Todd Harra - Mortuary Confidential - Undertakers Spill the Dirt

I gave the girls rides on my bike around their neighborhood and began taking Kristy for long rides out into the Mojave. We both loved the loud silence and solitude a motorcycle can offer, the desert scenery whipping by. I think initially Kristy might have harbored some romantic feelings for me, but I made sure to steer well clear of anything of a suggestive nature. I didn’t want to complicate our beautiful friendship. The two orphans had found each other and now felt complete and whole. It was as simple as that. We were each other’s missing family.

I had the first Christmas I could remember that I looked forward to. It was the first time in my six years at the mortuary that I didn’t volunteer to work so others could be with their families on Christmas Day.

Then, six months after meeting Kristy, I got a call from Mrs. Logan.

Kristy had been killed in a car accident.

Just as suddenly as Kristy had appeared in my life, she left. I drove down to the forensics lab and picked up what remained of her body and gave her the last gift I had to give; I embalmed her.

Kristy’s was the only funeral I have ever cried at. I shed not a tear as my father’s casket was lowered into the ground or when my grandmother’s frail form lay in the front of the chapel. But I sat between Jacqueline and Cindy in the nearly empty chapel as the minister proffered his words and bawled harder than I can ever remember. Chloe sat crouched on the floor at the feet of the three orphans, her ears flat against her head. When we lowered Kristy’s simple wooden casket into the ground above her husband’s, I felt as though a piece of me was being buried in that hole.

The next day, I unloaded Chloe on my neighbor for a few days, called out of work, and took my Soft Tail out on the road. I wasn’t sure where I was headed, but I ended up at Death Valley National Park. The barren vista spread out before my bike as it ate up the open road as fast as I could push it. I could almost feel Kristy’s arms wrapped around my body, holding on.

Jacqueline and Cindy are now 18 and 16, having been taken in and raised by Mrs. Logan and her husband. I still take Chloe over to visit, and even though her muzzle is gray and she is a little stiff, she still jumps around a little when I open the car door. She loves those girls almost as much as I do.

Contributed by a paintballer

When I served my apprenticeship I lived in an apartment on the second floor of the funeral home, a big old mansion that had been converted to its current purpose. The owner’s family used to live on the second floor, but they had long since moved out and the space had been turned into arrangement offices and the casket selection room—and, of course, my little dungeon room, referred to by the owner as the apprentice’s apartment.

My “apartment” was twelve feet square with a tiny bathroom and kitchenette. I didn’t care in the least that it was small, in fact, I loved it. It was like having my own place. I had the walls plastered with rock ’n’ roll posters. My giant stereo system, set up on cinderblocks and plank shelving, dominated one wall and I had the place all decked out with tapestries, black lights, lava lamps, and the like. It was truly a bachelor’s paradise.

In return for living for free at the funeral home, I had to work all the wakes and answer the business phone on weeknights. On Saturday and Sunday nights the owner of the funeral home answered the business phone to give me a couple of nights off. I looked forward to those nights, when I could go out carousing. I was single and liked to party. Contrary to most people’s perception of funeral directors, some of us do let our hair down on occasion.

Unfortunately, my living situation sometimes hindered my luck with the fairer sex. I could never bring girls back to my place; they’d think I was a total creep. Whenever I met a girl out at a bar or club, I’d always talk her into going back to her place. It’s kind of hard to get a girl in the mood when she’s scared of a dead person popping out of every corner. To me, there is nothing even remotely spooky about a funeral home, but I’m sure to the average person (let alone a drunk female), a funeral home can be a very creepy place. So, to use a baseball metaphor, I always liked to play on the away field. That is, until the night I met the girl of my dreams, and the situation forced me to use the home field advantage.

What a disaster.

It was a Saturday. I had to work late into the evening. By the time I escaped the funeral home and managed to get to Cues, one of my favorite haunts, my friends were already a couple of pitchers deep. Cues is a dark, smoky little dive at the edge of the city whose only redeeming value is that it has the perpetual special of free pool and two dollar pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

After I lost a goodly amount of money at pool, my group migrated over to a brewpub for steaks and micro-brews. We were eating and drinking and having a good time. Next thing I knew, it was last call. We all ordered one more round before I piled as many as could fit into my Honda. The rest were left to hail a taxi. I had no business driving, but times were different then and somehow I managed to get us to a late-night club called Rewind. There is nothing particularly great about Rewind. It’s just your basic club: loud music, overpriced drinks, crazy lights, and loose women. The main reason we always went there is that I knew the bouncer and he let us bypass the line.

The club was just filling up when we arrived. The ubiquitous techno music blared, and the emcee was inviting girls up to dance on the giant clear Lucite blocks on stage. I located my favorite bartender and ordered the usual, Knob Creek, neat. I stood and chatted with some of my friends at a high-top table for an hour or so, throwing back a couple more bourbons until the club had filled up and it was just one big sweaty, throbbing, throng of people. I went out and danced for a bit and did my thing.

After I got the cold shoulder from three chicks, I decided it was time to go. I was drunk, and obviously going to be unlucky on this weekend. I sidled up to the bar next to a raven-haired beauty for one more drink. The girl was gorgeous, and had legs that went on forever up into her black mini-skirt.

“Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?” I asked, offhandedly, expecting her to tell me what I could do with myself.

“Sure,” she replied perkily. She smiled, exposing a mouth full of even white teeth, dimples lining her cheeks. “Whatcha drinking?”

“A double Knob Creek, neat.”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she called to the bartender, holding two fingers up. Then she turned to me and smiled slyly. “What’s the occasion?” Her crystal blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

I was speechless, and a little stupid from too much booze. “Uh, no occasion,” was all I could think of.

The drinks came, and the girl knocked her double bourbon back in one gulp, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and said, “C’mon, let’s go dance.”

I had no choice but to gulp mine down as she grabbed my hand and dragged me out onto the dance floor. As the wee hours of the morning progressed, and the drinks kept flowing, the dancing got more risqué. I’m not a great dancer by any stretch of the imagination, but this girl made me feel like a rock star. By the end of the night when the club lights went up, my head was swimming and I was in the middle of the dance floor making out with the gorgeous girl, whose name I learned was Paula.

“Let’s get out of here,” she panted.

“Good idea,” I agreed. In fact, I couldn’t think of a better idea. I was really digging Paula.