Dead Beat

DEAD BEAT

BY

Ives (George) Pereira

We grew up in a society in the developing world where everything at that time was pretty basic.  Vegetables in the market were fresh and grown organically by farmers who were not in touch with enhancing chemicals as they are today.  However, any food bought from the local market needed to be sanitized when one got home. There was a chicken market where live chickens could be bought that somehow knew that they were there for only one purpose from the continuous cackle that sounded more like a protest and sometimes resembled a dirge.  You made your choice.  If the chicken looked and felt plump you bought it subject to heated bargaining that usually sounded like a contrived quarrel.  It was then taken home in a bag with the claustrophobic chicken vocally objecting to being unceremoniously hijacked and transferred to an unknown destination. 

The busy fish market was always endowed with a wide variety of exotic fish of different colours and sizes.  The most popular and often sought after was “King Fish”.  After some rowdy bargaining once again, off you went feeling pleased with what was going to be the end result….delicious fried fish or fish curry and rice; a full stomach followed by a glucose-ridden siesta!! 

The meat market had great big chunks of body parts dripping blood like a newly inflicted wound, hanging from large menacing hooks.  The unsuspecting animals were slaughtered early in the morning and the carcass rushed to the market.  Leaking blood gave the buyer assurance and comfort that the meat was fresh.

When you died, it was again as basic as it gets.  There were no fancy funeral homes on the island. The coffin was custom built by a local Goan craftsman.  The Church Bell for the dead emanating from the twin spires of St. Joseph’ Cathedral made everybody haltingly aware that someone from the community had left this basic world and migrated to the promised land many light years away.   Preparation of the corpse for burial was to be undertaken by family and friends who went about the business of bathing, and dressing the corpse for its final “Showing” to the public before burial.  Since it was warm in Zanzibar, galloping rigor mortis was a concern, so it was imperative that the corpse be committed to its resting place within twenty-four hours or less. 

 A schedule for uninhibited men and women was usually set up at the home of the deceased the night before the burial, so that the remains, after it had been dressed in the corpse’s finest clothes which was usually the suit/dress the deceased wore at their wedding.  The corpse was then displayed, usually at home or at the Parochial Hall attached to the Church where it was kept awaiting burial.  

Mr. Faria’s body was dressed in his best suit with a strong odour of moth balls.  However, it was a bit tight around the waist (thanks to imported St. Pauli beer) and revealed that he had not bought that suit recently.  Fortunately, in his case the jacket covered him adequately.   He was kept on a bed at home in a tiny, dim, claustrophobic room which allowed for only one chair where the “appointed mourner” sat and was customarily expected to say the rosary until his relief came within an hour.  My unfortunate schedule was from eleven to midnight. 

I sat next to the silent corpse and at fourteen, recited the Rosary as honestly as I could, occasionally giving the corpse a suspicious look of apprehension.  At fourteen, dead bodies were associated with spooky stories.  I am not sure what I expected Mr. Faria to do, but my feet were placed well behind me under the chair.  It would allow me to spring out of the room if Mr. Faria uttered a word or tried to have a conversation with me or worse still, tried to assault me.  But I kept telling myself that this kind of thinking was absurd and only happened in fictional stories.  It didn’t happen in real life. It could not possibly happen in real life. It would not happen in real life.

I soon discovered that an hour next to a corpse is like being in prison for a hundred years. It seemed just as confining and the biting stress could be just as great!  I kept staring at my watch and back at the expressionless corpse. The hands of the clock just did not seem to move fast enough. At eleven-thirty I had said three rosaries (a record in my annals) and felt relieved that in thirty minutes (another three rosaries) I would be free to get to the safety of home. 

At eleven-thirty-five however, I heard a great big BANG from under the corpse.  I catapulted so high that I came within inches of hitting the ceiling.  I ran for dear life out of this haunted catacomb, into the darkened street, with my hair behind my head standing upright like a stallion on the run and my heart racing as though I had just beaten the world’s mile record.  I got home within minutes still shaking uncontrollably and completely out of breath.  I also noticed that I had broken out into a profuse sweat.

 What on earth was Mr. Faria thinking?  Had he been following me home?!  Negative! A quick look out the window confirmed that. Ghost stories are indeed true!  Nobody would have convinced me to the contrary.  It would be an experience that I would carry to the grave and nobody would ever be told about this experience but my grand children that were yet to be born. It would be my prized ghost story!!

The following day I reluctantly met my “relief” that is, the person who was to take over from my eventful vigil the night before.  He was visibly upset that I was nowhere to be found when he got there.  I was not sure whether I should tell him of my sordid experience of the night before.  Finally, I explained to him very hesitantly what had happened, much to his amusement and my dismay. 

Apparently, the family had placed a great big block of ice under the bed, lifting the ice as much as possible using an empty tin can as a support to enable the ice to get as close as possible to the corpse. Ice was used to keep the corpse cool to prevent hastening rigor mortis.   

The ice had apparently melted and had predictably fallen off the tin can causing the loud bang that sent me berserk and my mind and body racing.

Now you know the rest of the story.

I was never the same person after that experience.

I don’t like corpses any more, and I will kick any empty tin can that I see!!!