Bill was tired of his job, the past few months seemed to blur together in his memory with the only noteworthy events being those involving long weekends or “sick days”. He called in to work at least once a month suffering from the glorified symptoms of a hangover. His mother taught him that trick (or his father, depending on how you looked at it) while he was growing up. Whenever Bill's mother would drink too much and didn't want to get out of bed the next morning, his father always told Bill and his sister their mother “had the flu”. It wasn't until one morning sometime after his 22nd birthday, with a particularly bad hangover, that Bill realized his mother couldn't possibly have had the flu all those times.
He worked for a small family-run funeral home. The only problem was that Bill wasn't a part of that particular family. That's not to say Bill's was a terrible job, just that the lion's share of what he called “bitch-work” always seemed to find him first. He was finishing up the last few months of his funeral director apprenticeship, it was the last step before he could get his license to open up his own funeral home. The last step except the one involving the money and property he'd need. Bill hadn't yet figured out how he was going to do that second last step, so working at Walder Funeral Home Inc. was really just the last planned step he had.
Aside from the tedious cleaning chores Bill had to perform around the funeral home and, of course, some grittier duties, he did enjoy one part of his job: running errands. As an apprentice funeral director, Bill was sent out to pick up anything from paperwork or flowers to bodies or their ashes. Getting outside and going for a drive across town was at least an excuse to change the scene. Occasionally though, these errands were rewarding, if only for that special x-factor that goes hand in hand with the whole death business.
Fall was slowly turning to winter on the morning that Bill's streak of boring took its turn. He and Dean were sent to pick up a corpse in a small town situated in the foothills of Pennsylvania's Appalachian mountain range, about a 90 minute drive from the funeral home. That lull before winter is an especially dreary time of year in Pennsylvania. Cold, often windy, and mostly wet. The worst part about the season was that it was only the precursor to the miserable and unpredictable Pennsylvanian winter. Bill was driving the van as Dean took over the role of navigator, reading the directions and going over some paperwork.
“How much longer do we stay on the interstate?” Bill asked.
“Uh, what? Oh, exit 65. We get off at 65.” Dean replied.
It looked like Dean was tired of his paperwork, because as he said this, he leaned over to fiddle with the radio. He changed it to one of the many country music stations so popular in the increasingly rural part of an overwhelmingly rural state. Dean loved these kinds of rides, if only for the variety in country music choices available on the radio. The further into the country you got, the higher the percentage of country stations became. Bill hated these kinds of rides for the very same reason. This debate was a point of frequent contention between the two. It came up during every trip they made together and it seemed like this one would be no different.
The argument could bubble and be over with in seconds or it could blow up and drag itself out for miles and have repercussions for days, spilling over and back into the office. It seemed there would be no swaying either side, but in the end, Dean would always win the argument because of his name. His name wasn't really Dean, it was Johnathon Dean Walder Jr. The same last name as the one printed squarely across the front of the funeral home. He introduced himself as Dean because his parents wanted to avoid confusing the boy when he was younger because he shared his father's name. After a while, he had gotten used to it and never really thought much of being a Johnathon. The argument ending reason that Dean got to choose the music in the van was simply because his last name was on the title of the car. Bill thought it didn't seem entirely fair, so he decided to give it hell every time regardless.
“I'm sick of all the commercials they play on this station. They sell way too much ad time.” said Bill, as he hit the button to change it to the local variety station. The kind of channel that sold just as many ad slots but claimed to be different because they played “Joe-Schmo's Mega Playlist.” They claimed they didn't play by the rules of radio, but as soon as the song ended the DJ came on air and crooned some contrived excuse for playing commercials. There was no re-arranging any playlist, they were simply paying bills and making money. Why they felt the need to sugar-coat it, Bill had no idea. Neither did he care, because as soon as the ads started rolling, Dean reach over and gingerly tapped the button for his all-pop-country-hits-all-the-time station.
“I think this channel plays the least commercials out of every one we've listened to so far. I can't be sure though.” Dean offered, but Bill distinctly remembered not asking.
This was not the day for Bill to be getting too worked up over anything. He had a terrible morning and a late night filled with drunken revelry. When he woke up that morning he felt some curiously flu-like symptoms. The only reason he hadn't called in sick with a hangover (he was going to cite something vague, but ominous sounding, a stomach virus perhaps) was because he thought he would be spending the day picking up supplies or driving paperwork somewhere. What he had not accounted for, however, was that while he was out drinking the night before, the phone rang at the funeral home. The call was about a body that needed picked up.
**********
Bill's day started swirling down the toilet when Dean's father, Big John, intercepted him before he could even get to the coffee at the office he so desperately needed to visit. It was always terribly weak, the color of a dark cup of tea and it was a brand that was completely foreign to Bill. He couldn't recall the exact name of the coffee because he was forbidden to make any in the office after an incident with an elderly couple.
In his first week on the new job excitement, Bill had seen the pot growing empty and decided to help out by making a fresh one for the couple that had just walked in the door. He measured it all out as the directions said to, turned it on, then took the first cup for himself (to taste test it for the customers) and went about the rest of his day thinking he had done a good deed. Apparently, the elderly couple preferred their coffee weak and made a comment to Big John about how strong it was. After a lecture about the need to cater to the customer at all costs, Bill was told to never make another pot of coffee again if he couldn't make it right. After that he always looked at that glass pot with the brownish water in it and thought of the gross injustice of it pouring out only one decent cup of coffee in its lifetime. It was a shame, he thought, because it was such an expensive coffee maker.
It was another injustice when Big John stopped Bill and said “Hey Bill! You're late. Did you sleep in again?” He had a habit of asking the most patronizing questions in the morning.
Bill, groggy and light-headed from his adventures the night before, replied while glaring through bloodshot eyes, “Yeah, sorry. Hey, I really need a cup of coffee.” Sidestepping his boss, Bill took the last couple steps and grabbed the handle of the pot with one hand and a small styrofoam cup with his other. “I got up too late to make any this morning and I forgot my frequent drinker card for the little shop down the street. I hate wasting a trip there if I can't get put it towards my free cup every week.” He lied. He had rolled out of bed and dressed himself while nearly running to his car because he woke up so late. That lie was necessary, thought Bill, it would have been disrespectful to tell the truth.
“By all means, grab a cup. Fresh pot, even. I need to get you awake and alert and ready to go, pal. I've got a special job for you today.” Big John was beaming and rubbing his hands together as he said this.
Treating his employees like his children probably comes from the fact that most of his employees are relatives of his, Bill thought. He groaned as he took a sip of the rusty liquid and said “Oh yeah? What's so special about it?”
Still grinning, he leaned towards Bill like he was going to share some special secret. Big John leaned in almost close enough to smell the alcohol on Bill's breath over the liberal rinsing he'd given it with extra-strength mouthwash, almost close enough.
Big John said “Just found out myself this morning, actually. Got a call last night. There's this old lady over in Altoona. Nice little town, might I add. She's got a ton of money in the bank and her son doesn't seem too hard up for cash either, if you catch what I'm trying to say.” At this, he nudged Bill with his elbow, winking at him as he almost spilled his coffee. Big John continued “She died a couple days ago and it sounds like the son feels real guilty about not finding her for all that time and I think he's going to want to spend a lot of money on the funeral. You know? He wants everything to go just right from here on out, he says. Oh well, you and Dean are leaving in a couple minutes. He's waiting for you in the back office, have fun!”
With that said, Big John gave Bill a pat on the back and walked off. Probably on his way to inspect the place so he could give Bill something to do whenever he returned from their errands. After he finished his inspection, Bill knew Big John would go and hide somewhere in front of a computer screen so he could play solitaire. There he'd wait until Bill and Dean got back to dole out the next assignment. Bill hated that.
Bill sat in the chair next to the water cooler and leaned his head lightly on the plastic container. The chill the cold water was giving his aching head was soothing as he sipped the warm coffee. He sat there and decided to finish his coffee and wait for Dean to find him, not the other way around.
It didn't take very long for Bill to be found, as Dean came charging in the room, looking irritated. Bill was able to down the last gulp of his meager caffeine fix as Dean asked him “Where have you been? My dad's got me re-checking all this paperwork today so you gotta drive. I'll finish this on the ride so I can get out of here early today. I have a date tonight.”
Bill eyed Dean suspiciously at that last statement. It wasn't because Dean was smiling so brightly, clearly waiting for Bill to ask about his lady-friend, it was because Dean knew exactly how low Bill's opinion was of Dean's taste in women. Bill thought Dean was ugly, even for a man. He had a lazy smile to match his right eye that never quite lined up properly with the object Dean was trying to focus on. While this might be enough for a lesser man to question Dean's ability to find a suitable mate, the suspicious stare that Bill was throwing at Dean was because Dean was notorious for “scaring up some internet strange”: meeting and picking up women from the world wide web. He was a casual encounters prowler, sifting through countless adults-only, discreet relationships websites. Bill always said that Dean was a “Dateline-special just waiting to happen.”
Bill finally gave in to his curiosity and asked “So, Beowulf, what monster you fixin' on slaying this time?”
Dean, seemingly unfazed by the remark, replied “No man, not this time. This girl, even you'd rate her a solid 9. She might be a winner. She's, she's hot man. Muy Caliente!” Dean cracked that trademark stroke victim smile of his as he said this.
Just as the silence was starting to get awkward, Dean continued with “But seriously, let's go. I'm not joking about wanting to get back here early. I gotta get ready for that date.”
As they were walking out the door towards the van parked behind the building, Bill said to himself “I don't know what the hell you've got to get ready for. Just tag her and bag her, that's what the park rangers do with the bears they catch. Though they probably don't take the bears back to their place.”
Dean turned and asked Bill “What'd you just say? Something about rangers? Why do you mumble so much?”
“I said 'I hope we don't run into any bears in the wilderness. That's where we're headed to pick up this body. I don't want to have to call any forest rangers.'” Bill said.
Dean offered “Yeah, uh, me either.” As he climbed into the passenger seat and started pulling papers out of his bag. “Hey you gotta listen to this new radio station I found the last time I was driving out that way, it's awesome man.”
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