They had died today. That crew of women and men, our last hopes, our last shelter from the coming storming.
We figured, screw it. Let’s celebrate their lives. Let’s have an Irish Wake.
The aromas of strong, dark beers and smokey whiskeys clogged the room. The bar didn’t allow smoking, but a swathe of smoke hovered above the milling inebriated mourners. Rules like no smoking didn’t matter, not tonight. Toasts and cheers were made, jaunty sing alongs began as the evening went and alcohol convinced even those most unfamiliar with tone and harmony into thinking they were queens and kings of karaoke.
The jukebox made its typical fuss as it switched over to the next track. Woo’s and whistles pierced the air as a piano riff gave way to Elton John’s voice. In a drunken ode to the dearly departed someone had played “Rocket Man”.
By the time we had reached the chorus there was not a soul in that pub that didn’t join in.
There was Janet the notorious card shark who dressed not unlike Cruella De Vil. Her eyes closed, a fur clad arm wrapped around Derrick Schutlz. Derrick was in his 70’s, a former doorman who had lost his job to automatic doors and still had a deep-seeded mistrust of any and all technology. He took a sip of his Jameson and Ginger before belting out that it’s “going to be a long, long time.” Kyle Diaz gulped Wild Turkey during the brief piano refrains. The man dressed like he was about to go hunting or take a long ride on a tractor; you would never know that he was the best chess player in five counties and that in four years on his high school debate team he had never =lost. Not even once. The man could argue that mint and orange juice was a good flavor combination and you’d believe him. Zhee Iskakov adds a vibrant green liquid to his lager. Zhee Iskakov, who had moved to this city a decade ago, bringing with him secret herbs and tinctures of his mountain clan. Priceless, precious resins and powders who’s uses had been passed down for generations. Zhee had opened a herb shop, thinking that the botanical and medicinal miracles and magic unseen by modern society would bring him fame and fortune. He was lucky if someone slowed enough to peer through the foggy front windows of his shop, let alone enter. He sips his concoction in which green crystals now float, winking under the dim lights of the pub; he swallows and belts out the chorus in a baritone cry, his normally thick Kazakh accent fading away. Tears flowed down Cary Oolett’s face as he stuttered his way through the lines, hiccuping now and again the former circus Ring Master wiped at his face lest any tears make their way down over his dark brown skin towards his always pristine mustache. Janelle Barringer worked at an Apple store down the block, she had just started taking ballroom dance classes and things had been getting more serious with Harris. Janelle lived a simple life and she liked it that way, thank you very much. Streaks of tears gone-by rested on her cheeks; she too sang along. We all sang. On that cold, windy night when our last hope had exploded before our eyes. When we all realized that everything we knew was coming to an end.
I was there too. I laughed, I cried. I sang, I spoke. Whether the tears were from the beauty of the scene before me were due to the impending doom that loomed between shining stars in the night sky, well, I can’t say. But as I sat there singing along, taking in my surroundings I thought to myself: What a funny, terrible and precious thing life is. How enigmatic, awful and wonderful we as humans can be.
Did we ever have a chance? If we had overcome our many differences, if we had put aside our beliefs and our prides in what land we reside from. What if we stop wasting time and effort hating one another and worked together to advance society enough to beat these bastards? Well, that’s not for me to say, I suppose.
The song had quieted down, there was an uncomfortable mixture of sobs and quiet laughter wrapped up in an overbearing quiet. One of the talking heads of TV began to break down, throwing his papers, raging and crying. He loosened his tie and tugged at his hair, futile gesture after futile gesture. The station switched to a shot of the night sky. Where gleaming purple lights could be seen amongst the cosmos. Bright lavender blips that were glowing ever larger. Funny, who would thought something with such a lovely color would end life as we know it.
More songs were sung, and in between small attempts at speeches were made.
The Irish Wake was coming to a close, Derk hugged Cary, Kyle walked out arm in arm with a woman named Jenn; seeking love in those last few hours. We had celebrated the lives of those astronauts. We had celebrated our last line of defense even though it had failed. We had celebrated all of us. Us humans. And this thing we share called life. It is our greatest curse as a species. The infallibly irony that we only truly appreciate things when they are gone. When they are over.
They had died today, our heroes had given their lives for their planet, their species.. The Irish Wake was for them. But it was also for us. All of us. At the end of days, when it seems all will soon be lost, maybe what many just needed was to laugh, to cry, to have a drink and just be. Be together. Be human.