Nine Women, One Dress(56)
“Our first,” I said, taking her hand in mine as we both practically skipped down Fifth Avenue, our own personal photographer in tow. I knew I had a lot of important decisions ahead of me, but for now I would just concentrate on the first: lobster bisque or clam chowder?
CHAPTER 33
’Til Death Do Us Part
By Seth Carson, Five-Time Loser (Soon to Be Six)
Age: Old enough to know better
I work at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel on Madison Avenue. It might sound to you like I’m saying that with pride. I’m not. The only thing I’m proud of is my biceps. Other people who work here definitely do it with pride. Even the security guard who works the night shift acts like he’s guarding the crown jewels. I will say, if you die in New York City, the Frank E. Campbell funeral home is the place to go—the last club worth becoming a member of. You would be counted along with famous actors, singers, politicians, and a whole slew of over-the-top rich people. My boss still goes on about Judy Garland’s and John Lennon’s funerals, but if I was going to name-drop, I would mention Biggie Smalls and the mobster Frank Costello. I wouldn’t have minded being here for those two. Most days are just normal people—normal dead people, that is.
Today I was hoping to be out by five so I could pick up a present for my new girlfriend’s birthday, but the undertaking business is so damn unpredictable. That’s what my boss was always preaching: You have to be available, Seth. “People don’t phone us on Tuesday saying, ‘We’ll be pulling the plug on Aunt Becky on Thursday.’ No one forwards an advance copy of his suicide note to the mortician—‘Feeling desperately depressed and will not be able to hold on much longer. Please expect me next Thursday by three.’?”
He thinks he’s being funny, and everyone makes it worse by laughing at him. Personally, I don’t think it’s funny at all. Everything else has to be booked in advance—dinner reservations, back waxing, car detailing, everything but death. And that’s how the woman from the front page of today’s Post has jammed up my Friday night.
They brought her in at two to be embalmed. Embalming usually takes around three hours, dressing and casketing around one. My job was just the last part, to dress and casket the body. I wasn’t trained to be an embalmer, and I’ve been told I’m not nice enough to handle the intake process—dealing with grieving family members takes some kind of sensitivity that I apparently don’t have. I’m better with dead people. Whatever. I’d been here longer than at any other job I’d had since failing college, and I was getting used to it. Though believe me, it took some getting used to.
I even told my new girlfriend the truth about what I did. I’d lied to the last two girls I got with. But this one seemed so open and understanding. I met her online two months ago. My profile still says penny stock trader, which was actually four careers ago. I haven’t held down a job long enough to bother changing it. And this isn’t really a job you want to write on a dating profile. But I told her, and she was pretty nice about it. She knew that Heath Ledger had been embalmed here and even thought that undertaking was an admirable profession. Maybe next week I’ll tell her that I’m not really five-foot-nine.
I tried to skip out during the embalming process, but my boss caught me and asked me to assist. One of our top embalmers had cut his hours and it was a scheduling nightmare. My boss was always pushing me to go get my embalming license, saying he would even pay for it if I signed a long contract with him. But there’s no way I was ever going back to school. This really was a dead-end job.
I told the embalmer, a really strange guy named Gus, that I was in a big rush. I had to shower and pick up a gift for my girlfriend’s birthday tonight. He said he would help me dress and casket too. This was good, except it meant that I had to listen to his endless stories. By the time we were ready for my part it was after five. If I hurried, I would still have time to pick up something for my girlfriend but not to shower. I guess that’s what Drakkar Noir is for.
I made the mistake of commenting on the dead lady’s casket outfit as I pulled it out of the Bloomingdale’s bag. It was a new black designer dress with the tags still on. “What a waste of a new dress,” I said. This led to Gus rattling off death fashion trivia—an endless list of who wore what to the grave.
“Princess Diana was also buried in a black dress that she had recently purchased,” he said, sounding like a walking, talking Wikipedia page.
I nodded and tried to keep us moving.
“Whitney Houston was buried in so much jewelry that she still needs a bodyguard!” He waited for me to laugh. I didn’t.
Just as he started in on whether or not Michael Jackson was buried with his white sequined glove, my boss interrupted, holding a pair of black pumps and an emerald-green suit.
“The family dropped off her clothes…Great Scott, what are you two doing?”
“His name is Seth, sir,” Gus answered, like an idiot.
“Two morons,” my boss said, shaking his head.
I wasn’t being put in a category with Gus. I defended myself. “Someone already dropped her clothes off, right there in that Bloomingdale’s bag.”
“I told you, that bag was one of her personal effects at time of death. The whole city knows this woman died with a bag from Bloomie’s.” He held up the suit. “This is what the family is expecting.” He put it down and left, still shaking his head and mumbling curses under his breath. I, on the other hand, spent the next hour cursing out loud so everyone could hear except the dead lady in the wrong dress.