Suitable For Framing
My friend Jon, the autoharp player, had cancer. There had been treatment. There wasn't going to be a cure. He had time to come to grips with it, a gift that isn't given to everyone. And we were no longer young. Another friend invited him to move into the empty attic room in his house, where he could have a support team as he declined. Jon packed up his household and put his belongings into storage. After a time, a heated storage unit became available, which is an important upgrade in our climate. So Jon asked a number of us to help him relocate his belongings.
So there we are, a gaggle of grey-bearded folk musicians wearing rock'n'roll clothes, meeting at the storage yard with our hand trucks and our back liniment and a beer or six. And Jon explained his plan. He didn't want to inflict all the hassle of sorting through all his collected papers on his daughter, so he wanted us to separate out the household goods and move that stuff to the heated unit, and load up a pickup truck with all the pictures and photo albums and notebooks and songbooks and old newspaper articles and obsolete bank statements and birth certificates and insurance records and old check stubs, to take home so that he could sort the wheat from the chaff and leave a tidy legacy. So we attacked the piles of boxes.
Now, here we are, a bunch of nosy old geezers with carte blanche to open and peer into and investigate every little corner of Jon's life, box by box. And, all being friends, rub his nose into everything we found. It was a great day. Lots of oh-mi-god-look-at-this! and what-the-hell-is-that? and oh-shit-guys-look-what-he's-got! And lots of reminiscing and schmoozing, and also some actual carrying and stacking of boxes in their new home. Also some redistribution of wealth, as Jon from time to time spotted something appropriate for one or another of us.
At one point, Jon picked up a smallish box, saw what was written on the side, and handed it to me, saying, "Oh. You need this." Nondescript, with the words Clown Suit scribbled on the side in barely legible pencil. I took it home.
We put the boxes away, went out for pizza and beer, told more stories, and wished we hadn't met for such a sad underlying reason.
Some time earlier, we had staged a memorial event for Jon, while he could still attend it, at the Old World Deli, an important social center for our musical community. Everybody played and sang, decades of intertwined talent, a moving and fitting tribute to one of our own. It wasn't all sad songs, either.
And, inevitably, we met again at the Deli after his passing, with many more relatives and family members attending. The songs were sadder.
As is typically done, there was an open mike session for folks to reminisce. After most of the family and closest friends had spoken, I went to the mike. With the box. And I related the same story of poking around in Jon's life that I just told here, and said that I hadn't opened the box, and didn't know what was in it, but that I knew we would be having this sad occasion sooner or later, and had just saved the box to share with everyone. I didn't know what was in the box, but I had a guess, and no one else did. Everyone's attention was captured, and interest was high.
I opened the box. And found a tacky driver's cap, and put that on. Found a gaudy vest and shrugged into it. Pulled out a very ugly wig, took the cap off, doffed the wig, put the cap back on. Some puzzlement in the crowd beginning to be evident. Pulled out and shook the wrinkles out of a full-length sort of blue and white polka dotted set of baggy overalls, looked puzzled myself, draped it from one shoulder rather than take the time to climb into it. Puzzlement is trending into open amusement. Then pulled out one of those giant red plastic shoes that slip over your own shoe. Now it's open laughter. Struggle into the shoe. Find a gaudy over-sized belt and strap it on. A floppy wrap-around collar, drape it on my neck. The other shoe. Struggle into it. And finally, the obligatory red sponge nose. Show that the box is empty. Wait for the laughs to die down some.
I went back to the mike and said, "Well, I guess there was a side to Jon that maybe we didn't all know about." More laughter. Then I said, " And I can't even guess why he decided to give this box to me." More laughs, and cheers. And I made my exit. The next guy up to speak said, "Tough act to follow."
I believe that every single one of Jon's relatives came and thanked me heartily for the presentation, and for making it more of a cheerful occasion than it might otherwise have been. His daughter in particular said that she loved it, had no idea he'd ever had or worn a clown outfit, but that it fit perfectly with her memories of him.
One single friend of Jon's and mine, after things settled down some, told me that he recognized the box, knew what was about to happen, and had to bite his tongue to keep from busting up and spoiling the effect. For everyone else, it was a complete surprise.
That outfit is still in that box in my closet.
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