Column Chronicles: Obituary for a friend

Obituary for a friend

Frank Cotolo
November 11, 2021

I stand here tonight as I stood here this afternoon, though there are a few different faces in the pews. This afternoon I had a few words to say about my friend, the ill-fated Westmore Underling. I would like to make some more statements about him, as I knew him well and some of you were not here to listen to what I said this afternoon. If you were here this afternoon and heard what I said then, please do not leave. I promise there is new material in this expanded obituary.

You knew him as Mr. Underling, mostly because he did not like to be called what his few closest friends and I liked to call him. To some of us he was Wessy and to others he was Westmore The Westless, Willy Dilly Bopenstein, Wezz The Pezz, Piffanbuff Stank, U-Boat, Cranky Stinkmeyer, W.W. Upbeat and a whole many more. Want to hear the others? No? Then I will tell you that I speak for all of them since those other few closest friends could not be here tonight, as they each have entrants in the semi-finals of the city's pet turtle racing championship. Yes, the same event that did not allow any of you to drive here via Starkling Street, because it is closed for the event.

So, let me just call West, Wes, and tell you a bit about him.

Wes was born with a disease or two. When his mother first saw her newborn, the doctor told her to love him with all her might, because he would probably not live more than two hours, no less the night. But he did. In fact, he lived another fifty-six years. Had he not, he would never have met Paddy. She, too, loved Wes with all of her might, even though their family doctor wanted Wes to die so he could marry Paddy.

Wes was a contradiction. He said one thing and meant another. He was nice to persons he did not like and he was cruel to people who were nice to him. He worked hard all of his life. Maybe only half, really, because he never liked doing anything, no matter what anything paid. Once, a rich member of the county offered him a ton of money, like a million dollars in small bills, if he could pick up an Oldsmobile and carry it in the Christmas parade. All that money? Wes turned him down.

Paddy used to say, Wiggle Tuggs - that's one of the cute names she had for him - why don't you start collecting one hundred dollar bills? Then we could live better and have better things. Wes just kissed her on the cheek and said, darling, ain’t a man alive that doesn't hold on to the things that are his, the things that he owns.

Paddy stuck with him, though, through hard times, which were always. She saw something wonderful in Wiggle Tuggs, you know, ole Wes. Little things, like the miniature puppets he made for a hobby. You all know them because you remember the Christmas he made a miniature puppet for each person in the neighborhood. I still have mine. I lost it a few times, since it's about the size of a thimble, but dam if its face - that of our thirtieth President - isn't a perfect replica.

Most of all, I will remember my friend Wes as a man of peculiar loyalty, a person uniquely absorbed by the smell of a burning car tire and fascinated with the sound of a vest band when snapped. I know you all have similar memories and even the nightmarish ones are good for a laugh now and then. So I ask you all to say seven made up prayers for Westmore Underling and his wife Paddy, who also could not be here tonight due to the amount of hatred she developed just before her dog, Smelltank, died.

Frank Cotolo can be found hosting the talk and interview programme Cotolo Chronicles. You can send him an e-mail at this address: frank@148.ca.