The grand advertising clock that stands on one stone leg outside the Bonney-Watson Funeral Home on Broadway is broken. Both the hour and the minute hands have been removed from its face. The twelve once-proud Roman numerals sit around all day and night without a goddamn thing to do. The handless clock face seems to say that there is no time left at all, or else that there is all the time in the world. Inside the Bonney-Watson brick house the funeral director caresses a fat check, allowing only his eyes to smile. Standing before thirty well-dressed weepers, an Episcopalian pastor reads a long dead passage from a paperback copy of T. S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. In his mind while he reads there is nothing but the big glass of gin which awaits him when his performance is finally over. The hot jungle riot of carefully arranged cut flowers is beautiful, but out of place. They should be deathless plastic blooms to match the open molded-metal coffin which the stiff has been stretched out in — painted pretty like a Pike Street whore. The thirty members of the audience break out weeping all at once when they realize that the coffin — although substantial and as scientific as a submarine — is going to be of no help at all. It is not going to work. Actually, girls and boys, on our field trip today we aren’t going to visit the darkness of the Bonney-Watson Funeral Home on Broadway. On our field trip today, my sleepy children, we’ll visit the Fun House at the fairgrounds. I only mentioned death and dying to get your attention, to wake you up — a little trick I learned from God. And by the way, although his body’s fatal heart attack occurred three days ago, our dead man’s spirit has been living in that Fun House at the fairgrounds for nearly seven years already! Enter the Fun House — house of mirrors and mirages. See yourself as you are, as you ain’t: a giant, a dwarf, here tomorrow, gone today, one, many, fat, skinny. See yourself in the window, look through the mirror at the other. That’s it, boys and girls — you’re laughing. I’m so glad you’re laughing your hearts out. Since you’ve learned your lesson for today quickly, we can exit the old darkness of the Fun House; we can step out into the sun- shine which never stops shining; we can even get some hot dogs and ride all the rides — the rides which never stop rocking, rolling, whirling, soaring, tumbling, bumping, and grinding. But the spirit of our dead man must remain behind — back in the bright darkness of the Fun House — until he learns his lesson, too; until he learns to laugh at himself; until he laughs to see that a home is just a house, and that every house, however grand, is but a cheap hotel — a shady spot to rest in for a while.