by Todd Harra
“Identical twins can just sense these things,” Carter said, deadpan.
I laughed nervously again until the widow scolded, “Carter, stop it!” She elbowed him in the ribs. “They both wore matching outfits to Carter’s grandson’s wedding six months ago.” Then she said in a conspiratorial tone to me, “They both have the same sense of humor.”
With that, Carter let out a chuckle. “You should have seen the look on your face, son!” he roared. “You thought—You thought—”
I started laughing and so did Adam’s wife, until we were all laughing like maniacs. After that, I knew Adam’s wife would be all right. With a family like that, how could she not be?
Later that evening, after the viewing, I called my former boss’s house. “Harper Mortuary,” my ex-boss’s wife chirped. I had worked for them in high school, earning extra money, cutting the grass, parking cars at funerals, and taking flowers to the cemetery.
“Hey Jen,” I said and proceeded to tell her the whole tale.
She laughed. “It took almost five years of Dale being in the business until that happened to him, but the twin didn’t wear the same thing to the viewing. Wait until I tell him! He’ll love it.”
When I hung up the phone, my thoughts still on Adam’s widow, I said softly to no one in particular as I mixed an extra dry martini, one of my favorite Shakespearean lines: “No longer mourn for me when I’m dead—”
CHAPTER 14
The Unwitting Smuggler
Contributed by a numismatist
My friends say that I remind them of Pigpen from Peanuts because I have this cloud of junk that follows me around. It leaves behind everything you can imagine: pens, papers, keys, candy wrappers, used latex gloves, and little pieces of trash, to name a few. Truthfully, I’d leave my fingers on my nightstand most mornings if they weren’t attached to my hand.
I’ve accepted my Pigpen status because I’ve been that way my entire life. I honestly don’t know how I kept it together long enough to get through school. I’m a mess. And I’m not embarrassed to tell you that it’s almost a weekly occurrence for my live-in girlfriend to call me at work to let me know that somehow I have her car keys on my person and that I need to return home ASAP so she can leave for work. Sadly, she’s always correct.
I’m like a human black hole and pitching machine rolled into one. I manage to simultaneously collect and discard things throughout the day with reckless abandon. So it wasn’t out of the ordinary when I lost my wallet. I have probably lost my wallet dozens of times during my tenure on this earth. Seriously. Dozens. It’s happened so many times I don’t even get upset anymore. It’s a fact of my life.
I called and cancelled my credit cards, got a new health insurance card from Human Resources, and found some new photos of my girlfriend and cats to put in my new wallet. Problem solved. What was puzzling was when a couple of months later a funeral director from Utica, New York, called to say he had my wallet. Utica is over 2300 miles from me. This was a new record for Pigpen.
After talking to the funeral director in Utica, I figured out through brilliant detective work and interviewing my fellow colleagues how my wallet managed to travel 2300 miles by itself. One of my “clients” had unwittingly smuggled it.
It was right around Valentine’s Day when I initially lost my wallet. I know, because that day at the mall I first discovered it was missing when I went to pay for the little bauble I was getting my girlfriend. Earlier that afternoon I was in the back preparing a “ship out” body. A “ship out” is a body whose removal and embalming we do for a funeral home across the country, and then load up on an airplane. The funeral director on the receiving end usually coordinates the services and burial. That particular day, I was coordinating with a funeral director from… Utica.
I had Mr. Foster in his casket, dressed, and was finishing up some quick makeup before we loaded him on his US Air flight to New York when Kaylee, the apprentice, popped her head in.
“Hey, Eric. You have five bucks for Paul’s ‘get well’ arrangement?” she asked in her usual perky manner.
Paul is a co-worker of ours who is a real health nut but had suffered a massive heart attack a couple of days before.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. I snapped my gloves off and reached for my wallet. I pulled out a five spot and handed it to her. “Spend it wisely.”
She laughed and winked. “Thanks, Eric.”
Kaylee can’t be more than twenty and is very attractive; exactly the reason the office manager sent her around to collect money. I would have given Kaylee a fifty if she had asked me for it. As Kaylee flounced out, I put my wallet down on the pillow next to Mr. Foster’s head and called after her.
“Yeah, Eric?”
She was the only person in the firm who didn’t address me as Pigpen.
“I’ve got to meet with a family. Could you see to it that this is put on an air tray and packaged up so I can drive it to the airport later on this afternoon?”
“Sure,” she said, and flashed me a winning smile.
I left to go meet with the family and promptly forgot about my wallet on the pillow next to Mr. Foster’s head. Later in the evening I drove Mr. Foster up to the airport and on my way back stopped at the mall to pick up my girlfriend’s Valentine’s gift, or not—because I had lost my wallet.
I received the call from the funeral director in Utica in mid-April. When they went to move Mr. Foster out of storage, where he had been until the frost had thawed and he could be buried, they heard the sound of “change falling.” The funeral director went digging under the pillow and came up with my wallet. Luckily, I keep paperclips, safety pins, metal shirt stays, collector’s coins, and any number of other metallic objects in my wallet; some of them fell when the casket shifted. Otherwise, my wallet would have been missing until the Apocalypse (like all the other dozens I’ve lost).
I guess my wallet fell to the side of the pillow, and then Kaylee had some people lift the casket into the big wooden tray that protects the casket during air travel. It got jostled down between the side of the pillow and interior of the casket where it stayed on its journey from Oregon all the way to New York State. I’m just surprised it went unnoticed during the two-hour wake and funeral.
Maybe I’ll get one of those wallets with the chain on it like rock ’n’ roll stars have.
CHAPTER 15
Men and Makeup
Contributed by a “Proud” undertaker
People assume that because I’m gay I must naturally be good at makeup. That’s not the case. I’m reasonably proficient at makeup because I do it everyday. Before I joined the venerable ranks of the undertaking profession I had never done makeup before, ever. Some homosexuals—we call them fems—do wear makeup, but most of us don’t. In fact, unless you got to know me well, I doubt you’d even realize I’m gay. I didn’t even do makeup on a live person until three years ago.
It was St. Patty’s Day. Jamie, a girlfriend of mine, was hosting a pre-party and then we were heading to a local Irish watering hole called, ironically enough, McEnery’s Wake, for what was, for them, the Holy Grail of the year. They were putting on some extravaganza: all you could eat and drink and ten bands for a hundred bucks, or some deal like that. I’m a pseudo-Mick, last name is Flannery; my great-grandfather came over on the boat, and all that good stuff, so de facto, it’s a holiday for me.
I showed up at Jamie’s house in the early afternoon, mixed up the green beer and green jungle juice, polished the bottles of Jameson and Bushmills, and set out the shot glasses. We finished setting everything up by four o’clock, and with nothing left to do, started drinking. By the time Jamie’s boyfriend came home from work we were already, as the Irish would say, half sozzled.
“What? You two not even planning on making your own party?” he asked when he found us giggling like a pair of schoolgirls on the couch.
“Oh shit, I almost forgot. I have to take a shower!” Jamie exclaimed.
So wrapped up in gossiping and drinking, Ja
mie hadn’t even gotten ready yet. Sometimes when I drink heavily a little of that limp wrist comes out, and this was one of those times. “Oh, honey,” I said, checking my watch, “you have plenty of time. People aren’t even coming over for another two hours. Let’s have another beer and then you can go up and get fresh.”
“All right,” she said not too reluctantly.
I stood up and went over to the pony keg of Guinness. “Sam? You want one?”
“Hell yeah, I’ve been dreaming about this all day,” he said.
Needless to say, one Guinness begat three and by the time the guests started arriving Jamie still hadn’t gotten ready. I threw on a couple of the Dropkick Murphys’ CDs and the party got cranked up. An hour into the party it looked like an Irish Pride event, there were so many decked-out queens swilling green beer and shooting whiskey. That’s when I found Jamie doing a keg stand. She kicked her feet, the signal to be let down, and everyone cheered.
I pulled her aside. “Honey, why haven’t you gone and gotten ready yet? We’re leaving for the bar in an hour and you’re still wearing your sweats!”
She looked at me with big glassy eyes. “John, good to see you!” she said as if I was just arriving. “You know, you’re right.” She stabbed a finger in my face and squinted. “You’re always right. I need to…” She hiccupped. “Shower.”
“Come on,” I grabbed her arm and escorted her through her house. I knew she wasn’t in any shape to do this mission solo and I had found Sam a few minutes earlier puking his innards out—the lightweight.
“Where are you taking me?” Jamie asked in a little girl voice, and then giggled, as I dragged her up the stairs. “I thought you didn’t like girls.”
“Oh girl, stop it. You know I’m not interested in any of that.”
“You might.”
“Oh stop! I’m taking you to get ready.” I dragged her into her bathroom and turned the shower on. I tested the water temperature and pointed her in the direction of it. “Strip and hop in,” I commanded. “I’ll guard the door so you don’t get disturbed.” I slammed the door and could hear laughing and a couple of loud thumps. She took twenty minutes but eventually teetered out wearing a towel. I dragged her into her room. “What do you want to wear?”
“I don’t care,” she sang and flopped onto her bed.
I rolled my eyes. “This is why I’m gay,” I muttered under my breath. “Women!” I picked out a pair of black sex pants and a dark green camise.
I turned around and said, “How about these?”
Jamie was sound asleep.
I shook her some and she came around, clearly confused. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“You need to get ready. There’s a party at your house and we’re leaving to go out,” I explained as I put the clothes in her hands. “Put these on.”
She slung the towel off and put on the clothes I had gotten out without bothering with underwear. I steered her to the bathroom. “Do your hair or whatever and then we’ll leave,” I said. She seemed to understand and started rummaging around in her drawers. I went downstairs to help myself to a well-deserved beer and was talking to a really cute guy when Jamie stumbled downstairs crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her. Her mood had gone from happy drunk to crying drunk. Not a good sign.
Makeup was smeared all over her face. “I can’t go out!” she wailed. “I can’t do it.” She pointed to her face. She looked like a bad abstract painting.
I didn’t want to make her feel worse so I didn’t laugh. “Just leave it,” I said. “It’s fine.”
“No!” she wailed.
I could tell there was no use arguing with her; she wasn’t leaving the house unless her makeup was done. I had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Hey girl, go lay down on the couch.”
“Huh?” she said. She gave me a dumb look.
“Lay down on the couch. I’ll do it for you. I’m qualified.”
She complied.
“Sue,” I said to one of our friends, “run up and grab her grip—er, I mean, makeup kit.”
Sue returned with the makeup kit. “Hey, look!” she called. “The gay undertaker is going to give us a makeup demonstration!”
All the drinking games suddenly weren’t as entertaining as a gay funeral director applying makeup to a drunken girl laid out on her couch. “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” blared from the stereo as the crowd gathered.
“Close your eyes and lie as still as possible,” I told Jamie. I knelt down and from the hooting and cheering around me, you would have thought a cockfight was going on in the middle of the circle.
I’ll admit, I was trashed, and it wasn’t my best work by a long shot. But it was good enough to appease Jamie, and it gave the crowd a good show, as I provided running commentary and took much longer than I should have because I was hamming it up. I think she was too drunk to realize she looked like the Joker from Batman, but for my first attempt on a live person I’d give myself a “D+” grade. Hey, that’s passing!
Three years later, people who were at that party, or have heard about it, still kid me about doing their makeup. Sure, I tell them, but with one stipulation, they have to lie down and close their eyes.
CHAPTER 16
A Solution for Sagging
Contributed by an Atlanta Falcons fan
When somebody dies, gravity pulls everything down. Everything. For example, take blood. Since the vascular system is no longer circulating blood, the erythrocytes (red blood cells) get pulled to the lowest point, making those areas of skin dark red. The pooling of blood in those low areas is called livor mortis. Gravity pulls other things down. Most notably on women, their breasts.
If the breasts are allowed to lie as they will, they will invariably fall to the sides. If you don’t compensate for this gravitational phenomenon, women look unnatural when they are laid out for the wake. The average layman probably wouldn’t be able to pinpoint exactly what wasn’t right, but would just know something didn’t look right. That something would be the lack of a bust.
I have talked to embalmers who embalm women in their bras, but I have found that to be wholly un-practical. The bra can get stained with blood if one isn’t careful, and it always has to be dried out after the washing of the body, and sometimes you just can’t get a bra in enough time before the embalming has to occur. So I have to come up with a way to hold the breasts up during embalming. It’s the perfect solution, or so I told my aunts one afternoon.
My aunts Millie and Vicki are my dead maternal grandmother’s only siblings. They live together in a big old plantation-style house on a shady, tree-lined street in your typical southern town. Since I work close to them, I try to sneak away from the mortuary at least once a week during the warm months to join the two old fire-crackers for afternoon tea on their front porch. They drink iced tea on their front porch every afternoon starting at about three o’clock and going until suppertime. As the afternoon wears on they begin pouring a little Southern Comfort in their tea. They get a little sassier with each passing hour; if you happen upon them near dark, it’s damn near like being at the Friar’s Club.
On this particular day I arrived late and they were giggling like schoolgirls, a sure sign of the So-Co.
“Trey, Trey,” my Aunt Vicki waved to me as I crossed the lawn, “we were just talking about you.”
I kissed them both and sat down in a rocking chair.
“Tea?” Aunt Millie asked.
“Please.”
“The special blend?” she asked innocently.
“No thanks, Auntie. I have to get back to work.”
Aunt Millie opened a silver ice bucket and used a pair of dainty tongs to drop three ice cubes into a glass. She carefully poured from a pitcher sitting on the table between her and her sister.
“Mint?”
“Please,” I said.
She dropped a mint leaf into the glass and half a lemon slice.
“Sure I can’t interest you in a little additive?”
“How dreadful. On a beautiful day like this too!” Aunt Vicki said.
“So what were you two up to?” I inquired, taking the highball glass. The three measly ice cubes looked pitiful in the giant glass. I tasted the tea. It was watery. I knew my aunts reused tea bags—a vestige of the Depression.
“Well, Millie and I were just talking, Trey,” Aunt Vicki said. “We went to Mrs. Wilbur’s wake the night before last and were wondering how you…” She giggled, placing her hand over her mouth. “Shall I say un-sag certain things?” She took a sip of tea, her composure one of an innocent southern lady, but her tone suggested otherwise.
I shook my head. “You two. Always discussing the most unladylike things.”
Aunt Millie looked horrified. “Us? Why never!”
I raised my eyebrow and took another swallow of tea. On top of being insipid, it was too sweet.
“We, young man, are the epitome of Southern Manners,” Aunt Millie said, emphasizing her accent.
Aunt Vicki leaned in and winked. “So let us have it, Trey. What’s the secret? Because old lady Wilbur was certainly saggy in life.”
“It’s a secret. I can’t tell you.”
“Come, Trey. Out with it. We won’t tell a soul.” Aunt Vicki crossed herself to prove her point. I guess the booze must’ve been affecting her because the crossing was more like a circular motion.
“Okay then. Since you both promise not to tell.” I put my glass down on the table and leaned in in a conspiratorial manner. They leaned in too. I looked around dramatically and simply said, “Duct tape.”
Aunt Vicki whooped with laughter and covered her mouth and nearly yelled, “Duct tape! Oh, mercy in heaven! Old lady Wilbur would be turning in her grave if she knew!”
“Quiet, you,” I said. “I have Scotch tape, too.”
“What ever do you mean by that, Trey?” Aunt Vicki asked. She snorted a little and took a huge gulp of tea.
