So this one has been an ongoing process. I started writing it a while ago, forgot about it and came back to it recently. But I like it, so I'm posting it... cause that's how I roll. Actually, I like it a lot. I guess it was largely inspired by my grandfather's death, at least initially. Then it took on a mind of its own, as a lot of my stories do. I mean true reality can be so boring, don't you think? It's nice to spice things up with some fiction.
RIP Salvatore Soviero
I wonder if she knows how beautiful she is.
She’s moving with exceptional grace from the casket to the carefully positioned rows of seats. She walks past me and I can smell her perfume, even among the extravagant and fragrant floral arrangements. It smells wonderfully contradictory, replacing the cold, treated air with the smell of natural energy—vivacity. Something about her simultaneously says ‘I belong here’ and ‘I am out of place.’
Her form-fitting black pants suit accentuates her short bleached blonde hair, which is gelled with a sort of rebellious elegance that makes her look more like a public relations rep for an art gallery than the director of a funeral home. Her age is totally surprising. You’d expect some kindly older gentleman in her position—someone who has a more notable experience with death. This girl, teetering on the edge of thirty, exudes the impression that life has not left its scars on her yet, like death is only a profession to her and not part of her personal history.
She approaches my father, says something quietly to him, shakes his hand with the appearance of legitimate sadness and finally exits the room. Remembering my obligations to family, I resist the strong urge to follow her. Something about her is just so enigmatic—the allure is almost animalistic, like my body’s operating on a purely instinctual basis. Ironically, this attraction is largely cerebral, as is often the case when a young woman with such paradoxical magnetism provides only a vague glimpse of herself.
God I hate wakes. Not like they’re extremely popular in the world of social gatherings, but I seem to have an especially severe distaste for them. Maybe it’s the grieving process in general that gives me a hard time. To me, death seems more like a venerable relief than a reason to mourn, especially in the case of a 94-year-old who had been slipping into the hands of dementia, amnesia and physical atrophy for the past six or seven years. In fact, wakes sometimes evoke a sense of jealousy from me, like the departed are the lucky ones.
But it’s tough to be the only person at a wake that isn’t grieving. So, being the self-pitying shit that I am, I use the sadness I feel for myself as a cover—a way to exhibit the normal and expected disposition that’s supposed to accompany the passing of a loved one.
I walk quietly past my father towards the open casket. With the wake just starting, the room is still empty. My father’s off to the side looking over the collages he put together. For obvious reasons, they’re focused largely on his own father. He’s studying the memories with heartfelt reverence, effectively limiting any showing of sorrow, probably in the interest of avoiding a grief-stricken breakdown in front of my mother and me. My mother’s at the other end up the room, hovering over a wedding picture that was obviously taken at least half a century ago.
Approaching the coffin that now serves as a small home for my grandfather, it becomes apparent just how much weight he lost in his final weeks. Emaciated would be an overstatement (my grandfather had always been a fairly large man), but the skin on his face looks like the undertaker had massaged it into a smooth, acceptable position. His hands, clasped together over the stomach area of his loose black suit, look similar to latex prosthetic hands. They offer a kind of ghoulishly appropriate complement to the plastic-looking flesh that seems glued to his face and neck. And just like that, all the tidbits of information I’ve heard over the course of my life about a mortician’s treatment of a dead body become totally evident: gluing the lips together, sewing the eyes shut, makeup for a more healthy appearance; all in the interest of promoting the notion a strong, well-lived life. It just seems so fake and unnecessary to me.
When I’m gone, throw me in an oven. It could be a fucking pizza oven for all I care. Sprinkle my ashes over some body of water. The idea of my remains rotting in some box in the ground is completely unappealing to me. I can’t even comprehend how people think that sounds like an acceptable idea.
Turning away from my grandfather, I realize my mother has snuck up on me. Standing behind me and looking over my shoulder she says, “They really did a good job with him, don’t you think?”
Are you serious? I mean the question is almost laughable to me. Not because he looks so awful, but come on, he’s a dead man. The tone of her voice almost gives the impression that she’s talking about a damaged car that just came out of the collision shop. And what even constitutes a “good job” when referring to the presentation of a corpse? I’ve been to my share of wakes and funerals, but I still feel like I don’t have a real frame of reference. It seems to me that one would only take note of the presentation of a dead body if there had been a glaring mistake, like the eyes had been left open or the head had been removed. But I know my mom doesn’t need to hear any of this, so my response is simply: “They sure did.”
She places her hand on my shoulder and gives an affectionate little rub. She, better than my dad, knows the contempt I feel towards the traditional grieving process. She knows this is tough for me, and not in the conventional sense.
I make my way towards the back of the room and sit on one of the couches positioned against the wall. From this vantage point it’s easy to see the tacky, unimaginative décor that seems to lend itself to the element of depression in both our specific room as well as the foyer leading into it. There’s green carpet running into walls decorated with floral prints. Paintings and pictures that would seem more appropriate hanging in the lobby of some cheap motel adorn the walls. The greens, the pale flowers—it all seems so intent on offering the impression of life in its most calm and serene stages. But the only sense I get is that of an elderly couple’s house that has not been redecorated since the late sixties. If it wasn’t for the abundance of flowers scattered throughout the building, I’m sure the smell of mothballs would be pervasive.
Finally, the visitors start to file in. My father and mother stand together at the front of the room, just to the left of the casket. I try to stay inconspicuous as the unfamiliar family members and friends make their way towards my parents, but I know my lack of participation can’t last.
My parents greet the visitors with hugs and handshakes. The older individuals arrive with tears in their eyes. They’re the ones who truly knew my grandfather on a personal level and are undoubtedly deeply affected by his departure. These are his siblings and cousins—people who grew up with him and know the stories of his life.
The younger mourners probably don’t even remember his healthy days. They’re coming based on a sense of obligation. Their respect and sensitivity should strike me as admirable, but for some reason I feel resentment. Even though I don’t feel any distinct sadness in his passing, he was still my grandfather and I knew him well. I’m the newborn he’s holding in the collage pictures. I’m the little runt standing next to him on the beach in Montauk. I have legitimate memories of this man. So many of these other people are just fakers proactively assuaging any feelings of guilt that might arise from not expressing their condolences in person. They’re undoubtedly all very proud of themselves for selflessly devoting their precious time. It makes me feel sick.
I can’t hear the words exchanged between my parents and the visitors, but I see as they smile and point in my direction. Looking over at me, my father gives me the “come hither” gesture I’ve been dreading. Shit. I have no choice but to make my way over to the crowd congregating around my dead grandfather.
I enter into a barrage of tears, kisses and salutations. It’s a veritable shooting gallery of expected comments.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Oh my God, I didn’t even recognize you.”
“The last time I saw you, you were three feet shorter.”
“You look so handsome.”
It’s like being twelve years old at a family reunion. It’s overwhelming. I feel like I’m a celebrity surrounded by paparazzi. The fact that I’m related to the majority of them doesn’t make things easier. Celebrities have the luxury of being complete assholes to anyone they talk to. I, on the other hand, have no choice but to be civil and accommodating, entertaining the questions and comments launched from all angles.
It takes less than five minutes of interaction for me to become completely exhausted. These are not situations and circumstances to which I respond particularly well. I try to emulate the words and facial expressions of my parents. But I find it a little surprising that some family members are inquiring about the specifics of his death: “So he pretty much just passed in his sleep?” Following the response of “yes” was “well, we should all be so lucky.” This seems like a bold assertion to me. Maybe I don’t think expiring during sleep is the most dignified way to go. Maybe I’d prefer to be crushed by a crumbling gargoyle falling from a skyscraper or mauled by a Grizzly Bear that has escaped from the zoo. Maybe my grandfather had similar aspirations. Doesn’t it seem sort of anticlimactic to die in your sleep?
And just like that, it all becomes very stifling. The air becomes oppressive, thick with grief and nostalgia. I feel myself being pushed back closer and closer to the casket. It’s all just too much. I lean in close to my mom’s ear. “I’m gonna head outside and get some air for a few minutes.”
Before she can even finish nodding I’m escaping to the foyer and out the front door. The muggy August air smacks me in the face, but despite the damp heat, it feels good to be outside. The air conditioning inside gives the whole atmosphere an overly manufactured quality that seems so artificial. This is the real deal out here and I draw it in greedily.
I sit down on one of the two metal benches covered by the overhang. This is obviously a refuge for smokers. I find myself wishing, for the first time in my life, that I smoked cigarettes. A nicotine addiction would give me a convenient excuse to consistently wander outside and free my mind and body from the emotionally draining scene inside.
Suddenly the front door opens and I can smell her before I actually see her: the young bleached blonde funeral director walking outside to grab a quick smoke. She gives me an amicable nod before sitting down next to me on the bench. She puts a cigarette between her lips and lights it with a small lavender Bic.
“Sorry,” I say to her. “But is there any chance you might have an extra one of those?”
“Sure,” she says reaching into her inner jacket pocket. She opens the pack and hands me one.
I tell her, “I don’t usually smoke cigarettes. I just really need a break from in there. I was having a tough time.”
“I understand,” she says exhaling a puff of smoke. “It’s never easy to lose a loved one.”
I shrug. “I mean I was having a tough time in a more… I don’t know… claustrophobic sense I guess. Death doesn’t really bother me.”
“A claustrophobic sense?” She takes out her lavender Bic, leans over and lights my cigarette.
“Yeah. I don’t know. I guess there’s just so many family members I should remember but don’t; names I should be able to match to faces but can’t; everyone telling me how sorry they are about a death that just doesn’t strike me as sad. And I’m trying to be a good family member and show sadness, cause that’s what people do, but I just don’t feel it. It makes me feel so… suffocated.”
She smiles, her blue eyes meeting mine with every impression of understanding. She takes another drag off her cigarette. “I totally get that,” she says. “Sometimes dealing with the grieving process and the people involved is harder than dealing with the actual death. He was your grandfather?”
“He was.”
“Were you close?”
This catches me off guard. As conventional as the question seems, I have to think about it for a second. “I guess we were. He’s just been in tough shape for what seems like a really long time and it’s harder than I would have expected to remember the good times. I know they happened and I can remember general things, but they all just seem so distant and non-specific.”
“But you still think it’s better this way? With him passing?”
“I do.” An immediate response.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she says. “That’s how you feel and you can’t fight it. I’m sure he’s happier now anyway.”
“I like to think so.” I pause and take a drag off the cigarette. The smoke is harsh and I have to make an honest attempt to keep from coughing. “So how did you find yourself in the business of death?”
She laughs outwardly. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of assassin.”
I smile. “You do have that mysterious, menacing look about you.”
She laughs again. “So which profession do you think I look more appropriate for? Assassin or funeral director?”
“Assassin. No doubt in my mind.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Even funeral directors aren’t particularly fond of looking like funeral directors.”
“Well you have to admit, a young girl like you doesn’t exactly fit the archetype.”
Her cigarette has burnt down to the filter. She discards it in the sand-filled ashtray atop the garbage can. “I guess that’s true. But I’ll be totally honest with you: death fascinates me. I couldn’t tell you why that is. I was in a nasty car accident when I was a kid and no one thought I’d pull through, but I did. I guess it’s sort of like a weird version of Stockholm Syndrome where death’s the abductor. I got away, but I still have some kind of twisted attraction to it.”
I smile and reach across her to extinguish my cigarette in the ashtray. I say, “Um, you’re a fucking weirdo.”
She bursts out laughing. “Thanks,” she replies. “Here I thought we were having a moment—two people sharing their slightly warped views of death—and you go and judge me.”
“Oh c’mon, I’m just kidding. You know, you’re kind of sensitive for a funeral director.”
She’s still smiling. “Yeah, well only when it comes to my perceptions of death.”
“Okay, so I have a question: When you’re out at a bar or doing whatever it is you do for fun, if you meet someone, are they offset when you tell them what you do for a living?”
“Sure. Sometimes. I mean I’m pretty much a normal person. I just happen to work in a funeral home. But you can see some people are immediately turned off by a death-associated profession.” She pauses and turns to me. “Well you’re a guy, probably pretty close to my age. If you met me at a bar and knew nothing about me until I told you my job, how would you react? Would you be turned off?”
I think for a moment. “Not at all. In fact, I think it’s kind of intriguing. I think I kind of pity people with conventional fears and perceptions of death. I mean people die all the time. It must be really tough to be so negatively affected by such a natural and common occurrence.”
She repositions herself on the bench in a way that brings her closer to me. “Do you and I have a lot in common?” She asks the question semi-rhetorically, but eyes me quizzically, as if some gesture or twitch of mine will give her the answer.
I smile somewhat flirtatiously and give a little shrug. “Looks like that could be the case.”
She returns my smile and bites her lower lip as if debating whether or not to ask a question. “Is it totally wrong to pick someone up at a wake?”
Just wow. I mean I can’t help but chuckle at this. Is this girl for real? “Um, you might know better than me. Is there some kind of moral code of conduct for not flirting with the grieving?”
“Well it’s entirely possible,” she says. “But I’m not really one for adhering to arbitrary rules.”
“Well I think if said griever is willing to entertain the idea of finding out more about his funeral director, he should be entitled to do so.”
“Once again, I’m in agreement with you.” She stands up somewhat abruptly and hands me a card she takes from her pocket. “My cell phone number is on there too. If you’re not too grief-stricken, you can feel free to give me a call whenever. We could see what else we have in common in a slightly more appropriate setting.”
She smiles and walks back in the building, leaving me with one last whiff of her intoxicating perfume.
***
Returning inside, I’m in a fog. I float mindlessly through the clusters of family and friends, doing my best to hide the excitement building inside me. Part of me wants to burst into her office, stick my tongue down her throat and fuck her right over her desk. But even I realize how monstrous and insensitive this would be.
My reactions to my fellow grievers are absent, but that’s to be expected. After all, I’m full of sadness and despondency. My distracted state is just part of the grieving process. I continuously reach my hand into my pocket to make sure her business card had not managed to slip out at some point. I press my calloused fingers on the crisp, semi-sharp corners of the card and feel a certain sense of comfort. I have every intention of calling her tonight. She’s tap-dancing around my brain, her curiously fascinating smile floating through my mind’s eye like an unconventional cloud formation drifting across the sky.
Even with my grandfather’s coffin in front of me, the intrigue of an evening with a funeral director is mentally consuming.
***
Our lips collide as we stand on the sidewalk outside her apartment. Even after a few drinks, the kiss is surprisingly clean and well orchestrated on both our parts. Our tongues find a rhythm quickly, neither one of us being overly ambitious, but neither one settling for a totally tepid performance.
The kiss ends slowly and she pulls her lips from mine. “Come up,” she says with a smile as she pulls her keys from her purse. “If you want another drink or some coffee, that can definitely be arranged.” She forces the key into the door and pushes it open then turns around and pulls me in for another kiss.
“Well, you drive a hard bargain,” I reply, following her into the narrow hallway that leads to a set of stairs. She’s wearing that same perfume and the smell is beyond seductive. If I had any intention of ending the night here on the sidewalk, that perfume would lure me up the stairs, the wafting fragrance pulling me along by my nostrils like a character in some old cartoon.
As we enter her apartment I’m surprised to be surrounded by such retro décor. Her physical appearance screams something contemporary with that short, elegantly disheveled hair and a wardrobe that (despite my admittedly few interactions with her) seems so chic and fashionable. The amount of seemingly unnecessary clutter is especially distracting. Yet it all seems mildly familiar, as if inspired by something I’ve encountered in recent memory.
She tosses her purse and jacket on an old couch that looks like it could have been right at home in my grandparents’ house. As she turns on the lights in the living room, I can see that the majority of pictures hanging on the wall, as well as the ones scattered atop coffee tables and windowsills, feature an assortment of individuals, all of them appearing to be from totally different generations and time periods. Some of the photos are black and white and some look as though they could have been taken yesterday. But none of the people look to be in more than one photo. And my current companion isn’t in any of them.
“Something to drink?” she calls from the kitchen, interrupting me from my contemplation.
“Um… sure,” I reply, still perplexed by the assortment of curious photographs.
She returns in just a few moments with two glasses and I take one from her outstretched hand. “So these are some interesting pictures,” I say. “It looks like you’ve got a pretty big family.” I take a sip of my drink.
She laughs as she takes a sip of hers, nearly spitting it out. She places her glass down on a nearby coffee table. “None of these people are in my family,” she replies, taking my own drink from my hand and placing it next to hers. She pulls me close and kisses me forcefully.
Peculiar. Most people don’t have pictures of strangers plastered all over their living room. I suppose some could be friends, but the people in the old black and white photos couldn’t possibly be. Most of those people had probably left this world years before she was even born.
My considerations are cut short as she simultaneously unbuttons my shirt and pulls me in what I can only assume is the direction of her bedroom. In less than a minute we’re in her room and my face is buried in her breasts, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her perfume. I pull my face up for some oxygen and mutter breathlessly, “I’m sorry, you have to tell me what kind of perfume that is. It’s absolutely incredible.
“I got it from Jennifer Calvin,” she replies, raking her nails through my hair. “It was in an unlabeled bottle, so I think it may have been her own concoction.”
“Who’s Jennifer Calvin?” I ask, moving my lips to the base of her neck.
“She was a 19-year-old that was killed in a car accident about a year ago,” she says. “Her mother was absolutely adamant about making sure her body smelled of the perfume at her wake, but when the wake was over, the perfume was left behind. I thought it smelled fantastic, so I took it.”
I pull my face away and create a little distance between us. “I’m sorry… you stole it from some dead girl?”
“Well it’s kind of difficult to steal something from a dead girl, silly. She is dead after all. I don’t think she’ll be missing it.” She leans in closer, mouth ready to kiss, but I pull further away.
“Well that’s still kind of creepy don’t you think? I mean she was buried smelling like the stuff? Christ, it's like I’m hooking up with a dead girl.”
“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” she responds, still advancing on me. “I promise you I am one hundred percent alive. So what if I’m wearing a dead girl’s perfume?”
“Fuck… don’t phrase it like that—it makes it sound even creepier!”
“Relax,” she says as she reaches down to grab my dick. “I thought we had similar views about death. What difference does it make if I use the perfume she loved?”
This time I actually push her away—gently, but enough to make my point. “I’m sorry, this whole thing just seems kind of strange to me.” And that’s when realization hits me with the strength of an 18-wheeler. “Wait… those pictures in your living room… who exactly are those people?”
“They were left behind by people at the funeral home,” she says casually. “They were forgotten, so I figured I’d take them. You’d be amazed at what some grieving families leave behind. And none of them come back for any of it. It’s all stuff that just seems so important at the time, then once the grieving process is over, it’s completely forgotten. Don’t you think that’s kind of sad?”
I’m speechless, staring at her with disbelief in my eyes. “I… um… I…” I stutter and stammer, but I really don’t have a response.
“C’mon baby,” she says, advancing on me once again. “I told you with all honesty that death fascinates me—I have a strange attraction to it. If I want to hang onto some mementos from the departed, is that such a terrible thing? I mean people are just so completely obsessed with moving on. What’s wrong with remembering? What’s wrong with holding on to a part of someone?”
I mean I’m not a totally close-minded person. I suppose something about what she’s saying makes some sense, at least to her. So I give in. She kisses my neck and returns her hand to my dick. I smell her dead girl perfume and feel her desire, and my second brain (the one located below my belt) takes charge, assuring me that everyone is entitled to their own little quirks and eccentricities. The fact that she’s incredibly beautiful doesn’t hurt her case either.
Kissing me more passionately, she pushes me on the bed and jumps on top of me. As she starts to unbuckle my belt, my eyes wander to the small end table located to the right of the bed. And that’s when I see it: a photograph of a young boy standing on a beach next to an older gentleman. I know that beach, I know that young boy and I know that older gentleman.
I push her off and start buckling my belt as I stand up.
“What’s the problem?” she asks, quickly standing up and moving to intercept my path towards the door.
“The problem?” I ask with a degree of disbelief. “The problem? That’s me in that fucking picture on your nightstand! I’m standing next to my fucking grandfather! My dead fucking grandfather!”
“Well I thought it was a great picture,” she said, putting herself directly in my path. “Weren’t you the one telling me you had a tough time remembering the good times with your grandfather? You said he had been sick for so long, it was difficult for you to remember a time when he was healthy and happy. Well there it is.”
“Yes… there it is… right on your fucking nightstand! You didn’t know my grandfather and you barely know me. You don’t have any right to take that photo. You’re just a… a… a fucking klepto!”
“I’m not a fucking klepto,” she replies, her agitation clearly escalating. “I don’t walk into the supermarket and feel compelled to just start throwing shit in my purse!”
“Okay, so you’re just a klepto when it comes to things dead people owned. I don’t think that’s much better.”
“Oh that’s bullshit. It’s clear we don’t relate as much as I had thought.”
“Oh… ya think? I really was not expecting to come over here and fuck you with a picture of my dead grandfather observing all the action! A picture, I might add, that you swiped from the funeral home that hosted his wake! Tell me, what other artifacts in this room did you pilfer from grieving families? You want to be honest with me? You want me to understand? Then tell me what other shit in this bedroom came from that funeral home.”
She glared at me, her eyes damn near burning a hole in my face. “Fine,” she says softly. “You want the stories? I’ll give you the goddam stories. That bracelet on the dresser belonged to a woman named Elsa Mohanne who died of breast cancer in her 30s. That picture frame next to it belonged to a man named Gerald Steed who lived until he was 104 years old. That blanket on the bed…”
“Oh Christ,” I say, cutting her off. “You were going to fuck me on some dead person’s blanket? What is wrong with you?”
She ignores my interruption and simply continues. “That blanket belonged to a 15-year-old girl named Clarissa Spelling who slit her wrists because her parents were getting a divorce. And the families left all these things behind. Everything in this house that I took from the funeral home was left behind and none of the families ever called or came back to look for any of it. And that includes your family and that picture. I can tell you the story of the person behind every little memento, every picture. I can remember them all. So you think it would be better for all this stuff to just be thrown in the trash? Because that’s what happens to stuff that gets left behind—it gets thrown out.”
I break from her stare and walk over to the picture on her nightstand. I pick it up and head for the door. “Well this one stays with me,” I say pushing past her.
“I know it’s easier to just judge me,” she calls after me. Her tone is less angry now and more pleading. Suddenly I feel her hand dig into my shoulder. She spins me around so I’m looking right into her eyes. “You can judge me, but I’m not trying to hurt these people or their families. I’m not doing anything malicious. Memories can be as beautiful as anything else in this world. And so can death. I thought you might actually be able to understand my desire to honor it.”
Without saying a word I pull away from her and head through the living room to the front door. I open it and walk quickly down the stairs, the positive memory of a happy, healthy grandfather clasped tightly in my sweaty hand. I can feel her staring at me as I walk away, but I refuse to turn around. I refuse to let sympathy for such an unconventional lifestyle enter my mind. After all, what she’s doing is sick, isn’t it? It’s deranged and creepy and I’d be just as fucked up if I related to it on any level.
She’s definitely right about one thing: it’s much easier to judge her.
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