The Funeral [Farewell Kenny-G] – by W<J>P Newnham
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I had not seen Kenny in years; not up the shops nor hooning past in stolen drift cars with hot dogged exhausts; not on the nightly news. None of the usual sightings. Once, I had seen him looking the part, the weasel-faced crim on Crime Watch; I knew it was him, that Glock held sideways like an OG, that Schnozzle that even a balaclava couldn’t cover.
He had been a one-man crime wave
Ice cold and running crack-pipe-hot.
He disappeared.
I heard rumours from The Boys, the old school, those dragged up through the frog swamps of youth, who swapped gossip at intervals about who was inside, who was out; who was dead.
I had heard that his mum had sold her house and moved to Sydney then back to Beirut.
I heard that he was serving time.
They said that in jail Kenny had been marked with a tattoo reading ‘Death to Americans’ in Arabic script circling his neck like a noose.
I heard he was out
that he was in rehab.
I had not seen him in years, but rumours filtered down through friends and acquaintances about his movements and as such I knew that he was still alive, if in times and towns unknown. I assumed that one day news would come of his demise – my assumptions centering on likely fates such as dead with a needle in his arm or shot during a robbery. It seemed incongruous to me that he should die in bed, asleep, alone, his big heart finally exploding with a fatal embolism, the big bang and then nothing. Gone, silent; finished.
The news was conveyed through a mutual friend who provided me with details of the funeral.
I decided to go
to see The Boys
And to send off
Kenny to the grave:
A salute to the fallen.
The Back-Rowers
We all knew each other from primary school, us Frog-Swamp-Kids, from down Resettlement-Row on the flats where floods were common on the cheap land and the shabby houses had peeling paints and sagging porches. Always together and always in trouble, we went to Grey Street Primary
And Boys’ Towns there-after.
We congregated in the back of the funeral home chapel, the family filing inside, a sea of black suits, the women with funereal dresses and scarves covering hair. We too wore suits and mourning jackets in leather and peacoat with black ties to signify the sadness hidden behind black wrap-around sunglasses reflecting mirror images of each other in miniature; homunculi in the making.
Each of us had signed the guest book and taken a memorial card on which Kenny-G was immortalised in all his OG glory with tattooed sleeves, gold chains, dressed in habitual wife-beater and grinning at us from the hereafter with merriment in his eyes.
We greeted each other as we had done in our youth:
gripping at forearms first
then sliding to grasp each other’s wrist
then joined
as fists
fingers
locked
MATE!
Older now with greying hair, we were heavier and slower, looking more than ever like defendants awaiting the dock. We chatted quietly amongst ourselves as we waited for the ceremony.
Music was piped into the chapel as they played Kenny’s favourite: Tupac, Do for Love.
A slide show began with pictures of Kenny as a baby, a boy marking growth, love and change until the more familiar pictures of him as a man mustachioed and tattooed.
Family pictures, none with any of The Boys in them, even though we had, as children, been Kenny’s best friends, then as teens, his homies and crimies.
His mother always blamed us and as we chatted, she glared from the front of the chapel, shooshing us loudly and pointedly. She cried and was comforted by relatives.
A nondenominational celebrant led the proceedings with welcomes and gathered-here-todays and celebrations of a life lived and a roll call of family and loved ones who had gathered from far and wide with international representation from the UAE and Bahrain [Kenny had always spoken of relatives in high places in foreign lands; I had always attributed this to an over-active imagination and an incessant need for approval].
His past was acknowledged as straying from the path but the speech rejoiced in his last years living clean and sober, having rehabbed at an expensive centre down the coast away from any bad influences [the slide show pictured him there in jail-house-posse poses with arms on the shoulders of rich-kid junkies dressed in light and cheerful blues, rather than the greens and browns worn by those locked down; the more familiar images from his youth].
The celebrant invited the mourners to participate with memories, stories and tributes to the memory of Kenny.
His sister spoke of how Kenny stood up for her at school, how she had always enjoyed the protective status bestowed by his reputation; of his heart and humour and the innate trickery that was part of his charm, appeal and downfall.
His cousin spoke of parties attended against family wishes where once again Kenny assumed a protective role, one of harm minimisation rather than avoidance – when a line was crossed, a swift, angry response was guaranteed. She too spoke of his heart and humour, charm and cheer.
His mother rose to speak
supported on either side by
daughters and sisters
Her anger and sorrow were clear and focused like laser beams as she spoke with a voice hoarse from tears and sobbing. It was hard not to feel her pain and loss as she lamented the passing of her beautiful little boy. The slide show behind her showed photos of Kenny as a boy; on pushbikes, playing with sisters and cousins, sitting proudly with his long-dead father in his pride and joy: his ‘71’ Ford GTHO Phase III. [1] When she spoke of his miscreant past, she focused on the Back-rowers and we squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze.
One of The Boys muttered under his breath:
Jesus! Saint Kenny? We lead him astray?
He was shooshed and glowered at until silent.
When finished, Kenny’s mother was ushered back to her seat by the sisters and daughters as the celebrant invited others to reminisce on Kenny’s life. I wondered what the boys might say – that he held his mud, did his time like a true con, never dogged his mates, stood up straight and tall and never fucked over anyone that didn’t have it coming. I saw small grins flit across The Boys’ faces as they recalled favourite Kenny anecdotes from back in the day.
There were no further takers and the ceremony proceeded.
The celebrant explained that this concluded her part of the ceremony and that the remainder would be more traditional, in Druze[2], with holy men leading prayers and blessings that would usher Kenny on to the next life.
The holy men took position, one each side at the head, as the coffin was aligned in a westerly fashion. They were both elderly, men of girth; short of stature, endomorphs clad in black baggy pants and shirts like robes with white lace-knitted vests and lacework caps like small white beanies, with corn silk tassels sprouting atop.
The congregation stood.
The holy men prayed, directing Kenny’s soul on to its next body and life[3].
Their reedy voices intertwined and in the harmonics I felt the desert wind and heard the galloping lope of a camel ridden hard, as Kenny was freed once more, riding like a Saracen descending upon the unholy with sword held high in the righteous wrath of God.
One of The Boys held his face with his hands and as his shoulders heaved, I realised that he was trying not to laugh by pretending to cry. He was elbowed none too gently on both sides and given evil eyes until, in short order, he composed himself.
The prayers continued as the pall-bearers took position and the coffin was marched in formation through the chapel. The hearse was parked at the double doors; the coffin was loaded directly onboard, as if Kenny was in a hurry to journey on post-haste. As it passed, The Boys pressed hands to hearts and reached to touch the coffin in farewell.
The ceremony was finished, and the celebrant thanked all with special mention of aunts and uncles, giving details of the interment ceremony and the wake to be held after.
We filed out into cold, clear winter sun as a westerly blew leaves in willy-willies that rose from the ground like wraiths, disappearing in a flash.
The Boys moved respectfully away and once on the footpath we all lit cigarettes. We were joined by other miscreant mourners; neck tatts abounded.
Kenny’s family assembled as the funeral cortege was orchestrated and facilitated with a stream of black limousines providing logistics.
The hearse led the way.
The carpark was empty of mourners
save miscreants.
One of The Boys said:
Are you going to the cemetery?
I replied:
Nah I didn’t
Really know his family soooo
Nah……..
Me neither……… I hate cemeteries.
Too many horror films.
Sooooooo …
…
What was with the laughing?
…?
When the holy men were praying?
He looked sheepish and embarrassed and moved closer before confessing that when he saw the holy men he remembered a conversation with Kenny regarding Druze belief. Kenny had described the holy men as Islamic Oompa-Loompas and this phrase had jumped into his head along with the laugh that only Kenny had when he would roar his amusement to the world, Laughing Like A Motherfucker, he had called it. He said it was just like Kenny to make people laugh at the wrong time. The height of good humour, he had called it!
A patrol car cruised by the chapel and it was obvious that we stood out like a consorting charge at least; there was an agreement to fuck off before the jacks started asking questions. The Boys walked to their cars and moved out, each taking a different direction home. Other miscreants shuffled away, dialing dealers for a wake of opiated daydreams, giving nods of sadness and goodbye.
Cold Clear Winter Sun
A Westerly Blows
Willy-Willy Rises
Like Wraith;
Disappearing
In A Flash.
RIP Kenny
August 2018 ▼
[1] Kenny and I had bonded over a love of early ’70s muscle cars but I had never believed him about the range of vehicles owned by his family as with his international connections, I had been proved wrong, again. Kenny had told the truth.
[2] Arabic dialect
[3] Reincarnation is a paramount principle in the Druze faith; it is impossible for the soul to exist without the body.
Image: Akin Cakiner
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