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Funeral

This, unfortunately, I cannot blame on Chris. 

This is entirely me. 

If it makes anything better, Uncle Bertram was a terrible person . . . when he was alive. But he is not anymore.

I'm at his funeral. 

My black suit is hot and stuffy, and it itches. I am ready to be gone.

My cousin Mike is in the middle of the eulogy. It's a beautiful speech--as beautiful as a speech about a man no one really liked can be. 

No one did like him, really--he was a terrible old Scrooge of a man--but still, there's a certain decorum that ought to be followed at a funeral, no matter how Scrooge-y the deceased is. Mike understands this. He is acting in a way that follows that decorum. 

I, however, have forgotten to silence my phone. 

You know what happens next. We all know what happens next. 

I'm almost there, yeah, I'm almost there.

I freeze, and the blood drains from my face.  I have never hated Tiana's voice with such a passion as I feel right now.

My phone is in my pocket, pressing against my leg, vibrating with the noise. 

I'm almost there.

Due to the surprised and confused look on Mike's face, people realize immediately that the music is not part of the ceremony. It's not exactly apropos, anyway. 

Uncle Bertram, after all, is not almost anywhere. 

He's dead. 

The song is loud, and it keeps going. People are starting to look my way, now, and I bite my lip in agony. 

Listen closely, everybody. 

That's the sound of my future that you're hearing--my future flying out the window. 

"Why are you going into acting?" my father asked me in the beginning. "Why are you going to LA? Stay here, in Oklahoma. Join the family business."

I didn't want to be a large animal vet and stick my hand up a horse's rear end. I still don't. But I if I don't get this part--if this last shot at an acting career falls through--I'm going back to Oklahoma. 

And I'm sticking my hand up horses' rear ends for a living.

In terms of a living and a career, I have no other options. 

In terms of landing this part, I have two options--answer the call right now, in the funeral, and secure myself a spot on the express train to Hell, or obey the time-honored funeral decorum and reject the call.

And probably go back to Oklahoma, unless they call again. 

The lady next to me is giving me the stink eye, and Mike is staring at me in wonder. Don't you know about the time-honored funeral decorum? his eyes ask. 

Yes, I do, Mike. But I also know that I can't live forever on macaroni and cheese. Even now, I'm pretty backed up. I haven't gone to the bathroom in three days. Not since the incident. 

I chew on my lower lip. 

I don't know what to do. 

Suddenly, though, the music stops. It reached five rings and rang out. Part of me is relieved. The lady next to me returns her eyes to the front, and Mike resumes his forcedly beautiful eulogy. 

Part of me, though, can't help but wonder what this means. Will they call again? Three times is more than a studio would normally call an applicant.

Unless the applicant got the job. 

I'll wait until tomorrow. Maybe they'll call again. 

For now, though, I discretely remove my phone from my pocket and silence it.