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So I stopped at a Jack in the Box on the way here, and the girl behind the counter said, âHiya! Are you having an awesome day?â Not, âHow are you doing today?â No. âAre you having an awesome day?â Which is pretty⌠shitty, because it puts the onus on me to disagree with her, like if Iâm not having an âawesome day,â suddenly Iâm the negative one.
Usually when people ask how Iâm doing, the real answer is Iâm doing shitty, but I canât say Iâm doing shitty because I donât even have a good reason to be doing shitty. So if I say, âIâm doing shitty,â then they say, âWhy? Whatâs wrong?â And I have to be like, âI donât know, all of it?â So instead, when people ask how Iâm doing, I usually say, âI am doing so great.â
But when this girl at the Jack in the Box asked me if I was having an awesome day, I thought, âWell, today Iâm actually allowed to feel shitty.â Today I have a good reason, so I said to her, âWell, my mom died,â and she immediately burst into tears. So now I have to comfort her, which is annoying, and meanwhile, thereâs a line of people forming behind me who are all giving me these real judgy looks because I made the Jack in the Box girl cry. And sheâs bawling, and sheâs saying, âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorry,â and Iâm like, âItâs fine. Itâs fine.â I mean, itâs not fine but, you know, itâs⌠fine. And I would like to order a Double Jack Meal, and Iâve kinda got somewhere to be, so maybe less with the crying and more with the frying, huh? [inhales] And the girl apologizes again and she offers me a free churro with my meal. And as Iâm leaving, I think, âI just got a free churro because my mom died.â No one ever tells you that when your mom dies, you get a free churro.
[people murmuring]
[clears throat]
Anyway, Iâm sorry, thatâs not part of the⌠[clears throat] All right. Okay, here we go. Letâs do this. Here I am, BoJack Horseman, doing a eulogy, letâs go. Hey, piano man, can I get a, like an organ flourish? [organ plays] Nicely done. You know, I was a little worried I wouldnât have the right accompaniment today. I guess itâs a good thing my mom was an organ donor! [rimshot plays] What happened to the organ? [horn âoogahsâ] Okay, why just leave the comedy to the professionals? Okay? This is a funeral, sir, for my mother. Can you show a little respect? [trumpet whines] Iâll take it.
Beatrice Horseman, who was she? What was her deal? Well, she was a horse. Uh, she was born in 1938. She died in 2018. One time, she went to a parade, and one time, she smoked an entire cigarette in one long inhale. I watched her do it. Truly a remarkable woman.
[rustling]
Lived a full life, that lady. Just, all the way to the end, which is, uh, now I guess. Really makes you think, though, huh? Life, right? Goes by, stuff happens. Then you die. Okay, well thatâs my time, youâve been great! Tip your waitress! No, Iâm just kidding around, thereâs no waitress. But seriously, thatâs all I have to say about my mother. No point beating a dead horse, right? SoâŚ
[inhales] Now what? I donât know. Mom, you got any ideas? Anything? Mom? No? Nothing to contribute? Knock once if youâre proud of me.
Can I just say how amazing it is to be in a room with my mother, and I can just talk and talk without her telling me to shut up and make her a drink? Hey, Mom, knock once if you think I should shut up. No? You sure? I mean, I donât want to embarrass you by making this eulogy into a me-logy, so, seriously, if you wanted me to sit down and let someone else talk, just knock. I will not be offended. No? Your funeral.
Sorry about the closed casket, by the way. She wanted an open casket, but uh, you know, sheâs dead now, so who cares what she wanted? No, that sounds bad. Iâm sorry. I-I think that if she couldâve seen what she looked like dead, sheâd agree itâs better this way. She looked like this.
[groaning]
[mourners gasping]
Kinda like a pissed-off toy dinosaur. The coroner couldnât get her eyes closed, so now her face is forever frozen in a mask of tremendous horror and anguish. Or as my mom called it, Tuesday! Tuesday! My mom called it Tuesday.
[woman coughs]
Hey, Mom, what did you think of that joke? You like that? You never did care for my comedy.
[clears throat]
Hereâs a story. When I was a teenager, I performed a comedy routine for my high school talent show. There was this, uh, cool jacket that I wanted to wear because I thought it would make me look like Albert Brooks. For months, I saved up for this jacket. But when I finally had enough, I went to the store and it was gone. They had just sold it to someone else. So, I went home and I told my mother, and she said, âLet that be a lesson. Thatâs the good that comes from wanting things.â She was really good at dispensing life lessons that always seemed to circle back to everything being my fault.
But then, on the day of the talent show, my mother had a surprise for me. She had bought me the jacket. Even though she didnât know how to say it, I know this meant that she loved me.
Now thatâs a good story about my mother. Itâs not true, but itâs a good story, right? I stole it from an episode of Maude I saw when I was a kid, where she talks about her father. I remember when I saw it, thinking, âThatâs the kind of story I want to tell about my parents when they die.â But I donât have any stories like that. All I know about being good, I learned from TV. And in TV, flawed characters are constantly showing people they care with these surprising grand gestures. And I think that part of me still believes thatâs what love is. But in real life, the big gesture isnât enough. You need to be consistent, you need to be dependably good. You canât just screw everything up and then take a boat out into the ocean to save your best friend, or solve a mystery, and fly to Kansas. You need to do it every day, which is so⌠hard.
When youâre a kid, you convince yourself that maybe the grand gesture could be enough, that even though your parents arenât what you need them to be over and over and over again, at any moment, they might surprise you with something⌠wonderful. I kept waiting for that, the proof that even though my mother was a hard woman, deep down, she loved me and cared about me and wanted me to know that I made her life a little bit brighter. Even now, I find myself waiting.
Hey, Mom, knock once if you love me and care about me and want me to know I made your life a little bit brighter.
[owl chirping]
My mother did not go gentle into that good night. She went clawing and fighting and thrashing, hence the face.
[groaning]
[mourners gasping]
If youâd seen her, I swear to God the only thing youâd be thinking about right now is that I am nailing this impression.
[woman clears her throat]
[chairs squeak]
I was in the hospital with her those last moments, and they were truly horrifying, full of nonsencial screams and cries, but there was this moment, this one instant of strange calm, where she looked in my direction and said, âI see you.â Thatâs the last thing she said to me. âI see you.â Not a statement of judgment or disappointment, just acceptance and the simple recognition of another person in a room. âHello there. You are a person. And I see you.â
Let me tell you, itâs a weird thing to feel at 54 years old, that for the first time in your life your mother sees you. Itâs an odd realization that thatâs the thing youâve been missing, the only thing you wanted all along, to be seen. And it doesnât feel like a relief, to finally be seen. It feels mean, like, âOh, it turns out that you knew what I wanted, and you waited until the very last moment to give it to me.â I was prepared for more cruelty. I was sure that she would get in one final zinger about how I let her down, and about how I was fat and stupid and too tall to be an effective Lindy-hopper. How I was needy and a burden and an embarrassmentâall that I was ready for. I was not ready for âI see you.â Only my mother would be lousy enough to swipe me with a moment of connection on her way out. But maybe Iâm giving her too much credit. Maybe it wasnât about connection. Maybe it was a⌠maybe it was an âI see you,â like, uh, âI see you.â Like, âYou might have the rest of the world fooled, but I know exactly who you are.â Thatâs more my momâs speed.
Or maybe she just literally meant âI see you. You are an object that has entered my field of vision.â She was pretty out of it at the end, so maybe itâs dumb to try to attribute it to anything.
[woman sighs]
Back in the 90s, I was in a very famous TV show called Horsinâ Around.
[man coughs]
Please hold your applause. And I remember one time, a fan asked me, âHey, um, you know that episode where the horse has to give Ethan a pep talk after Ethan finds out his crush only asked him to the dance because her friends were having a dorkiest date contest? In all the shots of the horse, you can see a paper coffee cup on the kitchen counter, but in the shots of Ethan, the coffee cupâs missing. Was that because the show was making a statement about the fluctuant subjectivity of memory and how even two people can experience the same moment in entirely different ways?â And I didnât have the heart to be, like, âNo, man, some crew guy just left their coffee cup in the shot.â So instead, I was, like⌠âYeah.â
And maybe this is like that coffee cup. Maybe weâre dumb to try to pin significance onto every little thing. Maybe when someone says, âI see you,â it just means, âI see you.â Then again, itâs possible she wasnât even talking to me because, if Iâm being honest, she wasnât really looking at me. She was looking just past me. There was nobody else in the room, so I want to think she was talking to me, but, honestly, she was so far gone at that point, who knows what she was seeing? Who were you talking to, Mom? [sighs] Not saying, huh? Staying mum? No rimshot there? God, whatever Iâm paying you, itâs too much.
Maybe she saw my dad. My dad died about ten years ago of injuries he sustained during a duel. When your father dies, you ask yourself a lot of questions. Questions like, âWait, did you say he died in a duel?â and âWho dies in a duel?â The whole thing was so stupid. Dad spent his entire life writing this book, but he couldnât get any stores to carry it or any newspapers to review it. Finally, I guess this one newspaper thought he was pretty hilarious, because they ran a review and tore him to shreds. So my father, ever the proud Mary, decided he would not stand for this besmirchment of his honor. He claimed the critic didnât understand what it meant to be a man, so he demanded satisfaction in the form of pistols at dawn. He wrote the paper this letter, saying anyone who didnât like his book, he would challenge to a duel, anyone in the world. Heâd even pay for airfare to San Francisco and a night in a hotel. Well, eventually this found its way to some kook in Montana, who was as batshit as he was and took him up on the offer. They met at Golden Gate Park and agreed: ten paces, then shoot. But in the middle of the ten paces, Dad turned to ask the guy if heâd actually read the book and what he thought, but, not looking where he was going, tripped over an exposed root and bashed his head on a rock.
[murmur]
I wish Iâd known to go to Jack in the Box then. Maybe I could have gotten a free churro. It wouldâve been nice to have something to show for being the son of Butterscotch Horseman. My darling mother gave the eulogy. My entire life I never heard her say a kind word to or about my father, but at his funeral she said, âMy husband is dead, and everything is worse now.â
âMy husband is dead, and everything is worse now.â I donât know why she said that. Maybe she felt like thatâs the kind of thing youâre supposed to say at a funeral. Maybe she hoped one day someone would say that about her. âMy mother is dead, and everything is worse now.â Or maybe she knew that he had frittered away all her inheritance, and replaced it with crippling debt, which is a pretty shitty thing to leave your widow with. âBad news, you lost a husband, but donât worry, you also lost the house!â Maybe Mom knew sheâd have to sell all her fancy jewelry and move into a home. Maybe thatâs what she meant by âeverything is worse now.â Is that what you meant, Mom?
I gotta say, Iâm really carrying this double act. At least with Penn and Teller, the quiet one does card tricks. Hey, piano man, when I say something funny to my mom, how about you give me one of those rimshots?
[rimshot plays]
Yeah, but not now. When I say something funny. Like, okay. Whatâs the difference between my mother and a disruptive expulsion of germs? Oneâs a coughinâ fit and the other fits a coffin! Thatâs an example of a funny thing.
[rimshot plays]
Thank you. Letâs try again. Hey, Mom. Whatâs the difference between my mother and a bunch of Easter eggs? One gets carried in a basket, the other gets buried in a casket!
[rimshot plays]
Ready for one more? Last one. Whatâs the difference between a first-year lit major and my mother, Beatrice Horseman? One is decently read, and the otherâs a huge bitch!
[woman gasps]
[murmurs]
Yeah, might have gone a little too far with that one. That one mightâve been a little too âmy momâs a huge bitchâ for the room. Iâm sorry, Mother. Youâre not a huge bitch. You were a huge bitch⌠and now youâre dead.
[woman sighs]
You know, the first time I ever performed in front of an audience, it actually was, uh, with my mom. She used to put on these shows with her supper club in the living room and she used to make⌠[inhales] She used to make me sing âThe Lollipop Song.â
[organ playing tune]
Those parties, they were really something. There were skits and magic acts, and ethnically insensitive vaudeville routines, and the big finale was always a dance my mother did. She had this beautiful dress that she only brought out for these parties, and she did this incredible number. It was so beautiful and sad. Dad hated the parties. Heâd lock himself in the study, and bang on the walls for us to keep it down, but he always came out to see Mom dance. Heâd linger in the doorway, scotch in hand, and watch in awe, as this cynical, despicable woman he married⌠took flight. And as a child who was completely terrified of both my parents, I was always aware that this moment of grace, it meant something. We understood each other in a way. Me and my mom and my dad, as screwed up as we all were, we did understand each other. My mother, she knew what itâs like to feel your entire life like youâre drowning, with the exception of these moments, these very rare, brief instances, in which you suddenly remember⌠you can swim.
[flashback]
[partygoers laughing]
[classical music playing]
But then again, mostly not. Mostly youâre drowning. She understood that, too. And she recognized that I understood it. And Dad. All three of us were drowning, and we didnât know how to save each other, but there was an understanding that we were all drowning together. And I would like to think that thatâs what she meant when we were in the hospital and she said, âI see you.â
You know, the weird thing about both your parents being dead is it means that youâre next. I mean, you know, obviously itâs not like thereâs a waitlist for dying. Any one of us could get run over by a Snapchatting teen at any moment. And you would think that knowing that would make us more adventurous, and kind, and forgiving. But it makes us small, and stupid, and petty.
I actually had a near-death experience recently. A stunt went bad and I fell off a building. Iâm an actor, I do my own stunts. Iâm on this new show Philbert. Iâm Philbert. Star of the show. It hasnât come out yet, but itâs already getting Emmy buzz. Oh, speaking of buzz⌠[inhales] Iâm supposed to take two of these every morning, but my days are so screwed up âcause of the shooting schedule, I donât even know what morning means anymore. Thereâs a joke in there somewhere, about a guy whoâs been to so many funerals, he doesnât even know what mourning means anymore. Let you guys figure that one out for yourselves. [gulps]
Anyway, you know what I thought, when I was falling off the building and I went into panic mode? The last thing that my stupid brain could come up with before I died? âWonât they be sorry.â Cool thought, brain.
[rimshot plays]
No, that wasnât⌠would you just⌠dial it back, all right?
I donât even know what âtheyâ I wanted to be sorry. My mom, even before she died, could barely remember who I was. And of course, my dadâs dead. The last conversation I ever had with him was about his novel. He was so certain this book was his legacy. Maybe he thought it would vindicate him for all the shitty things he ever did in his stupid worthless life. Maybe it did, I donât know. I never read it, because why would I give him that?
I used to be on this TV show called Horsinâ Around. Seriously, though, hold your applause.
[man coughs]
Well held. It was written by my friend Herb Kazzaz, whoâs also dead now, and it starred this little girl named Sarah Lynn. And it was about these orphans. And early on, the network had a note, âMaybe donât mention theyâre orphans so much, because audiences tend to find orphans sad and not relatable.â But I never thought that the orphans were sad. I-I always thought they were lucky, because they could imagine their parents to be anything they wanted. They had something to long for.
Anyway, we did this one season finale, where Oliviaâs birth mother comes to town. And she was a junkie, but sheâs gotten herself cleaned up, and she wants to be in Oliviaâs life again. And of course, sheâs like a perfect grown-up version of Olivia, and they go to the mall together and get her ears pierced like sheâs always wanted andâsorry, spoiler alert for the season six finale of Horsinâ Around, if youâre still working your way through it. Anyway, the horse tries to warn her, âBe careful, moms have a way of letting you down.â But Olivia just thinks the horse is jealous, and when the mom says sheâs moving to California, Olivia decides to go with her. And the network really juiced the cliffhanger: âIs Olivia gone for good?â But of course, because itâs a TV show, she was not gone for good. Of course, because itâs a TV show, Oliviaâs mother had a relapse and had to go back to rehab, so Olivia had to hitchhike all the way home, getting rides from Mr. T, Alf, and the cast of Stomp. Of course, thatâs what happened. Because, what are you gonna do, just not have Olivia on the show? You canât have happy endings in sitcoms, not really, because, if everyoneâs happy, the show would be over, and above all else, the show⌠has to keep going. Thereâs always more show. And you can call Horsinâ Around dumb, or bad, or unrealistic, but there is nothing more realistic than that. You never get a happy ending, âcause thereâs always more show.
I guess until there isnât.
[chuckles]
My mom would hate it if she knew that I spent so much time at her funeral talking about my old TV show. Or maybe sheâd think it was funny that her idiot son couldnât even do this right. Who knows? She left no instructions for what she wanted me to say. All I know is she wanted an open casket, and her idiot son couldnât even do that right. Iâm not gonna stand up here and pretend I ever understood how to please that woman, even though so much of my life has been wasted in vain attempts to figure it out. But I keep going back to that moment in the ICU when she looked at me, and⌠âI-C-U.â
âI⌠see⌠you.â Jesus Christ, we were in the intensive care unit. She was just reading a sign. My mom died and all I got was this free churro.
You know the shittiest thing about all of this? Is when that stranger behind the counter gave me that free churro, that small act of kindness showed more compassion than my mother gave me her entire goddamn life. Like, how hard is it to do something nice for a person? This woman at the Jack in the Box didnât even know me. Iâm your son! All I had was you! [inhales]
I have this friend. And right around when I first met her, her dad died, and I actually went with her to the funeral. And months later, she told me that she didnât understand why she was still upset, because she never even liked her father. It made sense to me, because I went through the same thing when my dad died. And Iâm going through the same thing now. You know what itâs like? Itâs like that show Becker, you know, with Ted Danson? I watched the entire run of that show, hoping that it would get better, and it never did. It had all the right pieces, but it justâit couldnât put them together. And when it got canceled, I was really bummed out, not because I liked the show, but because I knew it could be so much better, and now it never would be. And thatâs what losing a parent is like. Itâs like Becker.
Suddenly, you realize youâll never have the good relationship you wanted, and as long as they were alive, even though youâd never admit it, part of you, the stupidest goddamn part of you, was still holding on to that chance. And you didnât even realize it until that chance went away.
My mother is dead, and everything is worse now, because now I know I will never have a mother who looks at me from across a room and says, âBoJack Horseman, I see you.â But I guess itâs good to know. Itâs good to know that there is nobody looking out for me, that there never was, and there never will be. No, itâs good to know that I am the only one that I can depend on. And I know that now and itâs good. Itâs good that I know that. So⌠itâs good my mother is dead.
[gulps, sighs]
Well. No point beating a dead horse. Beatrice Horseman was born in 1938, and she died in 2018, and I have no idea⌠what she wanted. Unless she just wanted what we all want⌠to be seen.
Is this Funeral Parlor B?
đ
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