The Married Life with Gene Hackman

It’s not everyday you dream of being married to Gene Hackman.

You’re probably thinking of him in The French Connection as Jimmy Popeye Doyle. Pretty attractive, huh? Unfortunately, I was married to the much later and older version of this man- more on the level of Heartbreakers Gene Hackman. Yup, that one. No need to fret, I seemed to be happily married to a man 60 years my senior. Although I shouldn’t have been surprised when he suddenly dropped dead during our wedding toast. I mean, he was pretty old.

A paramedic, appearing out of thin air, was bent over the body feeling for a pulse. I still had the champagne flute in my hand.

“Did he choke on something?!”

"No ma’am, looks like his heart just stopped.”

There was a murmur in the crowd. Then suddenly, among the masses, someone shouted:

“Gold Digger!”

Kanye? No, just some woman I had never seen in my life accusing me of marrying a rich old man for his money. She had a point, and I quickly noticed she wasn’t the only one with that assumption as I caught many more reproachful stares from across the dining hall. A woman about my own age (who I supposed was my friend) ran up to me:

“Is it true? Did you only marry him for his money?! I mean…”

And at this point she looked to both sides of us to see if anyone was eavesdropping, and asked,

“…did you actually love him?”

Did I?

“Yes! Of course I did. He made me laugh, I guess.”

However, as I started to ponder about my true intentions, there was hardly time to think back on them because I had to do a wardrobe change to mourn my late husband. The funeral home was, coincidentally, next door and I attended the service in a silky, form-fitting long black gown, surrounded by a cluster of friends I never knew I had. Perhaps I never did until they realized I had acquired a neat inheritance that afternoon. As the pastor spoke, I kept trying to remember how this all started - why was I suddenly married and, just as soon, a widow? How does it happen so quickly? Surely, if I remembered how Gene and I were brought together, it would all make sense.

But my thoughts were constantly interrupted by the janitors coming in and out of the room to change out lightbulbs in the chandeliers. I have to say, this spectacle was a lot more intriguing than whatever the pastor was saying. Looking up, I realized the walls were hundreds of feet tall and one chandelier was about the size of a GM Hummer. The janitors were on those metal ladders you would find in your Grandpa’s garage, the ones where you thought you’d lose a finger on the hinge every time you snapped them back shut. These guys were on those ladders, on their tippy toes, wobbling back and forth, barely able to reach the bulb.

Watching them work was making me extremely nauseous, so I had to excuse myself. Naturally, my new found friends tagged along behind me. Was I ever going to get a moment’s peace again?

I found my way into a cold, dark basement, and thankfully a plush couch to lie on (even if it did still smell a little musty). Then that same paramedic from earlier squirmed his way through my flutter of followers.

“Doctor, is she going to be okay?"

“We won’t be able to tell until after the delivery.”

He was met with blank stares, including my own, and thus elaborated,

“She is about to give birth!”

I most certainly was not!

“Sir, that is impossible. I had not even slept with my late husband.”

Wait, I hadn’t? But, of course, dreams aren’t rational and are really good at clogging up your thoughts when you attempt to make any sense of them. You take what is given to you. In this case, I was given a baby…in the basement… of a funeral home.

The paramedic handed me over what I thought would be a bundle of joy, but when I looked down I saw an undeveloped, bluish-colored fetus. Obviously, I was shocked, but then felt a beating in my hands. Is that a heartbeat?! My own heart leapt with joy, that just as suddenly dove back down into an icy sea of fear as the fetus started growing, and growing into what appeared to be a big lump of flesh.

I handed the baby back to the paramedic and looked up at my astonished friends. I addressed them for the first time:

“Let’s go get a drink.”

I was sitting at the bar, in a now wrinkled, and blood-stained gown, playing with the corner of a little white napkin. I know I had just given birth to some kind of monster, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Gene and his untimely (I guess, not really untimely) death. Did he go with happy thoughts, or was he just as confused as I was? I ordered a drink with a weird name, and was given a scotch and coke. The bartender set the drink down on my little white napkin. Then one of my “friends” shouted down the bar,

“Hey! You’re supposed to mix that with beer.”

“Uhm… I ordered a scotch and coke.”

“No, you ordered a [insert weird drink name here]. And that has beer in it.”

“Well, I’ll take it without the beer. Thank you.” I snatched the drink off the counter and into my hand before someone had a chance to taint it with PBR.

Then I drank, and I had a good time. What was I even worrying about before?