Dead Certain

Netflix is scary. You watch one film and suddenly, it suggests other movies you might like.

Usually, when friends say to me, “Oh, I watched such and such the other day. It’s exactly your kind of movie!”, invariably I blink.

“It’s a movie about a kid with a physical disfigurement. How is that my kind of movie?” I will say, having giving the matter some thought.

            “But you liked ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’!”

            Saffy says that as she gets older, it takes a lot for her to be surprised about how stupid some people can be. “What does a movie starring Julia Roberts have in common with a movie starring a shirtless Chris Pratt?”

            “I am Grooooot!” I told her. That evening at dinner, we were still laughing.

            Netflix, on the other hand, is eerily precise. I watched one old episode of ‘Friends’ and the next thing I knew, I was binge watching ‘Riverdale’. Which, three flicks later – ‘Jessica Jones’, ‘The Danish Girl’ and ‘A Korean Odyssey’ – had morphed to ‘Whitney: Can I Be Me?’

            “How did you get from ‘Riverdale’ to ‘Whitney’?” Amanda asked the other day?

            “Teenage angst to adult issues of death, violence, unsolved mystery, infidelity and sequined outfits to adult themed documentary!” Saffy said in a tone that suggested Harvard sure could have done better by giving a law degree to someone else; someone, if it wasn’t already clear, other than Amanda.

            “Such a sad movie,” I said. “What a waste of a great voice.”

            “An amazing funeral, though,” Amanda sighed. “I want Kevin Costner to give the euology!”

            Saffy pursed her lips. She looked doubtful. “Really? I want Harrison Ford at mine!”

            Amanda’s eyes lit up. “Oooh, yes! Good choice! Now there’s a man who gets sexier the older he gets! Who else would you want?”

            “I get two eulogies?” Saffy said.

            Amanda shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like we have any Friday night plans.”

            Saffy’s bosom inflated. “Well, in that case, I want Beyoncé to sing. Anything from ‘Lemonade’! Maybe all the tracks!”

            Amanda clapped her hands. “Ok, ok! I want the Prime Minister to follow Kevin Costner!”

            “Mmm, yes!” Saffy swooned. She turned to me. “Who would you have at your funeral?”

            I said finding someone to speak at my funeral would be the least of my problems. I’d be lucky if anyone showed up in the first place.

            Saffy shot Amanda a glance. “Wow! Way to spoil Friday night role play!”

            “It’s true!” I said. “I can barely get anyone to commit to lunch! What makes you think they’ll come to my funeral?”

            “I’ll come,” Saffy said.

            Amanda stuck her hand up. “Me, too!”

            I rolled my eyes.

            The next day, over a breakfast of economy mee at her desk, Saffy asked Sharyn if she’d come to the funeral.

            Sharyn paused in mid-inhale of her beehoon and raised her eyes. “Whose funeral?” she mumbled.

            “Mine!” Saffy said. “Oh my God, you’re choking! Here! Sip some water!”

            Sharyn waved her hands frantically, like she was trapped in a glass box filled with mosquitoes. “Aiyoh! You are dying?!”

            It took a while, but she calmed down eventually, though not without the occasional moan. “Why you must say such tink, har? My heart cannot tahan stress, you know!”

            “You are such a drama queen, Shazz!” Saffy said. “It’s going to happen eventually, so it’s always good to be prepared. So…would you come?”

            Sharyn’s eyes misted. “Choy! Of course, lah! But not for a long time, ok?”

            Saffy whipped out her phone and tapped Notes. “OK, so you’re confirmed. That’s five so far!”

            “Har? You are taking RSVP now, ah?”

            “Amanda says she’ll need numbers for the venue and catering.”

            Apparently, Sharyn later posted on Facebook a cryptic note that said, “Some people!”

            Amanda told me that over the past two days, her phone has been ringing non-stop. “Saffy’s been WhatsApping people, and asking if they’ll come to her funeral without any context!” she complained to me. “Who does that? No wonder they’re all frantic!”

            “But why don’t they just ask her?” I said.

            “Because she sent out those messages just before she got on the plane to New York! So when they didn’t get an immediate reply, they panicked. They all think she’d dead!”

            When she arrived in JFK and turned on her phone, Saffy was immensely gratified by the number of frantic messages that appeared in a long, intense download.

            “You may need to book the Ritz-Carlton ballroom for my wake,” she WhatsApped Amanda.

            Out of curiosity, Amanda emailed the hotel. So far, there’s been dead silence.