A Carlin Home Companion (37 page)

My phone rang, startling me out of my trance. It was my friend Jon. He was part of my tribe, the Wolves, from Leadership.

“Kel, I heard. I'm so sorry.”

Crying again, I said, “Yeah, I'm in the airport on my way home from Maui. It's so fucking weird. I'm avoiding all the TVs because I'm not sure I'm ready to let it be real.” I laughed.

“I can't even imagine. It must be so weird,” he said. “Speaking of weird … Um, I wanted to know if it would be okay for my partner, Janet, and I to help your dad to the other side?” Jon had trained with a number of South American shamans, and practiced the art of soul retrieval. I wasn't sure exactly what he was asking or what he wanted to do, but I didn't care. I felt so far away from the ones I loved and my dad, and I kept picturing my dad terrified as he was dying. If I could comfort him in any way, I wanted to try.

“Sure,” I said.

Jon continued, “I have the feeling that he's needing a bit of guidance right now.”

“Do what you feel is right,” I said.

“Okay, I'll call you back when we know more.”

It helped me to feel a bit less alone. People were here for me. People were here for my dad. God, I hoped he hadn't suffered.

As I waited for Jon to call back, I gathered some courage and went in search of a public Internet terminal. I didn't really want to see the news sprawled across the Internet, but I also felt compelled to get the moment over with. I knew I could only delay the inevitability of my new life for so long. Eventually I was going to have to see what it felt like to experience the reality that this was not a private event but a public one. I was curious to see what it would feel like, and yet terrified that it would begin some snowball effect in my life—that my life would no longer be mine. I would become the grieving daughter of the famous comedian.

I sat down at the terminal, swiped my credit card, and Googled “George Carlin.” And
boom
! the first item that appeared was from
Entertainment Tonight
: “George Carlin, age 71, dies of heart failure at St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica, CA at 5PM PST today.”

It was official. My dad was dead. It was real.

It was real because
Entertainment Tonight
said so. The surreality notched up another click.

About thirty minutes later Jon called back. “So, we found him and connected with him. He was disoriented because of all of the medications and drugs from the procedures they put him through. I really don't think he thought he was going to die today. We said some prayers and did a ritual to usher him along. After a few minutes I heard him say, ‘Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.'”

I laughed through the tears falling down my face. “Well, that certainly sounds like my dad.”

I had no idea if the afterlife was real or if my dad was lost in the ethers. In the past, when my dad and I had talked about this stuff, we'd both felt that we'd only know what really happens once we'd gone. So, at this moment just after his death, I was willing to err on the side that he was “up there” somewhere. And if Dad was a bit confused, it didn't surprise me, because everyone, including him, thought he'd live forever. He'd just always be here.

I boarded the plane and took my very expensive window seat in first class. This was going to be the longest flight of my life, and I was happy not only for the extra legroom, but also for the extra emotional room around me. As I stared out the window, I couldn't contain my grief, and I let myself cry as I watched the ground crew load the luggage. A flight attendant offered me some champagne, and I took it. I didn't want to seem crazy for crying, so I told her that my dad had just died. And then I added, “My dad was George Carlin.” Name-dropping my father's name may seem obnoxious, but I was alone on that plane and didn't want to bear the loss by myself. I was hoping she was a fan and would share a piece of the burden with me. She smiled. “Oh, I'm so, so sorry. I hadn't heard. If there's anything else you need, please let me know.”

I knew exactly what I needed, but she couldn't bring it to me. I needed my mom. I needed Bob. I needed some comfort and strength. I needed all this to go away.

A woman sat down in the seat next to me. Oh good, I thought, at least it's some feminine energy. She also accepted a glass of champagne while she arranged her bags. After we took off, we exchanged a few pleasantries. I could see from her reading material that she was some kind of a minister.
Oh good
, I thought,
she's a compassionate soul
. I said to her, “I, um—well, my dad just died, and so I'm a bit of a mess right now. I just heard a few hours ago.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” she said.

“Yeah, it's so strange. My mom is gone too. And well, my dad was George Carlin.…”

All the warmth disappeared from her face. “Hmm. Well, I'm so sorry for your loss,” she said as she grabbed a pile of folders and began to read.

Really? Oh yeah, that's right. She's one of those professional Christians my dad talked about. The kind that can manage to extend compassion only to people they approve of. I turned my back on her for the rest of the flight and spent my time looking out the window for some comfort. When I saw Jupiter in the sky, I smiled.

I wondered if Dad had made it there yet.

*   *   *

I landed back in Los Angeles around four in the morning. Bob gathered me up. I was numb, in shock, barely present. Once home, I lay on the bed on top of the covers fully clothed, unable to sleep, fearing the reality that I would face when I awoke—a world without my dad. Bob lay down beside me and held me until I slept.

Hours later I was awakened by the phone ringing. Bob answered it in the kitchen. Once I realized where I was, and what was happening, I thought,
It has begun.

“No, she's not available right now. Can I take a message? Sure. Yes. I'll let her know.”

Bob came down the hall and leaned on the doorjamb. Still lying on the bed, I whispered, “Who was it?”

“Larry King,” he answered.

“Larry King, Larry King?” I said, confused, as I sat up in bed.
My God, it really has begun.

“Yeah. Larry King, Larry King. He wants to send a car for you so that you can come on his show today to talk about your dad,” he said.

I sat there barely able to fathom the notion of making it to the bathroom to pee let alone the idea of cars and lights and cameras and microphones. And yet it was my dad.
I must rally
, I told myself.
I need to make sure I'm doing the right things
.

Bob interrupted my inner monologue. “You know, you don't have to do it.”

“I don't?” I asked innocently.

“No,” he said.

Relieved, “Yeah. Okay. Yeah. Good. I don't think I can.”

As Bob turned and walked up the hallway, I said loudly, “Maybe I can call in?” I would call in.

Larry King was just the beginning. The phone rang, e-mails dinged, and the doorbell dinged and donged. All day long flowers and telegrams began to arrive, and they didn't stop. White flowers in every shape and form—orchids, roses, daisies, lilies—flowed into our home and took up nearly every square inch of horizontal space we had. By the end of the week I walked into the living room and blurted out, “Jesus Christ, it looks like a fucking funeral parlor in here. It's so fucking depressing,” and then laughed, realizing the irony of what I'd just said.

*   *   *

Larry King fortunately indeed allowed me to call in later that day. As I sat on hold, waiting to be connected to him live on the air, I did a little dance. This “dance” was one I'd created at the leadership program the year before in order to be able to recover my sense of self. It helped me to get out of my head and back into my body. It worked wonders in any situation when anxiety took over, when I could no longer think straight. As I listened to Larry throwing it to commercial—“We'll be right back with George's daughter, Kelly”—I'm sure I looked insane swinging my hips and shooting my arms around like a disco queen. But, by the time he said, “We have George's daughter, Kelly, on the line,” I was relatively calm and felt reconnected to myself—or at least as much of myself as there was to be connected with, considering the state I was in.

Before I called in, I'd been watching parts of the show. It was tough. I could barely watch the videos of my dad. It physically hurt. I managed to watch a few minutes of Jerry Seinfeld, and then Bill Maher, and a bit of Lewis Black, and Roseanne Barr. It was so surreal to see these superstars talking about my dad in such a reverential way. It was heartbreaking, too. They all looked like they couldn't quite believe it had happened. I could see the grief on Lewis's face, and it made the loss even more real to me.

The first time Larry went to commercial and I saw the big graphic behind him that said, “Remembering George Carlin, 1937–2008,” I thought, Dad would get a kick out of that. Even though he'd dismissed the industry and awards and such, that little boy who lived within him, the one who'd dreamed of being Danny Kaye, reveled in and got excited about that kind of stuff. I could hear myself saying to Dad, “See, Dad, you were loved. People were paying attention.”

But it was surreal. Here he was,
my
dad,
my
papa, and yet, he was
the legend
,
the icon
now. He was the dead famous guy that people talk about on TV now. And I was the daughter of the dead famous guy about to talk about him on TV now.

We went live. “Kelly, thank you for being here…,” said Larry King. And I have no memory of what happened after that. He asked questions, and I answered them. I do remember thinking,
Wow, he's a good interviewer!
After it was over, I was unsure if I'd done the right thing by even being on the show. I felt awkward and vulnerable. I thought,
Maybe I just need to lie low
.

*   *   *

Later that night I walked into my bedroom alone, and a vision came to me: I am backstage at a theater standing in the wings looking out at the stage—a very familiar vantage point from my entire life watching my dad perform. But during this vision there was no one on the stage. It was empty except for a single microphone stand lit by a spotlight. My heart began to ache, and then my father's voice came into my head and said, “It's all lined up for ya, Kiddo. Go for it.”

And I knew that from that moment forward, my life would never be the same.

 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN

Episode Number 268 of Kelly's Surreal Life, Or The Sun and the Buddha (I Can't Decide)

O
N
T
UESDAY MORNING
someone brought me a copy of Monday's
New York Times.
I saw that Dad had made the front page. Fuck, yeah. I could feel my dad smiling from the great beyond. The article talked mostly about his career, but at the end it said he was survived by his daughter, Kelly, and wife, Sally Wade. Hmm. I knew he called her “his spouse” and even “his wife” in public because he felt that “girlfriend” or “significant other” was just silly for a man in his sixties. For a second I was set into a tailspin. Would he have married her without me knowing? No, I knew he hadn't. Get it together,
New York Times.

I gathered myself together as much as I could because today was plan-the-memorial day. While fully immersed in that surreal is-this-really-happening-in-my-life? mode, I was also filled with an intense inner knowing about what was needed to honor my dad. I could feel his presence right next to me. He was my inner GPS telling me what was needed, what was not; what to go for and what to ignore. It was as if I were seeing the world through his eyes. It was a very weird feeling, because I was so used to him being the absent father. But now that he was gone, he was more present than ever.

Bob and I went to Jerry's house to talk about the memorial we would have there on Saturday. If I had any doubt at all about what we should do for Dad, it was alleviated because Dad had left instructions:

Upon my death, I wish to be cremated. The disposition of my ashes (dispersal at sea, on land, or in the air) shall be determined by my surviving family (wife and daughter) in accordance with their knowledge of my prejudices and philosophies regarding geography and spirituality. Under no circumstances are my ashes to be retained by anyone or buried in a particular location. The eventual dispersal can be delayed for any reasonable length of time required to reach a decision, but not to exceed one month following my death.

I wish no public service of any kind.

I wish no religious service of any kind.

I prefer a private gathering at my house, attended by friends and family members who shall be determined by my immediate surviving family.

The exact nature of this gathering shall be determined by my surviving family. It should be extremely informal, they should play rhythm and blues music, and they should laugh a lot. Vague references to spirituality (secular) will be permitted.

George Carlin

5/1/90

I was shocked by two things when Jerry showed me the typed-out document: (1) that he'd written these instructions at all; and (2) that he hadn't amended them since 1990. I wondered if he even remembered that he'd written them. I imagined he'd smoked a joint and gotten into some kind of existential fugue when he wrote them. I was happy he had. It gave me direction. I envisioned the memorial immediately. We would play some videos of Dad, interspersing them throughout so we would all remember to laugh. We would have Spanky McFarlane sing the blues, and I knew I had to have Kenny Rankin sing “Here's That Rainy Day.” We would have the people whom he'd known and loved be able to share their memories—Jerry Hamza, Sally Wade, Pat Carlin, Dennis Carlin, Jon Reigrod, Theresa McKeown, Jack Burns, Rocco Urbisci, and me—and maybe a few comics, too. This memorial would rock.