Rudyard Kipling
Today is Father’s Day. This is the first Father’s Day since my father passed away in September.
Tomorrow is also my father’s birthday.
I’m hoping he’s celebrating Father’s Day and his birthday up in heaven. In fact, this is what I imagine is happening up there:
My father is in a Jewish deli in heaven, having a corned beef sandwich and Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. He is at a table talking with four of his new friends — Cary Grant, Victor Mclaglen, Douglas Fairbanks Jr, and Sam Jaffe — the cast of his favorite movie, Gunga Din (1939). My father loves hearing the inside stories about the film’s production.
“Arthur, my dear friend,” says Cary Grant., dressed in the same casual white suit he would have worn to the Cocoanut Grove nightclub in 1940. ”Did you know that Howard Hawks was the original director until he worked with me on “Bringing Up Baby.” It was such a box-office disaster, that RKO brought in poor Georgie Stevens!”
“RKO back then was run by a bunch of pussies!” insists Douglas Fairbanks Jr.
“F**k ‘em all!” screams the drunk Victor Mclaglen.
“Hey, Vic, didn’t you say the same thing when we brought back those hot-to-trot “Wizard of Oz” Munchkins to our hotel that night?” jokes Sam Jaffe, the former Yiddish child actor who played Gunga Din, and was later blacklisted. “We certainly f**ked them all!”
Victor Mclaglen lets out a hearty laugh, and offers my father a beer — but my father is not much of a drinker. My father sticks with his Cel-Ray soda.
Douglas Fairbanks looks in the Arts section of the Heaven Times.
“Hey, Arthur, look at this. Citizen of the Month happens to be the new #1 blog in Heaven, having just knocked “Dooce” down to #2.”
“That’s my boy,” says my father.
“When’s he going to do another talking penis post?” asks Cary Grant. “Those are hilarious.”
“Do you think he and Sophia will ever get back together?” asks Sam Jaffe, using his Gunga Din voice for effect.
My father sighs.
“I remember telling him that he should marry an easy-going woman like Elaine, but did he listen?”
“Children never listen. I know mine never did,” adds Douglas Fairbanks.
“But I love that Sophia,” my father adds. “She always takes care of my boy.”
Yes, this is what I imagine.
My father having a great time — celebrating with his new friends. But as a big movie fan, my father knows that every story needs a good villain… and some action…
So, into the deli walks the villain –
– British poet Rudyard Kipling, the original writer of Gunga Din. Everyone in Heaven hates Rudyard Kipling. He is the town grouch.
He ambles over to my father’s table and laughs at the sight of the actors.
“So, if it isn’t the four stooges of Hollywood, still talking about that inane Hollywood misinterpretation of my masterpiece.”
“Mr. Kipling, I’d appreciate it if you’d just leave us alone,” says Cary Grant. “We don’t need any of your negativity.”
“What is the matter with you bloody degenerates?” asks Kipling. “Don’t you realize we are all DEAD? Who care about we did on Earth? It was all one big waste of our energy.”
“Rudyard, you’re a real shmuck,” says Sam Jaffe. “You used to be such an inspirational writer. Now all you do is kvetch.”
“Shut up Sam.” seethes Kipling. “Or isn’t your real name Shalom? How in the world did they pick a Yid like you to play the 19th Century Indian Gunga Din?”
“Mr. Kipling, I’m a big fan of your work, but could you please watch your language,” says my father, a bit meekly.
“And who are you?!”
“My name is Arthur Kramer.”
“And why should I care about the opinion of you?”
Cary Grant taps Kipling’s shoulder.
“Arthur’s son, Neil, writes the blog “Citizen of the Month.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed? I’ve read that nonsense.” says Kipling. “The talking penis guy.”
Victor Mclaglen stands, angry at Kipling.
“Rudyard, don’t be a jerk.”
“I’m very proud of him.” says my father.
“Proud of him for what?” asks Kipling. “He’s a talentless piece of shit. The Jungle Book, Kim — what I wrote is pure genius. Your son is a lowly blogger who doesn’t deserve to kiss my shoes.”
“Oh, yeah?” says my father, furious. “Maybe you can kiss my shoes, Mr. Kipling, when you’re lying flat on the floor!”
My father gives Rudyard Kipling a wallop that sends him flying into a passing waiter carrying a tray of food. A bowl of matzoh ball soup falls on Kipling’s head and he is OUT COLD.
The entire deli stands up and cheers for my father. Not only did Rudyard Kipling get what he deserved, but my father showed everyone how much he loves his son.
Of course in real life, my father would never do that. I don’t think he ever hit anyone in his life. But he always loves his son. And I love him.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
Happy Birthday, Dad!
What a wonderful post! I was THERE, it was so vividly done. Your dad is, of course, right to have given ol’ Rud a roundhouse to his smug chops.
Thanks for visiting my blog, too – I’ll be back to see yours again!
Neil, remember something always: your father had you until the day he died. He got see you marry Sophia, he got to see your blog be successful, he got contentment out of life. Rudyard Kipling’s son John wanted to join the army after the outbreak of the First World War and was rejected because of poor eyesight. He prevailed upon his father to use his contacts to get him into the army; Rudyard Kipling finally managed to wangle his son a commission in the Irish Guards. In 1915, during the Battle of Loos, John Kipling was wounded severely in the neck and was last seen trying to get back to an aid station, weeping from the intense pain of his wound, stumbling blindly back because his glasses, which he was almost blind without, had been smashed in the fighting. He never made to the aid station. His body was never found; in all likelihood John Kipling’s body was blasted to pieces in the massive bombardment that accompanied all WWI attacks and counterattacks. In the mid 90′s I read that the British War Graves Commission thought that they may have found him, but it now seems likely that the body they found was not John Kipling at all, and so John Kipling remains one of the half million or so British casualties whose remains were lost in that war, probably lost forever at this point. While the war was still being fought Kipling never accepted that his son was dead; he talked to anyone who could provide some information as to where the boy could be, but after the war, and especially after the repatriation of the British POWs, Kipling had to accept that his son was dead. He never stopped looking for his son’s body and never stopped blaming himself for pushing so hard to get the boy into the army. So your dad might want to cut Rudyard a little slack now and again; if Kipling doesnt like the usual my son the this that or the other thing bragging, there’s a reason for it.
Very beautiful piece. Your father is a lucky man.
Thanks again, everyone. And Akaky, wow! You need to go on Jeopardy!
awwww, that is lovely. it was my mom’s birthday on father’s day, but my own dad is deceased, so it’s kind of bittersweet this year, one without the other.
that was a terrific post. I am just now catching up with stuff. I kind of missed Father’s Day this year other than a call to my dad in Pac Pal.
What a sweet post.
That was a beautiful post and I’m sorry about your dad. It must have been hard but at least you were able to make your dad kick some ass…
heavens! That’s livelier up there than I ever imagined. Maybe I should rescind my hell-pass and see if I can upgrade.
Great post. However, for all this to even be plausible, we would have to buy into one very hard-to-believe fact: Kipling reads blogs. I think maybe Mellville or Twain, but probably not Kipling.
Oh…my….God.
I’ve just found your blog and now I have fallen hopelessly in love.
I love this in so many different ways I can’t even begin to say.
You mean we may be allowed to kick some ass in Heaven? Oh…the possibilities are endless.
You have given me hope for a far more interesting afterlife than I ever would have dared dream…
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All this talk about death already!
I loved and miss my dad, and love and adore my son, but any way you look at it, Kipling ended up suffering on account of his own ignorance about the realities of war (see Akaky’s comment). Another fool caught with “patriotism”
But hey, enough of this, pass the wine!
P.S. I like your Dads crew also.