There had been a seed in his nose. It blew in there across the Mediterranean, that mysterious cauldron of dancing, singing philosophers. Benny was looking out from a restaurant patio, having a whole bowl of hummus to himself when the seed lodged itself there. Oh, there, I say with certainty.
When the seed had landed, Benny complained of a nose-ache. He got those when he tried to sing too loudly, so no one paid him any attention. We actually called him a liar. I slapped him.
The next day, he died.
The undertaker was a handsome, lithe young man named Takis. When he saw Benny's body, he said, "Oy vey!" which surprised us, and then he rubbed his hands together-a habit he acquired from watching old Western films. We asked if it would cost very much, and he said it would. We told him we would do anything for Benny. When he quoted the price, even though we had a poor understanding of Greek currency, our "anything" reached out to include hauling his fetid corpse to a nice, out-of-the-way funeral home in Corfu.
Before we knew it, the service was upon us. This was the worst marching band trip ever! A woman was weeping over the body. I think her name was Fran, but none of us had ever seen her. She rode in our bus, but she was not an LSU alum. Instead of a horn she had a cat. She kept petting it and praying, but these antics did little to amuse or enlighten us. This woman, with her foul moussaka breath, asked Benny's body if it hurt to die, as we held in our laughter and mocked her accent with cartoonish, slavic emotion.
"I don't think he knows, Fran," I said to her. But she gave me such a look, such a look of brooding intensity, that I thought for sure, and still believe to this day, that her name was not Fran.
In the pews we played our games: the older men played whist, the younger ones played Yahtzee, and a few middle-aged people played Battleship. I pitied them. I pitied everyone at this wake for Benny, who got the seed of the Mediterranean in his nose and passed away with a sack of licorice in his hand. He was the real God here, not whatever God the minister was talking about.
I tried to tell my beliefs to a bag lady who was keeping warm in the church, but she wouldn't hear of it. "Some Greek jibberish," she kept repeating. I grew sick of this woman and it showed on my face. After ten minutes of giving her a stern facial expression, I began to doubt her sanity; so I started mouthing her own words back at her, closing my eyes for extended periods of time and, finally, reaching out to touch her and pretending like her skin electrocuted me. This only increased the drivel I had to listen to, so I put my hat over my face and wove my fingers together on my stomach. I could never fall asleep this way, but it really sends the message no matter what country you are from.
The next morning we all tried to find our inspiration in the Greek muses. After all, we had to perform that afternoon-and we could not let a trifle like Benny's death hamper our brassy excellence. Jan, who dressed in fabrics meant for cheap furniture, raised her voice: "Let's do this one for Benny."
Several people asked who Benny was, because they had been at Greek nightclubs during the entire episode of his death and funeral. I explained to them all that Benny was some guy who hated marching band and would have wanted to stage a massive blunder for this concert, such as giving everyone different sheet music. They all agreed that this was hilarious, but since everyone knew about it the joke was now lost to the ages. We were all greatly moved by this ingenious prank Benny might have orchestrated if he were alive.
We played "The Star-Spangled Banner" and I think the Greeks hated us for it. Their culture and their poorly kept streets are not attuned to the American marching band. Some of us had to push against our own ranks when yet another random fruit stand appeared, its keeper staring at us in mute horror. The patriotic song probably came off as loud and arrogant, much like the prevailing attitude when it was written.
On the bus ride back to the hotel I leaned over and asked our band-leader why the Hell we came here to perpetrate the farce that just happened. He said it was all part of the programs and whatnot. It was a very half-hearted answer, what with his eyes being closed and his hands pushing me away from him and all: however, I saw the truth then and there. We are all living and doing in this crazy world, knowing that it is humiliating, pointless, or very annoying to everyone else around us. And "eventually," as the philosophers say, we have to sit through the same thing from someone else. I guess no one can live long enough to make a strong case for change.
As I finished my gyro and fell asleep I thought of Benny curled up in his modest Greek coffin, sitting upright in a forced posture; and I wanted to get the Hell home where an American man can lie down when he dies. I also wondered who was going to tell Benny's parents about his death, and his subsequent interment in the Greek countryside.
When the seed had landed, Benny complained of a nose-ache. He got those when he tried to sing too loudly, so no one paid him any attention. We actually called him a liar. I slapped him.
The next day, he died.
The undertaker was a handsome, lithe young man named Takis. When he saw Benny's body, he said, "Oy vey!" which surprised us, and then he rubbed his hands together-a habit he acquired from watching old Western films. We asked if it would cost very much, and he said it would. We told him we would do anything for Benny. When he quoted the price, even though we had a poor understanding of Greek currency, our "anything" reached out to include hauling his fetid corpse to a nice, out-of-the-way funeral home in Corfu.
Before we knew it, the service was upon us. This was the worst marching band trip ever! A woman was weeping over the body. I think her name was Fran, but none of us had ever seen her. She rode in our bus, but she was not an LSU alum. Instead of a horn she had a cat. She kept petting it and praying, but these antics did little to amuse or enlighten us. This woman, with her foul moussaka breath, asked Benny's body if it hurt to die, as we held in our laughter and mocked her accent with cartoonish, slavic emotion.
"I don't think he knows, Fran," I said to her. But she gave me such a look, such a look of brooding intensity, that I thought for sure, and still believe to this day, that her name was not Fran.
In the pews we played our games: the older men played whist, the younger ones played Yahtzee, and a few middle-aged people played Battleship. I pitied them. I pitied everyone at this wake for Benny, who got the seed of the Mediterranean in his nose and passed away with a sack of licorice in his hand. He was the real God here, not whatever God the minister was talking about.
I tried to tell my beliefs to a bag lady who was keeping warm in the church, but she wouldn't hear of it. "Some Greek jibberish," she kept repeating. I grew sick of this woman and it showed on my face. After ten minutes of giving her a stern facial expression, I began to doubt her sanity; so I started mouthing her own words back at her, closing my eyes for extended periods of time and, finally, reaching out to touch her and pretending like her skin electrocuted me. This only increased the drivel I had to listen to, so I put my hat over my face and wove my fingers together on my stomach. I could never fall asleep this way, but it really sends the message no matter what country you are from.
The next morning we all tried to find our inspiration in the Greek muses. After all, we had to perform that afternoon-and we could not let a trifle like Benny's death hamper our brassy excellence. Jan, who dressed in fabrics meant for cheap furniture, raised her voice: "Let's do this one for Benny."
Several people asked who Benny was, because they had been at Greek nightclubs during the entire episode of his death and funeral. I explained to them all that Benny was some guy who hated marching band and would have wanted to stage a massive blunder for this concert, such as giving everyone different sheet music. They all agreed that this was hilarious, but since everyone knew about it the joke was now lost to the ages. We were all greatly moved by this ingenious prank Benny might have orchestrated if he were alive.
We played "The Star-Spangled Banner" and I think the Greeks hated us for it. Their culture and their poorly kept streets are not attuned to the American marching band. Some of us had to push against our own ranks when yet another random fruit stand appeared, its keeper staring at us in mute horror. The patriotic song probably came off as loud and arrogant, much like the prevailing attitude when it was written.
On the bus ride back to the hotel I leaned over and asked our band-leader why the Hell we came here to perpetrate the farce that just happened. He said it was all part of the programs and whatnot. It was a very half-hearted answer, what with his eyes being closed and his hands pushing me away from him and all: however, I saw the truth then and there. We are all living and doing in this crazy world, knowing that it is humiliating, pointless, or very annoying to everyone else around us. And "eventually," as the philosophers say, we have to sit through the same thing from someone else. I guess no one can live long enough to make a strong case for change.
As I finished my gyro and fell asleep I thought of Benny curled up in his modest Greek coffin, sitting upright in a forced posture; and I wanted to get the Hell home where an American man can lie down when he dies. I also wondered who was going to tell Benny's parents about his death, and his subsequent interment in the Greek countryside.