fool!”
The crowd went crazy.
“Papa,” I interrupted. “It’s time to go home.”
“Not tonight, mijo. Papa’s on a roll!”
“Nana said.”
“You wanna eat, right? You like wearing them fancy clothes, don’tcha?”
I was in my secondhand PJs. “We’re poor, Papa.”
“Not anymore. Papa’s got a brand new bag.”
“Playing cards?”
“Ever heard the saying, ‘Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day, but teach him to win at Go Fish, and you feed him for life!’
“No.”
“Well, hop on Papa’s lap and I’ll show you.”
Nana fell asleep in the car listening to rancheras on the radio. By the time we came out, Papa had lost all of his money and the car battery was dead. We walked back and Nana read him the riot act all the way home, but he was defiant. “There’s a Go Fish tournament in two weeks. High stakes. I’m going to win that sumbitch.”
“Over my dead body!”
Two weeks later, he lost our life savings, aka, the entry fee: $200. Nana kicked him out of the house and they were separated for a few months. I was so upset with my family I ran away and joined the circus. After my first night under the big tent, I woke up and the circus was gone. I must be the only runaway the circus ran away from, so I came back home and my Nana beat my ass. It was great to be back.
When my Papa finally returned it was with good news and bad news. The good news was he was sober and no longer gambling, the bad news was he was a brown-faced liar. He would keep beers at the neighbor’s house and sneak away at every opportunity; and when Nana went to bingo, we would spend every minute of that time practicing Go Fish strategy. There was another big tournament coming up and he was dead set on winning. The grand prize was $10K and he wanted to win it for Nana, take her on a nice trip.
“You never take me anywhere,” she would always say.
“With what money?”
“My brother’s broke and he still took Maria to the Caribbean.”
“It was Haiti. They almost died five times.”
“But it was something!”
He didn’t win the big prize but he did place third and he took home a big screen TV. “Now you can go anywhere you want, Nana. Every channel is another world.” She sold it and used the money to pay bills and reopen our savings account.
Years later, when I turned 21, I got drunk with Papa and we talked all night about nothing and everything. When we broached the subject of death, I asked him if he wished to be buried or cremated and he said, “Both. I wanna be cremated and have my ashes scattered inside of a coffin to be buried at sea in a Viking funeral where they burn the boat and everything in it. That way I’m well-done when I get to the afterlife.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in heaven and hell anymore.”
“I don’t believe in God and Jesus and miracles, but I do believe in the afterlife. Every good party has an after party.”
We had a similar conversation on his deathbed, almost twenty years to the day. Suddenly he believed in God again and we were praying together, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and I told him afterward, “I’ll see you at the afterparty?”
“You’re too young to be thinking about that. The real party is right now, mijo.”
“It’s never too early.” I showed him my cell phone. “I already have my funeral playlist ready to go. Just push play and start mourning.”
“I need a playlist,” he said so I grabbed his cell phone.
“Papa, you’ve had this phone for two years and it’s still asking if you want to finish setting it up.”
“Too late now.” He started weeping and it was the first time I had seen him cry. I grabbed his hand. It wasn’t soft the way an old man’s hand should be long after retirement, because he never stopped working. He had still been out in the fields a few weeks before so his hands were coarse to the touch and swollen from arthritis.
“It’s never too late.” I finished setting up his phone. “See? You’re all set. Now what’s the first song you want on your playlist?”
He wiped away his tears and gave it some thought. “The first time I saw your grandma was at the drugstore on Main. The radio was playing.”
Right then, Nana returned from the market and when she appeared in the doorway, she locked eyes with Papa. That put a smile on both of their faces, and I like to think that they were momentarily transported to that day at the drugstore on Main because it was so eerily quiet for a good spell. That’s when I broke down, the way I’m doing now, after I said I wouldn’t. Anyway, we love you, Papa. Rest in peace. Thanks for coming, everybody, and for letting me say a few words.