Ten men on two pews in an old Church at the funeral of a friend.
They look the same ... professional ... nice suits ... talking about the same things ... behaving in the same old Savannah ways ... performing, posturing and perfecting who they want the world to believe they are.
I'm the only one with long hair, an ear ring and not wearing socks.
My realities are two rows behind me ... Sarah, Maddie and my Mom ... yet here I am without them ... sitting in the past.
Five years ago we were all equal cogs in leadership positions excelling in what we did and collectively working to make the City a better place.
A lot's changed since then.
The economy wacked everybody but they still perform, posture and perfect the image nothing's changed.
"Hey," I say, waiting on the funeral to begin," remember that time you and Curtis Lewis call me because I'd written there are three types of statistics ... lies, damn lies and Salvation Army numbers?"
I'm talking to the past President of The Salvation Army.
Talk about taking the steam out of a funeral!
He claims he can't recall.
Shrugging my shoulders I turn to my former Chairman of the Board, "Hey Archie! What was the name of that guy who helped us co-op both Hospital systems into investing millions in homelessness?"
Smiling, Archie says his name.
No one else wants to participate in the conversation.
"How's your brother-in-law?" I ask the man sitting next to me ... a famous developer, former Board member and current architect of homelessness in Savannah.
"Which one?" he asks indignantly.
"The one in Statesboro," I reply.
I watch him remember ... when he and his wife asks me to help her mentally ill, self-medicating brother-in-law get into treatment.
"He's better," is the reply as the bulletin suddenly becomes the Magna Carter he has to read without interruption.
"Well," loudly whispers another former Board Chair, "Ben's having the last word with you."
Ben's the one who gave his life for us to be here.
"He got us all together again and he got you in a coat and tie."
"Oh, I already got him back," I laugh. "I've blogged about him the last two days."
As Ben's funeral commences, they're suddenly uncomfortable and seem out of place.
"He's still got it," Mom whispers to Sarah.
"He does," my wife whispers back. "He's just figuring out what to do with it."
Ben would have loved it.
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