I’m ready, he said. Been waiting all my life. Expecting this moment to come sooner or later, he looked up at the television. Alabama was beating some small school. The sound was down. A score of 64-7 was on the bottom of the screen. Isn’t that always the case, he smiled. Somebody bigger beating the hell out of some small guy, he laughed, began coughing, his wife handed him a glass of water. The old man drank it and wiped his mouth with his hospital gown sleeve. He cocked his head and looked at her. Thirty-five years is a long time, he said to her. She smiled.

Let’s look at some facts, Alabama scored again. I’m not going to be here much longer. We need to get some things in order, his wife placed a finger on her lips and said shhhh. First of all. No religious songs at the funeral. Now my brother is going to fight you on this. He’s going to want to have Old Rugged Cross sang. But it’s not his funeral, is it? she shook her head. Play the whole album, Aja, and then finish the ceremony off with Bad Sneakers. This is what I want. And nobody talks. No preacher, nobody. Just music. Play the whole Kind Of Blue album now that I think of it.

How long do you want the service to be?

Long enough. Music wise, that should do it. And don’t bury me. Burn me up and toss the ashes in Central Park. Spread em around. East to west, she nodded. As for my stuff. Just sell it. Keep the cash and do what you want. I would suggest a trip. Hit every Chinese restaurant from New York to San Francisco, she laughed. That’s what I would do. And honey, it’s been swell. OK. I’m ready.