This story is a bit of a stretch as far as a re-mix. It was inspired by Pat T’s story The Final Gift, and keeps with the plot of Duncan and Joe planning a funeral and Methos being gone, but after that it developed a life of its own. I'd like to dedicate this to the memory of my friend Judy Poellet, who loved life and New Orleans.  It’s timely.  Please forgive me.  

DIDN’T HE RAMBLE

Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod, had had far too much to drink.  Considering the current liability of bar owners, on any other night, Joe Dawson would have had to have cut MacLeod off several hours ago – at least when the bar officially closed.  Mac was walking tonight so he had wanted him to stay, purportedly to help him, but really because he didn’t want to be alone.  It was no fun planning another God-damned funeral.

“Don’t we have everything . . . yet?”  Mac said raising his eyes from the glass of scotch, whose rising and lowering levels had been his only focus for the past couple of hours.

“Just about, Mac.  We just need to settle on the music.”

“Music?  That’s your specialty.  Why do you need my input on the music?  Tell me again why you need my input on any of this?”

“Methos would have . . .”

“If Methos cares so damn much, where is he?  I don’t see him providing any input.  He just took off . . .”

“I there are a couple of words I could say to you, Mac, but I ain’t gonna do it.  You know what they are, don’t you?”

Mac looked incredulous; as if he really didn’t know.

“They both begin with R, does that do it?  Methos was here when you split.  Who do you think helped me plan that funeral?”

*  *  *  *  *

For the music, Joe would have liked to have had the time to gather several of his musician friends together . . .  practiced, jammed and improvised.  But clearly that was not going to happen.  The funeral demanded more music than just his guitar, so it was going to have to be canned.  That bothered Joe a little, but there really wasn’t much more he could do.

“Most of it is pretty set by tradition,” Joe began.  “Probably haven’t heard this one though?”

Mac listened to the music that at least was filling up the silence of the bar.

“That’s appropriate.”

“Called ‘Didn’t He Ramble?’ by Sidney Bechel.”

“Like it.  Not as depressing some, or . . .  as cliché.”

“So I guess everything is done.  We can go home, Mac.  I’ll drive you.  Got to be ready to start at 10 AM.”

“That’s about . . .”   He glanced down at his watch.  “Six hours from now.  I can’t believe how late it got, and how little we accomplished.”

“You accomplished the empting of a bottle of single-malt.”

“Which you were saving for what other special occasion?”

“Come on, Mac, move your butt.  I’ve got to be up at 6:30 AM to check with the caterer, while you’re still sleeping peacefully.”

*  *  *  *

Funerals are not for the dead.  They are for those who survive. Providing them a way to look past the finality of death and concentrate on some promise of future life.  Historically there was also the disposition of the body.  Since there was no body here, technically it should have been called a memorial service.  Except Methos was the only one of them who had memories, and Methos wasn’t here.

Duncan remembered the night before Methos had . . . left.  Methos had come to him, undressed him, and taken him to bed.  They had made love for what seemed like hours.  Nothing -- but the two of them.  Methos’s mouth, his hands, his . . . it was wonderful.  Then he said he had to go. Now he was gone.

Joe had insisted they continue with the plans for the service Methos had suggested; as if anyone besides them would know, or care, or come.

*  *  *  *  *

Mac decided a suit would be too formal, and upon looking out the window, decided that he needed a waterproof raincoat rather than the warmth of his topcoat.  Why did it always rain in Paris on the day of a funeral?  Especially this funeral!  If it wasn’t for the food, which he was certain Joe had already picked up at the caterer’s, they could postpone it until tomorrow.  He didn’t care.  Joe probably didn’t care.  Did anyone?

He noticed, as he walked toward the bar in the rain, that the traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian, was particularly heavy.  Parking places were non-existent and people with dripping umbrellas blocked the sidewalk.  It seemed everyone was out and about on this rainy Paris morning. 

A quick glance at the throng, however, confirmed they were not there to attend the funeral.  Many were dressed in colorful costumes.  Most seemed to be sporting beads.  He noticed a gypsy or two, a few streetwalkers, and even . . .  in the gloomy daylight . . . a group of vampires.  A man walked by with a blue dog on a leash.  You’d think it was freaking Halloween or something; all that was missing were the Trick or Treat sacks.

There was music, the same songs they had dismissed last night as too morose or cliché were being played, somewhat badly, on instruments scattered throughout the crowd. 

Parked in front of the bar was an antique hearse.  Where did that come from?  Why was it here? 

The bar was alive with a furry of noisy agitation.  The music from the jukebox was loud, lively and more professionally performed.   Even over the onions, garlic and sausage, he could smell strong coffee.  He needed a cup badly.

“Where’d all these people come from, Joe?”  Duncan asked.

“Methos said he put up a few flyers before he left.  I didn’t know how many, or if anyone would care.  This is amazing.”

“That it is, Mac.  Just wish the old guy were here to see it.”

“He’s doing what he thinks is best.  I guess.  Still, nice to see our hard work was worth it.”

Joe gave him one of those looks.

 “Your work, sorry. Joe.” Duncan recanted.    He took a slug of coffee and made a face.

“Chicory.  I find it tastes better with a little brandy.”

“Perhaps a lot of brandy, Joe.”

*  *  *  *

They heard a rustle from the crowd even before they heard the police sirens.  The gendarmes had arrived, to control if not cancel the event.  Neither of them had thought about permits, because they really thought no one would come.

The door to the bar burst open.  It was Methos, dripping wet and looking very tired.  Without even exchanging glances with his friends, he jumped on the bar.

“I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but today’s event is cancelled.”

The groan was audible as it spread to the group outside punctuated with swearing in French and English.

“I know you all came to take part in a classic New Orleans Jazz funeral.  But it’s not going to happen today.  Not because of the regulators, because there has not been a death.

“Like you, I was devastated when I heard the news from America.   An important part of my past. . . a wonderful city where I had spent some wonderful years . . . devastated by a horrible storm and then flooded.  Drowning is a horrible way to die.”

“I had to go there to see for myself.  To mourn.  Maybe to help.

“And, it was horrible, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  But remember, this was a city that loved to party.  It even celebrated death with events like the one we were going to have here today – the Jazz Funeral.   There was no other place on this earth where death was celebrated with such style, such joy. 

“I went there and discovered New Orleans is not dead and is not going to die any time soon.  They’ve already had Jazz Funerals, are planning a Day of the Dead Parade[1] and are planning a Mardi Gras celebration for the spring.  Celebrations will continue.  Life will continue.

“So today WE have gathered and we are going to party.  We will celebrate, not death, but continuing life of the city of New Orleans.  Better than ever some say.  So drink up, have some of the food, and rest assured that in New Orleans, when they say ‘Laissez les bons temps rouler;‘[2] they really mean it.” 

A cheer went up from the crowd in the bar.  Duncan reached up for Methos’s hand, entwining his fingers in his, not just to help him down, but to pull him into a hug. 

“Old Katrina made a mistake.  She didn’t realize New Orleans was an immortal and she would have to take off its head.”  He said softly so that only Mac and Joe could hear.

McJude

October 15, 2005