The Conversation

On a lazy Sunday afternoon, Cillian and Finn relax as they sip beers in their favorite pub, The Red Rooster. Cillian gazes out the window to watch the clouds float gently past. The silence is broken when he poses a question.

“Answer me this, Finn. Why is it that if a man donates a kidney, everyone loves him and thinks what a wonderful soul he has?  But, if that same man donated five kidneys, he would be considered the prime suspect in a crime investercation?”

Finn blinks at Cillian and sits a little straighter in his chair. “What?”

Cillian sips his beer, “What I’m saying is, to donate five kidneys does seem a bit strange, perhaps, but it doesn’t mean a crime’s been committed!”

Fin leans forward, “Of course, it insinuates a crime! A man only has two bloody kidneys! Where’d the other three come from?”

Cillian scratches his head and shrugs. “I don’t know. I heard of a fellow who wanted to impress a girl by telling her he worked with animals. She said, “That’s grand! Are you a Vet?’ The man answered, “No. I’m a butcher.  Perhaps someone like that would have access to extra kidneys. What do you think?’

Finn taps his temple. “I think you’re daff, that’s what I think. What would a hospital want with pig kidneys?”

“I’ve seen it on the telly. They’re always using piggy parts in people now a days. Their innards are very close to our own.” Cillian winks and nods.

Finn takes a sip. “That’s true in them big research hospitals but not here in Clogheen. Besides, I think all that kind of stuff is scary. In fact, I think hospitals, in general, are terrifying. 

McCarthy turns in his seat behind the pair. “I know what you mean, Finn. I’ve got a cousin who worked in a hospital once, and he heard of a doctor who was wheeling a patient down a long dark corridor when the man asked, “Where the devil are you taking me?” The doctor replied, “To the morgue.” The frightened man yelled, “But I ain’t dead yet!” The doctor yelled back, “ Well, we’re not there yet, are we.” What do you suppose the doctor was up to?”  Cillian volunteers. “He was planning to steal his kidneys, no doubt!”  “Aye! Now that would be a crime.” nods Finn.

The door of the pub opens, and Jack Gallagher walks in. Doyle, the bartender, asks, “Is there something the matter, Jack? You look a bit down.”

“That I am Doyle, that I am. Me poor old granny just passed away.”

Doyle frowns while drying his beer glasses. “Sorry to hear that. Was she sick long?”  Gallagher leans on the bar. “ That’s the thing. She took ill real sudden like, so we rushed her over to the hospital. The doc examined her and told us she needed a blood transfusion or she was going to die. The problem was no one knew what Granny’s blood type was. Sadly, before we could discover it, she died.  But I must say she was encouraging right to the end. Doyle nods, "is that so?"   “Ah, it’s the truth.” Jack continues. “ All the time we was trying, she kept on whispering, “Be positive, be positive.”

“Here.” Doyle tells Gallagher, “Have a drink on the house. Have you set a date for the funeral?”   Gallagher wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have indeed, but I’m not sure about the undertaker though.”

 “ Why’s that?” asks Doyle. 

Gallagher scratches his chin with his thumb. “ After we made all the arrangements, he took me to one side and giggled. “I always tie the deceased’s shoelaces together when I’m done.” When I asked him why the devil he would do such a thing, he replied, “Because when the zombie apocalypse takes place, it will be hilarious!”

McCarthy shakes his head, “Those funeral directors are a strange lot, Cillian. I saw an ad the other day, “Buy two lots and get one free!”

 Finn ponders, “I suppose it’s the nature of the work that does it. All that sadness and grief. But you can’t spell the word funeral without a little fun in it,can you?"    Cillian roars, “That’s what the wakes for! Speaking of which, Doyle, another round of drinks over here and Gallagher too.”

As Doyle delivers the drinks, he chuckles, “Boys, do you know the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish wake? There’s one less drunk at the funeral, and it’s more fun!” They all burst out laughing.

Doyle asks Gallagher, “What about your granny, Jack? Is she going to be buried or cremated?”  Gallagher finishes his beer. “Buried, Doyle. Besides Len, the undertaker said he doesn’t like cremating drunks. He says it takes an extra week before the blue flame of their livers goes out.”

From the far corner of the pub, Burns shouts, If my grandmother knew how much money I spent on her funeral, she’d be spinning in her ditch!”

The more the boys drank, the wilder the tales became. Beginning with Finn. “ I want a closed casket funeral. At the end of the service, the organist should energetically play “Pop Goes the Weasel” over and over until everyone is staring at me coffin in silent, horrific anticipation.”

Cillian adds, “When I die, I want someone to dress as the Grim Reaper and stand in front of the casket without saying a word. When the service is over, he’s to slowly raise his hand and point to someone.” Everyone roars.

Wiping tears from his eyes, McCarthy choked out, “At my funeral, I want someone tpo be dressed the same outfit I have on in me coffen to burst through the doors yelling, “I’m here! Hey, who the hell is that fella in the box?" The ideas flowed like wine. With each new story, another round is bought  Shirley, the barmaid, said, “When I go, I want catnip planted all over my grave. That way, all the cemetery cats will flock to my grave and rub all over it, and people will think I was some kind of a cat goddess.” 

“I want to be buried in a spring-loaded casket filled with confetti. That way, some future archeologists will have an amazing day at work!!” “Yeah, yeah!” exclaims still another. “ And I hope my eulogy begins with, He died doing what he loved…Surprising Tigers!!!”

Drink and laughter filled the pub, with everyone having a grand time and about what?   Death. And why shouldn’t they? Death shouldn’t be met with fear and loathing but with joy and gladness, a celebration with friends.