by Joe Stretch
For the first time in a long time, Janek has removed his beanie. What would Snoop say if he saw me like this? he wonders. Stupid brown curls and a black yarmulke embroidered with white cotton.
Janek sees his relatives loitering by the entrance to the crematorium, cloaking their faces from the nose down with handkerchiefs, hands drooping from smart sleeves, getting held and kissed.
‘Oh, Janek,’ cries Aunt Sophie. A tall ex-model with heavily hairsprayed hair. ‘Give me a hug. Janek! Give me a hug.’
Janek gives his auntie a hug. In darker days, he used to fantasise about making love to this woman. But it failed. The fantasy proved weak and feeble. And a penis gripped is a problem halved. Now Aunt Sophie’s hands scuttle round his back like blind animals. Trapped in her arms, Janek breathes her crisp, chemical hair. Strands scrape his cheeks and he winces inside the family embrace. Somewhere there are Fuck Festivals. Little matters. Only nothing. That will do.
‘Your mother lived to see you succeed! Thank God she lived to see you become such a huge success!’ Aunt Sophie holds Janek in front of her with straight arms, tears shining in her eyes, a sombre smile turning around her face.
‘Little Janek,’ she cries. ‘We all had such low hopes for you. So quiet and so shy. You were always just staring, sat silently on the floor like a little grey stone . . . now you’re a musician for the stars.’ Sophie sniffs snot up towards her two eyes, adding, in a guttural voice, ‘You’re even more successful than me!’
Janek smiles and nods. He watches his other relatives congregate behind Sophie. His uncle Danny with the voice like a synthesiser and creepy cartoon eyes. His mute grandfather, a white quiff of hair curling round his forehead like a funeral salute. The clump of young cousins, gathered round a mobile phone, heads pressed together, watching music videos. Nothing matters, thinks Janek. But nothing is better than nothing. I’ll tell Mum when she’s finally paddling in the puddles of my skull, rolling up her cream trousers to the knees and dipping those shocking white calves in my brain slush. I’ll tell her all about Life.
The congregation is moving into the hall. Janek nods at the rabbi at the entrance, an overweight old man with panda eyes and a beard like a scribbled storm cloud. Janek sighs at the building’s interior. Bright light. Very still air. The smell of yellow polished floors. He puts the N-Prang into his ears, presses Play and waits for the rumble of bass.
The rumble of bass doesn’t come. What does come is the sound of stamping feet and clapping hands. The crematorium is a third full. About forty people occupy the front three or four rows. They are making noises in unison. Two loud stamps on the floor followed by one clap, over and over again. Janek walks the central aisle, red wires leading from his ears to his pocket where his fist grips the N-Prang. In front of him Aunt Sophie single-handedly pushes his mother’s coffin, which is raised on a trolley with multidirectional wheels. Sophie is slumped over it, cheek against the lid, moving dramatically to the beat of the crowd. Jesus, thinks Janek. People love themselves at funerals. The ex-model is back on the runway, dressed in nothing but her sister’s death. I wish Life was here. Funerals make the grieving seem exceptionally sexy. The more the corpse loved you, the sexier you are.
The beat of the crowd does not stop. Janek’s never heard a congregation be so loud and percussive before. When his aunt has pushed the coffin to the front of the crematorium, she turns to the audience and starts performing wide overhead claps. Nodding her head. Her face all serious and cool.
‘Come on,’ shouts Sophie, over the claps and the stamps. Janek watches as, beside Sophie, the rabbi cups an ear with one hand and sends out a bouncing Nazi salute with the other, his eyes edited to cool, enjoyable squints. ‘Bring it,’ shouts Aunt Sophie, prompting the rabbi to start yelling along to the beat of the crowd: ‘Word. Word. Word. C’mon on. Bounce. Bounce. C’mon. Bounce.’
Janek watches, as his aunt Sophie climbs onto his mother’s coffin and tears off her long black chiffon skirt, revealing red silk hot pants and violet fishnet stockings. He’s reminded of why, as a kid, he’d wanted to shag her. She continues to direct the crowd from the light brown coffin lid, encouraging them to keep the beat. She turns away from them and bends over, polishing her silk red booty in a successfully sexy fashion. Meanwhile the congregation begins to strip. Men remove their black mourning blazers and then their shirts and ties to reveal very muscular bodies. Ripped six-packs. Meaty, nippled pectorals. Oiled up and shining. They tug their trousers down till they’re hanging really low. Janek notes that each wears fancy underwear, waistbands embroidered with gold lettering. Calvin Klein. Armani. Wild World. Fuck Death. The N-Prang has become red hot in Janek’s fist. Women shed their mourning costumes and find that their tits and crotches are covered in outlandish knickers and bras. Purples. Reds. Yellows. They fondle their bodies with shock and joy, as if they’ve never really stripped before. They bend over and begin jiggling their backsides really quickly till each buttock is just a quivering blur. No one’s stamping or clapping any more, but the beat goes on. Backs get arched and boobs protrude. Nipples dance inside expensive bras. The near-naked men and the near-naked women begin to dance in twos, elbows raised, hands in loose fists; they bring their crotches together, staring down at them, smiling. Janek watches as, from on top of the coffin, Aunt Sophie begins to sing.
‘No Wild World for my sister,
I wish I could say I’m gonna miss her
But I won’t.
She’s dead and she can’t bend over,
Our lesbian cabaret’s finally over.’
Aunt Sophie’s melody is simple. She rhymed ‘over’ with ‘over’. Bit shit. But it’s pop music. Catchy. Rammed with basic resolution. Janek has no time to ponder the lyrics. He’s holding his yarmulke in his hand. He contemplates blocking his mouth with it. I feel a bit horny, he thinks. In fact, I’m going to get an erection. These elderly Jewish ladies all have fantastic bodies. And so this is me: getting an erection at Mum’s funeral. This is fate. Sophie begins to rap.
‘We grew up in the Bronx where we always rocked an Afro,
My sister and me, we never had no cash flow
We worked all day doing shows, playing incest,
Mock-fucked all day, became Ghetto Princess.
Our sexy black asses hard screwed every pervert
Leaning over glass, sipping drinks, sniffing sherbet.’
To Janek’s knowledge neither Sophie nor his mother ever rocked an Afro. They were born and raised in Somerset. They were never ghetto princesses. Neither ever had a black ass. Mum went to an all-girl school near Salisbury. It’s unlikely she ever performed incestuous lesbian shows for New Yorkers. Janek’s standing beneath Sophie now, he could reach out and touch his mother’s coffin. He watches his aunt’s feet tapping around on the lid. Out of the corners of his eyes he can see the congregation, grinding away at each other because they’re all so fucking sexy. He watches the rabbi with his bobbing beard and his hand, fingers splayed, covering his crotch. Janek is getting more and more turned on. He is chanting to himself. Nothing matters. Welcome to the festival. This is nothing. I might have to tuck my erection into my belt. Aunt Sophie, meanwhile, has sung another chorus and is ready for verse two.
‘This one’s for all the bitch ass niggers in the house. We know whassup.
Yeah. What?
We were 69ing back in 1986
Our shows was in decline, yo, we were in a fix.
We started singing as we licked and suck-suck-sucked
We were back on top. We were laced in bucks.
Although eating out my sister made it difficult to sing
We had diamonds round our necks and we were sisterfucking bling.’
To complete her performance, Aunt Sophie leaps from the coffin and over Janek’s head, performing somersault after somersault in mid-air. She lands behind Janek and before he can turn round to ask her what is going on and ask her whether she and his mum really did perform lesbian cabaret, she is grinding her crotch against his backside
, both hands up his T-shirt, teasing his nipples.
The rabbi is next onto the coffin. He’s jumping from side to side, getting into the rhythm, waving at the dancing crowd, getting ready to rap.
‘Yo yo yo. Time to feast, motherfuckers, time to feast. Come on.’
The rapping style of the rabbi is more aggressive. A bit Busta Rhymes, Janek thinks, as his auntie notices his erection and pulls a very wide smile. The congregation has moved closer towards the coffin on the rabbi’s instruction. He is bending down to them and all except Janek are smiling up at him. The rabbi begins.
‘Check out my sermons, they’re fresh as a daisy,
Check out my balls, they’re aching, baby.
Just get freaky, licking on my Jap’s eye,
Y’ain’t got taste till you’re sucking on a rabbi.
I’ll fill your mouth with swollen gland
I’ll take you to the Holy Land.’
The crowd are loving the rap. They are shutting their eyes and smiling. For the chorus, a group of ancient Jewish hags with unbelievably smooth, sexy bodies and matching yellow underwear get in a line next to the coffin and sing in a style that reminds Janek of the Supremes. They sing:
‘Feast. Yeah.
Feast on the priest. Yeah.
Feast on the rabbi.
Shake. Yeah.
Shake off the sheikh. Yeah.
Shake off the rabbi.’
Janek is fighting off Aunt Sophie. She’s not saying anything, just writhing and grinding. Janek feels like he’s got sticks in his ears and sticks in his eyes. He can feel his erection flinching like a fish out of water. He could reach out and touch his mother’s coffin. He could push the rabbi off the lid and spend a moment quietly remembering her life. The rabbi is performing a headstand on the coffin now, he’s shaking his legs in a cool and entertaining way. His face is squashed and red, but still he keeps the beat.
‘I ain’t frightened, I’m a rabbi with a dark soul
Get down to pray, I’ll enlighten your arsehole.
Verse two, motherfuckers.’
Aunt Sophie has a lollipop, she sucks it like a cock. The elderly women cup their tits and Janek can’t help but watch. Men flex their rabbit muscles. Women crane their necks to stare over their shoulders and watch their own arses shake and sway. Sexy, smoky eyes and three-quarter smiles. Dance. Bat your eyelashes at your anus. The rabbi’s back on his feet. What a cool bastard. He’s stamping on the coffin as he raps.
‘I’ve sin a lot o’ synagogues I’ve sin a lot o’ sin,
Bin in a lot of lucky dogs and licked a lot of quim.
Here I come, avert your eyes,
I know you like it circumcised.
Jesus wept, I’m coming like an ocean,
Easy, baby, slow down the motion.
Suck my God I know you like it
Lick me like you just can’t fight it.
Better clean up, bitch, don’t want liable,
Better clean up, bitch, toss me the Bible.’
The rabbi’s just riding the beat now. This is the climax to all the fun. He’s pointing both hands towards the roof, intimating to the congregation that they should raise the motherfucker. The eighty-year-old women with the shiny cleavage are singing again.
‘Feast. Yeah.
Feast on the priest. Yeah.
Feast on the rabbi.’
Janek’s wondering whether he should just let go. ‘Just let go!’ shouts Aunt Sophie. ‘Enjoy yourself!’ Janek has never heard his relatives speak in this way before and he just isn’t sure. The crowd are locked into the groove. Is this the playout? wonders Janek. Are we waiting for the DJ’s voice? For God’s voice? That was ‘Feast on the Priest’ by the Rabbi of Bristol, performing today in honour of Janek’s dead, shallow-lunged mum. Come on!
Janek can’t let go and he is no longer horny. This is not the festival. In fact, this is misery. ‘Nothing matters,’ he shouts, but no one listens. He takes off his yarmulke and frisbees it up into the rafters of the crematorium. ‘If nothing matters,’ he shouts, drowned out by the beat, ‘then why are we doing nothing? If nothing matters we should be doing something. Rabbi! Listen to me.’
The rabbi stares down from on top of the coffin.
‘God matters, Janek,’ he booms. ‘Don’t start playa hating on ma motherfucka the Lord. Don’t go pimping His omniscience.’
Janek doesn’t believe in God. I believe in bass lines, Janek thinks, watching as the expression on the rabbi’s face alters suddenly and completely. It changes from squinting, pouting, multi-platinum-selling hip-hop superstar to the face of a petrified soul whose footing has become unsure.
‘Janek!’ cries the rabbi, his voice alarmed, returning to the sharp fuzz of his Orthodox accent. ‘Janek! What’s happening?’
The coffin beneath the rabbi’s feet is beginning to shake violently. His whole body is shifting around, arms outstretched, trying to regain balance, surfing a wave of angry death.
‘Help me, Janek! Help your rabbi!’
The crowd around the coffin have become still but the hip-hop beat is louder than ever. It’s deafening. The congregation watch, panting from the dance, as the lid of the coffin begins to splinter and crack under the pressure being applied from within. Janek wonders what his mother thinks she’s doing. Not a lot probably. But really, bursting out of your coffin during your funeral isn’t funny. It’s insensitive. But Mum’s doing it anyway, thinks Janek. She always was eager. He watches as the rabbi topples backwards off the coffin, making it easier for his mum to smash the lid and rise like a puppet from the red silk-lined casket. She has begun to decompose. She’s lost weight. Her face has lost its rosy cheeks.
‘Word up, blood.’ His mother’s voice is as breathless as it ever was. One tit looks precarious, as if it’s only held on by the bikini. This is me. My dead, shallow-lunged mother has come back to life wearing a bikini. Why burn a woman looking so easy?
Janek sees the rabbi’s head peep out from behind the coffin, looking up in horror at his mother’s dead, gold G-stringed backside. The rabbi disappears, hiding his face with his beard. Beside Janek, Aunt Sophie is staring up at her sister through moist eyes. ‘I always said she was talented, Janek,’ Sophie whimpers, not taking her eyes from her sister. ‘I mean, I was the really talented one. But given that your mum gasped a great deal, she was still pretty good at entertaining people. Just look at her.’
On second thoughts, thinks Janek, it’s probably best that Life didn’t come today. This would have freaked her out.
‘I’m tired of cocksuckers tryin’ to tell me I’m past it
Ain’t no way I’m gettin’ nailed inside no whack-ass casket.’
‘Whack-ass casket’, rhymed with ‘past it’, is, Janek thinks, the most impressive piece of hip hop we’ve heard all funeral.
‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Cos I
Won’t die. Won’t die.’
This is really brilliant, thinks Janek. Mum’s really being playful with the beat, not just cramming in words like the rabbi and Aunt Sophie, who really just copied US rap circa 1988. Oh, Mum. Mum’s relaxing on the beat, real chilled, maybe because she’s dead, you know, because she’s less anxious. She’s establishing melodic, half-spoken ‘hooks’. She reminds me of Snoop Dogg. His really commercial later period.
‘You can call me hardcore. Cos I’m hardcore.
I’m gonna live the life I worked hard for.
I may be breathless. I’m still sleazy.
I make cheatin’ death look so easy.’
Oh, you do, Mum, thinks Janek. You really do. If I had known you could lock into a groove with such confidence then I’d have come to see you more often. I wouldn’t have gone to Berkeley or on tour with Jay-Z. I could have come round and jammed with you. Me on bass and you just letting your lyrics flow. I love you. I should have told you. Even when you used to cough up blood at the dinner table, I loved you so much. I never said it. But I always felt like we had loads in common.
Jane
k approaches the coffin and holds out his hands. His mother bends down to take them immediately. Together they sway. The sexy congregation can only watch as Janek and his mum just hold hands and sway. This is real dancing, thinks Janek. Not like all that groin-bating bollocks we saw before. It’s a shame Mum’s wearing this bikini. But nevertheless, he thinks, this is lovely dancing.
They sing.
‘Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Cos we
Won’t die. Won’t die.’
Janek’s in seventh heaven and he’s disappointed when he’s seized by a sudden pain. When the huge balloon of his consciousness is popped with a lit match. When he’s dragged from the melody by hands holding tightly onto each of his ears. He yelps. His eyes shut tight in pain. He loses his grip on his mother’s hands and feels himself falling backwards, getting dragged down till he can tell he’s on the ground. He can feel the polished wood of the crematorium floor on his back. He can hear the sound of his own screams. Human voices.
‘Janek! Wake up! Janek!’
‘Just keep holding him down.’
When Janek opens his eyes, he sees two concerned faces. The Rabbi of Bristol and his aunt Sophie. He glances at the floor either side of his head. The earphones of the N-Prang have been removed from his ears. He exhales. The silence is ringing.
‘Death comes for us all,’ says the rabbi. ‘Accepting that is the first step to happiness.’
Aunt Sophie nods enthusiastically. Beyond the rabbi’s shoulder is his mother’s coffin. It has been damaged. A small hole has been punched in the lid, just large enough for someone to have reached in and dragged out one of his mother’s arms. The arm is dressed in violet velvet. Every dead finger wears a ring.
Behind him, the congregation sit on the pews in silence. Two or three elderly people on the front row have clearly had their clothes torn. They are trying to repair them, holding collars and dress straps in place, then letting go and sighing as the ripped sections fall.