“GUESS WHO DIED?”
My poor Aunt Edie.
As a young woman growing up in New York City, she was lively and gregarious, with oodles of friends and dates. She loved to dance, and spent many a Saturday night Lindy Hopping to the Big Bands at Roseland, the Savoy, and the Café Rouge at the Hotel Pennsylvania. She did the Big Apple and Truckin’ with the best of them, and could still demonstrate her skills 40 years later. “Edie, do Truckin’!” we’d say; and laughing, she’d oblige.
By the time I was born, she was still known for her sense of humor, but in addition, had acquired an ongoing and morbid fascination with all things accident- and death-related. A favorite family pastime was “Guess Who Died?”
Edie (sorrowfully): Guess who died?
Cousin Bob/Ava/Me/Whomever: No…*sigh*…who died?
Edie: Guess!
Us: Hell, I don’t know! Who??
Edie: Guess!
Us: Awww geez…I dunno. Abraham Lincoln?
Edie: Marge Slobotnik!
Us: Who?
Edie: You know, Marge Slobotnik! From the Chelsea Public Library! She had a heart attack in the mezzanine at Dancer’s Department Store…it was…a tragedy.
Us: *SIGGHHH*
Edie lived in Washtenaw County, Michigan, out in the country near the small town of Chelsea. The area was notorious for its treacherous but fun-for-teenaged-boys back roads. Every time some kid would wrap himself and his buddies around a tree, we were treated to a play-by-play description of the resulting gore.
There was a reason for this blip in my aunt’s personality, however. As a young woman in Queens, she was repeatedly forced to witness the most heinous of incidents involving human demise.
The first occurred one day when she was walking under the El, or elevated railway. Above, some unfortunate soul threw himself onto the tracks, in front of an oncoming train. As she described it, his body sieved through the ties, and with a sickening splotch, his lungs separated from the rest of him and fell directly to the ground in front of her.
Some time later, my aunt was enjoying lunch at a local restaurant. She had a table in front of a large picture window looking onto the street. As she tucked into her delicatessen plate, a truck suddenly came careening around the corner, plowed into a group of bystanders, and crashed into a utility pole, at which time the rear doors flew open, and meat of all varieties came spilling out, mixing with the carnage of dead bodies. Recounting this incident, she’d say: “You couldn’t tell the people from the HAMBURGER!”
I suppose the final straw was the day she was strolling down W. 34th Street, alongside the Empire State Building. At just that moment, a window washer’s belt gave way. WHOMP! Directly onto the pavement in front of her.
Now I ask you, what are the odds? The sheer absurdity of it all makes me sad, but also unable to suppress a giggle.
Poor Auntie…when I meet you again, I promise we’ll do three things: listen to Benny Goodman, take a road trip and stay at every cheap cabin court and eat at every diner along the way, and do the Lindy. And this time, I’ll ask you to teach me.
