Orca St. Clair had been deputized as the Master of Ceremonies for C. Brandon Granger’s memorial service, and at precisely 4 o’clock she stepped up to the lectern and asked everyone to find a seat. Leo Papadakis was corralled, led away from the stripper pole, and the muted celebration began.
The service went along in an orderly fashion. We sat and listened to a tedious folk song played over the club’s PA. There were readings, Ezra Pound, a Bukowski rant, done with the vigor of academic obligations. Then a wonderful thing happened. To the delight of almost of us, Orca began repeatedly referring to Granger as Brendan rather than Brandon and with each slip a viral sense of joy spread through the congregation; it gave the proceedings a buoyant vibe that Orca began to play off of, her usual sullen demeanor giving way to what suggested a spinster wiggling special treats in front of her indifferent cat. She prattled on in between the scheduled speakers, all the while completely oblivious to her ongoing gaffe. It couldn’t have been scripted any better.
The last presentation of the service was listed in the program as Flavia says Goodbye. While Flavia’s Portuguese may be impeccable, her English isn’t, so it seemed unlikely that a spoken remembrance would be forthcoming. Clearly no one had informed Orca what was upcoming so she simply read the introduction straight from the program, then wandered over to her seat.
We all sat, unsure as to what was about to unfold. After a brief silence, a soft hiss drifted from the speakers. Then, out of the mist, came the unmistakable sound of a clarinet, mournful at first, then building to a proclamation evocative of an era. The lights came up, and Flavia was curled around the pole while Rhapsody in Blue settled over the congregation.
The Observations of A.E. Turdling 
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