Panorama

It made no sense. There I was … I’m walking down the street with a bag of groceries, trying to figure out how to come up with the rent, and I see her across the avenue. She sees me and waves. I was dumbfounded. I had run into her at least a half dozen times that week … in the supermarket, at the laundromat, on the street … and I always acknowledged her. A nod, a smile … we were neighbors, after all. Sometimes she would stare back, but with no comprehension, no recognition what so ever. Like I was invading her precious space or something. Other times she would nod, ever so slightly, but with no change in her facial expression. I had vowed more than once to dispense with the salutations, but it’s not in my nature. We would come upon each other so suddenly; I never could accord her the appropriate response. My face would light up, she’d look right through me, and I ‘d regret my reflex reaction. And that’s how it was between us for almost a year. Too bad … she made such an impression on me it was difficult to ignore her presence.

That’s why I couldn’t figure it out. I was looking across the avenue and she was smiling and waving enthusiastically. I almost dropped my groceries. I looked behind me to see if she was beckoning to someone else, a distinct possibility, but no, it was me.

I don’t remember making the decision to cross the avenue. All I recall is the truck bearing down on me and the strident horn blaring, serenading my transition to the afterlife. I didn’t feel any pain; on the contrary, I was filled with such an overwhelming exaltation that I was afraid my body couldn’t bear it. My fears were groundless because there was my body sprawled halfway beneath the truck, motionless; the groceries comprising the ingredients of that night’s dinner encircling my head like a halo. I knew immediately what had transpired.

My main concern was for the driver. I could feel his pain and disorientation so intensely that it became my own. I was hovering now and the scene below unfolded before me much like an overhead crane shot in the movies, complete with Surround Sound and Dolby Noise Reduction. I heard cries of “Oh, no” and “Oh, my God“ and “Call 911” as I watched the driver leap from the cab and inspect the grizzly tableau he had had such a sudden and reluctant hand in crafting. The truth be told, it wasn’t that grizzly. Not a lot of blood, surprisingly. The driver wasn’t so detached. When he realized I was a goner, he turned and collapsed his head in his arms across the hood of the cab and began sobbing. Like a remote controlled move camera, I zoomed down about his shoulders and tried my best to console him. It was futile.

Even though I felt more expressively tuned in than I ever remember, my ability to affect reality, as we know it, was gone. What a waste. When we are alive and possess the ability to have a direct impact on those around us, we avoid it. We shy away from their humanity and involve ourselves with goals and agendas to perpetuate our own grandeur. Here was this truck driver, a man I might never have had the opportunity to engage, except maybe to flip the bird to on a highway somewhere, and I no longer had use of the tools to communicate with him. Only now could I feel his humanity, having shed my own.

A slow dissolve back to the overhead crane … people are running toward the body. I recognize some of them … casual friends, neighbors, shopkeepers and … the Ice Princess. She pushes herself past the curious and the concerned, kneels over my carcass, and commences to wail … “Sid … Sid … Oh, no … Oh my God … Sid!” It was heart wrenching; and also a bit shocking because my name is Sal, as in Salvatore. But how did she know enough to come that close? I didn’t think she knew I existed. When the emergency personnel arrived she was at them constantly, “Please, please … isn’t there anything you can do?” “He’s gone, lady. What am I gonna do?” replied one medic who had exceeded his call quota that day. “Are you his wife?” Her eyes searched the heavens for guidance; then softly, “It was my dream.” The gall!

My funeral was a hoot. Mom was there, adding this latest burden to her resume for martyrdom. So were a couple of ex-girlfriends, Gail and Linda. Gail showed with her current beau, who fidgeted nervously while I was being eulogized ad nauseum by his ladylove. She went on about my character, my loyalty, my dedication, and my capacity for loving. If I had known any of this while I was breathing, she might not have been an ex. Linda had a curious take on reality. She offered a cherished memory in such a weepy, dulcet manner that it tore our hearts in twain. It seems she was happiest when we were lying in bed together, eating ice cream and singing show tunes and laughing and … her voice broke off and she sobbed sweetly and discretely. It was truly touching and genuine, no doubt, except for one detail. It never happened. I despise show tunes, have no tolerance for ice cream, and no memory of us even smiling in bed together. Where did they come up with this stuff?

Jack said I was a “good guy” and that I threw a mean curveball. He even went on to describe how it would break down just off the plate and away from right-handed batters. I was flattered, but I couldn’t throw a curve to save my life. I even tried shouting from the chapel rafters, “Fastball, Jack … I threw a fastball,” but the error stood and was entered into the record.

I wondered if my father felt just as disconcerted during his funeral, or if he even attended it. I was becoming increasingly frustrated by these erroneous accounts of my being, when Uncle Vito cut a fart on his way to the podium and eased the tension, for me at least. “Good kid … love him … miss him.” And out. Thank you, Uncle Vito.

Just when it seemed that all was said, and the coughing and shuffling augured a timely exit, a slender, shadowy figure in black emerged from the rear of the chapel and deliberately made her way to the podium. All fell silent, their curiosity piqued. It was HER! The girl I loved in solitude and lost in passing. She allowed the black scarf encircling her head to fall about her shoulders and reveal her glorious flaxen hair. She took a moment to scan their faces, one by one it seemed. She had the house and she knew it. The air was hushed with expectancy as she raised her head slightly, parted those lovely pouting lips, and delivered thusly. “My relationship with Sal was a very spiritual one.”

You could hear a pin drop. Oh, where was Uncle Vito now? “Sal …Sal … I know you can hear me.” At least she got the name right. “For so long we spoke with looks and gestures and with our hearts. Yes, always with our hearts. We were silent lovers in a cold, uncaring world, but we have survived that. You are as close to me now as ever.”

Whose funeral was this? I didn’t know this Sal; this loyal, loving, dedicated, ice cream slurping, show tune squealing, curveball slinging, soul mate of a man. Who were these people I spent my precious time on earth with, all striving to know me in retrospect? They were ridiculous. I looked down at them now, huddled together like scared, confused children, and I had to laugh. If they only knew how feeble they sounded in their futile efforts to sum me up; feeble and pathetic.

And then came the LIGHT! Like a gentle flash of lightening it filled me with awe and compassion. I could see it all and my heart was overflowing. Yes, I loved these people; these noble creatures that endeavored to make sense of their lives without a clear understanding of what it was all about. These wonderful beings who, though dealing with their own fears and uncertainties, tend to their fallen and honor their dead. These glorious children of grace. And I had been one of them. I loved us all with an indescribable joy.

It was then that the scene below me began to fade in the distance as I zoomed back to an eternity of warmth and light; the ultimate crane shot. I understood more than I ever knew possible … and I understood exactly where I was going. I had an appointment to keep. Seeing my father’s welcoming smile set off a wave of childlike enthusiasm and I blurted out, “Hey Dad, guess what? I made it!”

© 1996 by John Cannatella