Sketch I: The Carpenter Dies for an Idea

I wrote this as part of a much longer work during the early '70s. It's an absurd work, what the carpenter would call a gimmick. None of it is digitalized, and I'm spending some of my writing time typing it into the computer. My plan is to blog it as I go along. It may not be in the same order I originally planned it. I hope you enjoy it.

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Sketch I: The Carpenter Dies for an Idea

A carpenter and his helper sit under the shade of an old magnolia, occasionally swatting at flies and mosquitoes. They pull their lunches from brown paper sacks and watch as a line of cars follow a hearse onto the oyster shell lane that snakes through Our Lady of the Rock Cemetery. The carpenter is an artist who does construction work to sustain himself and his family. His artwork is good, but he is better known for his woodwork. The helper is a young college student at the university. He wants to be a writer.

The carpenter bites into his tuna fish sandwich and offers half to his helper, who accepts it and offers half a peanut butter sandwich in return. They eat in silence and watch as the hearse pulls off the lane and backs up to an opened gravesite next to a large marble headstone. A green tarpaulin with OUR LADY OF THE ROCK stenciled on it in bright white letters shades the mourners. The dust settles, and a man dressed in a dark suit jumps out of the hearse and swings open the back door. Shortly, six men, also dressed in dark suits, join him, pull a gleaming copper casket out, and lay it next to the burial site.

"Sure is a pretty day to have to be buried. Seems to me they could have picked a nastier day." The carpenter takes a bite from his sandwich and wipes his mouth with his forearm. Several crumbs stay stuck in his grayish whiskers. "Me, when I go, I want to be buried on the nastiest day they can find. I'm going to make it a requirement in my will if I ever write one."

The helper elbows the carpenter and points. Two men push and shove each other for the last remaining spot of shade. A huge woman, as wide as the two men together, steps in front of them and takes it.

"Now, there's a scene you don't see too often. They should be thankful they can feel the sunshine. I would guess that the person in that coffin wouldn't mind at all.

"You think it's a man they're burying."

"Doesn't matter, really. Man, or woman, it's awful shady in that casket." The carpenter grins at his own joke and takes the last bite of his tuna fish sandwich. They watch as a priest separates from the crowd and sprinkles holy water over the casket. Someone cries out, and the two men look at each other as the sound echoes off the walls of the old barn behind them. The barn stands about fifty feet away. They are turning it into a dinner theatre.

"Sounds like someone there is going to miss whoever is dead," the carpenter says.

"Sounded like a woman's cry."

"Hard to tell. Could've been a man."

"Did you ever wonder what it is like to die?"

"I'm an artist. The unknown is always a fascination. You're a writer. Don't you wonder about death?"

"I've read what others have written about dying, but when it comes to mine, it's different somehow."

The carpenter grins and bites into his half of the peanut butter sandwich.

"The way I see it, either it's going to be beautiful like they say heaven is, ugly like they say hell is, or just nothing like nobody says it is. I've tried to paint all three."

"But have you ever thought about your own death? Every time I think about mine, I get confused and frightened." The helper pauses, searching for his words. "I don't know why. I can't talk about it. I can't write about it. It's just too frightening, I guess. Maybe I'm too far away from death."

"You're sitting in the middle of it."

"They're all strangers."

"You're the writer. Get to know them."

"How?"

"I've had two heart attacks. The doctor told me that my third one may be my final one. I come here and read a name off a tombstone and go home and paint what he or she looks like. It helps me to understand a little better."

"Understand what?"

"Them. Myself. Death."

"Aren't you afraid of death?"

"Not afraid. Reluctant."

"Why do you continue to work if it's risky for you?"

"Someone has to pay the doctor. The carpenter grins at his helper and swipes at a mosquito. The two are silent. Sounds of the burial drift to them, but they cannot hear enough to understand anything. "I don't want to die, but I will whether I sit at home or whether I turn old barns into theatres. It's a fact."

"Couldn't you stay home and paint?"

"Yes, I could, but people don't buy my paintings. My family has to eat."

"Why don't they buy your paintings?"

"I paint stories, not gimmicks. Patrons want gimmicks, beautiful landscapes, modernism, impressionism, cubism, for god's sake. I paint faces, dead faces, decomposed faces, deformed faces." The carpenter stands and brushes himself off. He stares over the tombstones toward the burial. "Patrons are good people, but if art gets too close to the truth, they don't like it."

"Why not?"

"They don't understand truth. They only understand gimmicks."

"So, why don't you paint gimmicks?"

"I am an artist. I have two responsibilities: truth and life."

"I don't understand."

"Death is art. Art is truth."

"I still don't understand."

"Study on it, and if you're an artist, you'll understand."

The helper stands next to the carpenter. They watch as the priest signals the man in the dark suit to lower the casket into the ground. They can just hear the hum of a little motor as it strains against its load.

"I like to think that dying is a nice feeling, like floating."

"Death is nothing." They hear the same cry they had heard earlier. The carpenter waits until the echo dies. "Or maybe ugly, like they say hell is."

The priest says a few final words, and the mourners, slump-shouldered and grieving, slowly make their way to their cars. Once everyone has gone, and the dust has settled, two khaki-clad gravediggers exit a battered flatbed truck, and start shoveling dirt over the casket.

"I wonder who it is?" the helper asks.

"Why don't we walk over there and get acquainted."

They walk toward the gravesite. The two gravediggers stop their work, lean on their shovels, as they make their way through the maze of tombs. The carpenter reads the name off the headstone, once they reach the burial site.

"Why that's Judge Abernethy. He owns that building we're renovating. How's that for coincidence?"

The helper nods, picks up a handful of dirt, and drops it over the casket.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, living is nice, but dying's a must."

"What's that all about?" the carpenter asks.

"I used to sing that as a kid when holding the jump rope for my sister and her girlfriends. I don't remember the rest of it, though."

The short, dark-haired gravedigger says as he joins them, "I've got a better one than that. Let's see. It goes, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, life is precious, when in life we trust."

"Musta been pretty hard to jump rope to that one," the second gravedigger says. "I got one even better than that. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, can't help but go, when you start to rust."

"Those are good verses," the carpenter says. "I know a complete one, but I don't think I can recite it all without a rope to jump over."

"Got one in the pickup," the first gravedigger says and pulls a rope from the old flatbed. He hands one end to the second gravedigger, and they spin it in long looping arcs. The carpenter hitches his trousers and jumps in

.

"Ashes to ashes,

Dust to dust,

Dead man lives

In starry dust.

Starry, starry,

Jump the rope.

A live man's hope

Is a dead man's dream.

Starry, starry,

Jump the rope

To reach the end,

You must begin.

Starry, starry,

Jump the rope.

Men do dream

Of dead man's scheme.

Starry, starry,

Jump the rope.

To be the master

You must jump faster,

Faster, faster, faster.

Ashes to ashes,

Dust to dust.

Dead man lives

In starry dust."

The two gravediggers work the rope faster and faster until the carpenter can no longer keep up and jumps out. Breathless and clutching his chest, he staggers to a shady spot and sits leaning against Judge Abernethy's headstone. Worried, the helper joins him.

"Are you all right?"

"You want to be a writer?" the carpenter asks in a breathless whisper.

"Yes."

"Study on it."

"What?"

"Here's your story. Study it. Write it."

"Who? Write about who?"

The carpenter does not hear him. He has just suffered his third and final heart attack.

"Is he dead?" the short gravedigger asks.

The helper nods.

"Damn shame, but he could sure jump rope."

The helper looks around, but all he sees are graves and tombstones.