
Stewie Schwartz had died, so I put on my cheap, double-breasted J.C. Penny suit and went to his funeral. When I showed up, the coffin wasn't there, not to mention Stewie.
What had happened was that Stewie was late for his own funeral; the body hadn't been signed in from the funeral parlor. While we waited, I looked down into his empty grave. The dirt from the six foot by two foot hole was piled alongside it.
Stewie was a friend of eighteen years. I'd met him through a camping group I had married into. He was a simple guy who everyone loved, and he knew a lot about movies. And crime.
On my first true crime book, Doctors From Hell, Stewie supplied me with information on Dr. Emmanuel Revici, a quack of a physician who was profiled in one of the chapters. Stewie knew about him through another friend of his, and didn't hesitate to share the information with me.
Later on, when I wrote
Chameleon, he knew -- I never asked him how -- of the major drug dealer profiled in the book. He probably was a true crime aficionado, even though he would have trouble spelling the word.
Finally the coffin arrived and then the fun started. I knew something was up because the rabbi was wearing a straw hat. I'd never seen a rabbi in a straw hat. He watched as the cemetery workers struggled to climb the mound of dirt and place the coffin in the grave. After he began the service, a gust of wind came up and blew his straw hat right off and into the grave. Without breaking stride, he handed the person closest to the hat a shovel and asked him to get it out of the grave.
That, of course, was me.
The hat was stuck between the coffin and the side of the grave. Maneuvering the shovel, I struggled to get a hold of it. I sweated, pushing and pulling, trying mightily to get the hat out of the grave. It wouldn't come... I thought of jumping in on top of the coffin and just picking it up, but this was my friend and I wasn't Indiana Jones. Finally, I managed to shovel the hat out and handed it back to the rabbi. Surreal doesn't quite describe the moment.
Minutes later, people spoke about Stewie in eloquent terms and then it was time to shovel the dirt in over our friend's coffin. As that was happening I looked down at the coffin, just as a spray of dirt was hitting the Star of David in the middle of the lid. Under the star were two band-aids.
This was getting even weirder.
"What are the band-aids for?" I asked my wife. "In case he was a boo boo in the afterlife?!"
My wife explained that when they used to go camping, they skinny-dipped. One of the women, Beth, used to put band-aids on her nipples so they wouldn't get sun-burned. Stewie always got a kick out of that. She had slipped the band-aids under the lid when the coffin went by. Wherever he was, Stewie must have been laughing at the band-aids again. That is how I will always remember him, laughing with his "Stewie wheeze," a kind man and a good friend.
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