Todd Harra - Mortuary Confidential - Undertakers Spill the Dirt

Mrs. de Baptiste got up, and as she did, her estranged son came within mere feet of her as Jacques passed her on his way out the door. She looked curiously at the bottle cradled in the man’s arms; its contents hidden by opaque green glass.

She trundled over to the counter. “A bottle of wine?” Her Southern drawl made her sound as though she was talking with a mouth full of syrup.

“Yes. A little unusual, but I make wine in my spare time, and sometimes my patrons will ask for a bottle.”

“Isn’t that marvelous,” she said as if she wasn’t sure if it was or not. “But I have no time to be drinking wine at a funeral parlor.” Parlor sounded like par-luh. “I have come for my Charles and then I have a flight to catch back to L’isiana.”

“Your Charles? I’m sorry, ma’am, but his cremains are no longer here,” I said truthfully. The door closed behind Jacques. “His partner came to pick him up already. That’s what Charles wanted; I have a signed affidavit allowing me to release his cremains to his partner if you would like to see that document.”

The Southern belle façade cracked.

She spluttered. She threatened. She menaced.

I stood staunch and collected.

In the end, she flew back to Louisiana without her dear Charles, but what matters is that Charles is where he should be, where he wanted to be.

Contributed by a writer

My parents had been away on vacation to the Cajun capital—New Orleans—and I was meeting them to eat when their flight landed. It was summertime, and, as usual, thunderstorms had delayed their flight. I was already at the restaurant when they called me from the tarmac. It was a nice night so I got myself a drink from the bar and decided to wait outside. I ran into an old friend and his girlfriend outside. We reminisced for a few minutes before they went in to eat, and I gave him my phone number. We’d catch up, I told him.

I ordered another drink, my parents arrived soon, and I promptly forgot about the encounter.

A couple of weeks later I was at my parents’ beach house and received a call from the old friend. His girlfriend’s parents had rented a house the next town over, and would I be interested in going out to the bar? Would I? Does the Pontiff live in Rome? Of course I would! I spent the night out at the bar with him, his girlfriend, her sister, and a couple of other people. We had a great time. The next morning I had a raging headache, but I had the sister’s phone number and thus ended my weekend at the beach.

That Monday began my week on call—the week when I had to take night calls and go out on death removals. I generally don’t like to get involved in things I can’t be readily torn away from when I’m on call, but I didn’t want to wait another week before I could take the sister out on a date. I decided to set up a date. What are the chances I’ll get a death call during a two-hour dinner? I rationalized.

So, I called Melissa and asked her out to dinner.

She accepted.

At the time of our proposed first date, Melissa happened to be working at a pharmacy right across the highway from the funeral home. Naturally, I suggested a restaurant that shared the same parking lot with the pharmacy for convenience’s sake. I also made the verbal disclaimer that I would be on call that night, and might have to leave. She seemed fine with that. We agreed to meet when she got off work at eight o’clock.

I met Melissa at the restaurant and we were seated immediately. Due to the lateness of the hour, the place was fairly empty and the service was fast. The waiter came up and asked for our drink orders.

“I’ll have a margarita,” she said.

“Club soda with lemon,” I said. The waiter left. Melissa looked at me strangely, as if to ask, Why didn’t you order a drink also? “I don’t drink,” I said, deadpan.

“But you were drinking last weekend—” she said, obviously confused.

I laughed. “I know. Just kidding. I don’t drink when I’m working.”

“Oh.” She nodded like she understood, but still had a puzzled look on her face.

We sipped our drinks, talked, and ordered our food. I was really enjoying her company. It’s quite different to talk to someone one-on-one in a quiet setting, sober, than yelling over the din of a packed beach bar at each other, totally smashed. I was glad I had gotten her number. Our food came and about five seconds later my pager buzzed.

“Excuse me,” I said and whipped out my phone.

I called the familiar number. Someone was dead. I had to go on the removal.

“Listen,” I said, signaling to the waiter, “I have to go.”

The waiter trotted over. “I need the check please. ASAP,” I said to him, handing him my credit card. He scurried off.

“I need to go on a removal. Sorry to cut the date short—” I signed the check that the waiter thrust in my face. “But I’ll call you later when I get home.”

I hopped up, leaving Melissa sitting alone in the booth with two piping hot entrees and a baffled look on her face.

She later told me that when she arrived home at eight thirty, looking confused, her father said to her, “You know, there are services out there that a guy can hire to call him so that he can abort the date if it’s going bad.”

Apparently, when I had told her I had to “work” that night she didn’t know what I was talking about because she didn’t know my profession. But since then she’s gotten used to my having to drop everything and go to work. For some reason, the first date wasn’t bad enough not to say “yes” fifteen months later. We’re now happily married and love recounting the tale of our inglorious first date.

In fact, we ran the story of our first date along with the announcement of our wedding in our local paper.

Contributed by a woodworker

Building a business from the ground up is hard work. Ask anyone who’s done it; they’ll tell you.

I liken a business to a newborn. At first you have to do everything for it. Everything . But as it grows and matures you have to do less and less, until, if you’re real smart, you set up a business system where you can just sit back and reap what you’ve sown.

At the time of this story I hadn’t gotten to the reaping point yet; my business was still an infant.

My shingle had only been out for about thirteen months when I had the opportunity to go on my first vacation as business owner. I started with a phone call from Dani. It was a Wednesday. The call went something like this:

“Hey Topher, how’s the old swordsman? I haven’t talked to you in, like, six months,” Dani said.

“Nice to talk to you too, Dani.” I tried to put on an air of indignation. “You know that hurts. Really hurts. Just because I like to see what’s out there on the dating scene you automatically tag me with those hurtful labels.”

“How long did Rachel last?”

“I—”

“How long?” she interrupted.

“Six weeks…but that’s not the point!” I huffed.

Dani laughed, airily, the way she always did. “So, seriously, what’s going on with you?”

“I’m so stressed!” I groaned.

She laughed again. Dani laughs a lot. “Why’s that? No squeeze?”

“No, thank you very much,” I replied with mock anger. “I haven’t had a day off in thirteen months is why I’m stressed!”

“Stop being so dramatic. I’m sure you’re just fine.”

“You know that grandfather clock I promised to build for Rob? Just like the one I built for your wedding present?”

“Yeah. What about it?”