MY FIRST OBITUARY
Let me begin with my condolences to the family of Dave Frishberg, one of my favorite songwriters, who died Wednesday at 88.
For about four years now, I have been writing "advance" obituaries for the New York Times. I won't name names. Until Wednesday, every one of them was still alive and I derived a perverse satisfaction from this 100% survival rate, even though it meant that not one word of the thousands I've written had been read (beyond my editors).
On Wednesday Dave Frishberg broke my streak.
A bittersweet breakthrough. In fact, I’d long nursed a conviction that, once I completed an obituary my subjects were safe; good to go for years to come. Until I did, though, until I finished and filed, my subjects were in jeopardy; liable at any moment to "shuffle off the twig" (as the only subject I ever actually interviewed for her obituary once so pungently put it to me) .
How do you tell someone you're writing their obituary?
You don't. Almost ever.
Even mentioning that I write "advance obituaries" about people who are still alive, exclusively, usually has brought only mordant glances. Obituaries are touchy, especially in a pandemic. Obituaries equal death, and death is the touchiest subject (except for vaccine and mask mandates, which, let's face it, oppositionally also equal death.)
You know what? I love writing obituaries. Not to be morbid. I love capturing a life in 1400 words. I've written one full-length biography in my career (BLACK AND BLUE: The Life and Lyrics of Andy Razaf). The damn thing took me almost ten years. I will never do that again. Plus, there's an inescapable sense with a biography that the subject has eluded you, at any length. An obituary shoots low and hits the target much more succinctly. An obituary can indeed nail someone.
Still, there is anxiety in the responsibility. Family details worry me the most — parent names, sibling count. How do you confirm such stuff, short of asking the subject directly? Which you can't. Believe me. I've tried.
For months now, I've been working on the obit of a theater person here in town. Most of her family details are shrouded in what appears to be self-imposed mystery. Yes, she has publicly acknowledged having had parents, and at least one sister, but she has never named them, that I know of. My forays into Ancestry.com have yielded not even a birth date confirmation for the subject herself (which suggests that her own name has changed with time). I’ve placed numerous calls to colleagues of this woman but no one has replied. The word: “Obituary” scared them all away.
Maybe it does possess some kind of otherworldly power. Just a few days ago I fell into a local restaurant near my apartment for dinner. I was walking by and thought, what the hell, I'm too tired to cook tonight. I grabbed a two-top table outside and ordered my martini. Halfway through it, I ducked inside to hit the head. As I ambled back, I perceived coming toward me through the restaurant door a face in a mask, topped by a wool beanie pulled down low. All I saw were eyes and the bridge of a nose but they instantly struck a chord of recognition. Who the hell is that? And then it hit me. I'd been studying photos of this face for weeks. It was her!
I could not speak, as she brushed past me, followed by her professional partner, a guy whose voicemail I'd been tattooing for a while now with inquiries that he never answered.
Damn.
I returned to my table and watched them through the window, feeling like a stalker, but trying to convince myself that, as a reporter, I owed it to myself - to the New York Times - to her, to march in there, introduce myself as: "your 'advance' obituary writer," and just get the facts, ma’am.
I couldn't do it. I mean, the woman was eating dinner.
The next day I filed her obit with the Times and dropped her family name gaps in their lap. Though, I am still awfully tempted to leave one more voice mail message, this time with my subject at her place of work.
Meanwhile, I just heard from my editor that we missed a sister in Dave Frishberg's family tree (Miriam). Her grandson emailed the paper, once the obit hit the Times website. Every source I’d scoured had omitted her.
My first obituary. You can read it here. It stands corrected.