CAMPOut: Fay's Rehoboth Journal

Please don’t think badly of me for the following story. It’s one of those blasphemous yarns, skirting, okay, plunging face forward into the mush of questionable taste. But it happened. And when polled, even my rabbi thought it was okay to share it. So here goes.

Over the past several weeks I attended two memorial services, a week apart. One was for a good acquaintance and one for a very dear friend. That’s the thing about Rehoboth. When something happens, good or bad to someone, chances are you know them.

Prior to the services, following two weeks of terrible news and loss, I was sitting at this very computer, writing a eulogy for the service a week hence. I turned to the Internet to check a historical fact and was stunned by AOL’s headline: "Oscar Winner Shelley Winters Dead at 85."

I stared at the screen, not knowing whether, as they say, to poop or go blind. "Alrighty!" I yelped, followed by a crushing sense of doom.

It’s like this. A while ago, some immortal-feeling twenty-somethings started a unique combination of gambling and drinking called The Dead Pool. Clusters of young people get together and select names of elderly celebrities. Each player antes up a set amount for the jackpot and when a celeb falls off their perch the person holding the winning (?) name collects.

I know, it’s a ghoul pool. Perfectly horrid.

On the other hand, in a world filled with terrorists winning elections, our own government spying on us, hateful discrimination and Bird Flu panic there’s never enough reason to celebrate, so why not take advantage of every opportunity?

Borrowing from this 20-something fad, our group of old-somethings launched the Rainbow Dead Pool Society. Some energetic New Jersey gals put it together and soon invited a slew of us to participate. In our version, we pick names, ante up, then when there’s a loss, host a party to send off the dearly departed. Costumes are encouraged. We try to make it a great celebration, respectful in every way. Unless of course, too many Bloody Marys are involved and then you never know to what sacrilegious depths we will sink.

The gang has held a royal send off for Prince Rainier, went ape at a party for Fay Wray, held a simply delicious soiree for Julia Child, among others,

Yep, you’re getting it. After paying my dues for a while now I finally, oh, forgive me, hit the jackpot with Shelley Winters.

And that meant, in addition to receiving the funds, I’d have to use said money to throw an immediate "memorial service" for Shelley—because we had to rush to pay, along with our respects, our damn dues in case another AARP headliner suddenly kicked the bucket. The phrase "unfortunate timing" doesn’t even begin to cover it. I was hearing strains of "There’s Got to Be a Morning After," from The Poseidon Adventure ringing in my ears. Pun intended, I was sunk.

Gingerly, I shared the absurd news of our "good fortune" with my spouse. She was appalled—both by the untimely circumstances and the realization that we’d have to hostess Shelley’s "memorial" the following Sunday, immediately after the real memorial service on Saturday. It was so horrible it was hilarious, may I not burn in hell for saying so.

After we got through a spectacular spell of guilty laughter, I sent out e-mail invitations to Society Members about our upcoming Shelley Winters brunch. Then, I tried to put the whole sordid mess out of my mind. After all there were two truly sad occasions to attend within the next seven days, the first of which was the following morning.

That’s when things got dicey. I was eating a canapé, following a very touching and incredibly sad service for a member of our community, when a Society pal whispers, "Congratulations on Shelley," in my ear. "Not here…" I murmured, expecting lightning to strike.

Then another very close friend of the wonderful person we were memorializing also referred to my win and I had to put my hand over his mouth—but not before persons in the vicinity heard the word "congratulations."

"Congratulations for what?" somebody asked as I broke out in a sweat knowing that over MY dead body would the words "Dead Pool" come out of my mouth at this particular time and place.

Avoiding the question, and sending the evil eye to a quartet of people who seemed poised to spill the beans, I fled, to mill about the room, paying my real respects to the family.

Although there were at least ten society members at the service, I dared not look at any of them. In fact, every time I saw somebody approaching with a twinkle in their eye, I’d hide behind the potted palms. It was all I could do to keep my decorum until I got out to the car, where, sad to say, I disgusted myself by exploding into howls of laughter.

Returning home, I went about my business, deciding what to prepare, purchase or plan for Saturday’s real memorial service and Sunday’s incongruously fake one. Frankly, it wasn’t hard.

In both instances we’d celebrate lives well lived, and use ample booze and good food to get us through.

As for the authentic memorial service, we capped a crushingly sad week, with a true celebration of a life very well lived.

We sent Shelley Winters off gloriously, too. I hung her Washington Post obituary over the fireplace, decorated the house with photos from Shelley’s Oscar nods for Diary of Anne Frank, and A Patch of Blue, played Poseidon on the DVD and enjoyed the time with our friends. One person arrived with a patch of blue material on her sweater and three yokels showed up dressed as if they’d been in the drink from the Poseidon. We all had a good laugh. A lot of good laughs. Especially me, being quite glad that the sad, bad week was history.

So we all anted up our dues for the next round of the celebrity Dead Pool and I collected my winnings—some of which I’d already spent on the brunch. The rest went to pay bills. But however much I won in the pool, the money was, of course, totally inconsequential compared to the way the friends we lost that week had enriched our lives. And it probably goes without saying (but I’ll say it anyway) that both of our dearly departed would have been tickled by the abject absurdity of this whole irreverent dead pool business.

Timing is everything. Live, love, laugh.