Jazz Funeral

she imagined it, maybe something to do with dragon stories.
    It wasn’t the way to go.
    But going out with a splash had merit. She could turn her death into art. It couldn’t be beautiful, that would require a white robe and flowers, something along those lines, far too elaborate at this point.
    What then? Poetic? Ironic?
    Yes. Yes to both.
    I know! I’ll die singing.
    I’ll fry singing.
    It was so perfect it made her laugh.
    The tricky part was getting back to the garage, but she did it the same way she’d gotten out—took a bus out Airline Highway and got off by Schwegmann’s. She went in and got some twine and a paring knife; her last purchases.
    Then she followed the railroad tracks as far as she could and took surface streets to the garage.
    She felt light, exhilarated. The paranoia had left and a feeling of certainty, of solidity, had taken its place. She knew this was the right thing. Her only regret was that there would be no flowers in the vase she would use.
    What should she wear? Her wig, certainly. Rwanda Zaire was a part of her now. Anyhow, it looked better than what was underneath.
    Anything else? It was either shorts and T-shirt, bra and panties, or nothing. Nothing would be far the most dramatic, but somehow she couldn’t stand the thought of poor Joel or Doug finding her naked. There was something pathetic about it.
    I’d be so obviously dead meat.
    The thought of her own dead body didn’t frighten or repel her; seemed right somehow. But she hoped finding it wouldn’t be too hard on the person who did. She especially hoped the wig didn’t slip when she fell, making it look like she had two heads. Would she fall? She hoped she’d slump gracefully over the piano, but didn’t think it likely. Electrocution made you jerk around. She’d seen it in a movie once.
    Her most prized possession, her little electric piano, was going to be her instrument of death.
    As it had been her instrument of life, had kept her going when the depression wouldn’t let up. It had poetry and it had irony.
    She would leave her clothes on.
    She pulled the piano to a space underneath a shelf; there was already a vase there, from the time her parents had sent her flowers when the Spin-Offs won the Battle of the Bands. She filled the vase with water and tied the string to it. Pulled it.
    Perfect. The water spilled on the piano wire. And now she had a nice puddle to put her feet in, just to make double sure.
    With the paring knife, she cut a piece of insulation off the wire. A pretty big section so the water couldn’t miss.
    All that remained was to pick the song. This was important, the most important part of all, even though no one would ever know.
    Something elegiac? At jazz funerals they did gospel songs at the wake service the night before, and dirges on the way to the cemetery. On the way back they did celebratory songs: “The Saints” and “Didn’t He Ramble.” She’d heard two versions of the tradition. One held that at the wake, to the tune of “Down by the Riverside” and the like, the idea was to reminisce about the “good life” of the dead person, and the joyous songs celebrated his “bad life.” But she hated that. That was what she despised most about religion as she’d been taught it: joy must be bad.
    Forget it. I’m not a Christian.
    Another version said the dirges were for the mourners, to say good-bye, to express their sadness, and the send-off songs celebrated the release of the dead person’s soul. That worked better for her. Release: that was the idea.
    “Breakaway.”
    The words were perfect. Perfectly metaphorical. And the thing had symmetry—it was almost the first song she’d ever sung professionally.
    Did she dare do it twice? No. Once was dicey enough. Someone might hear and come to investigate.
    She’d do it once and pull the vase on the last line.
    Maybe before if I feel like it.
    She refilled the vase, plugged in the piano and took off her shoes. She was careful not to let the wire drag in the puddle, not to wet her feet quite yet. She felt an odd tingling in her lower torso, whether belly or lower still she wasn’t sure, but it was vaguely sexual. Some kind of prickly excitement.
    And why not? This was the greatest adventure of all.
    She started to sing:
    “I’ve made my reservations,
    I’m leaving town tomorrow,
    I’ll find somebody new and there’ll be no more sorrow.”
    God, this is fun.
    “That’s what I say each time,
    But I can’t follow through
    I