(00:45:10) dalaiTony: yo dude
(00:45:16) dalaiTony: what's funnier than a dead baby?
(00:45:18) Peter: wat up
(00:45:25) Peter: 10 dead babies
(00:45:26) dalaiTony: a dead baby in a clown costume
(00:45:33) Peter: haha
(00:45:36) Peter: now thats funny
(00:45:41) dalaiTony: a dead baby sitting next to a kid with downs syndrome
(00:45:56) dalaiTony: how do you know when a baby is a dead baby?
(00:45:56) Peter: in clown costumes
(00:46:01) dalaiTony: the dog plays with it more
(00:46:20) Peter: whats more fun than nailing a baby to a fence post
(00:46:28) dalaiTony: whats the difference between a dead baby and a trampoline?
(00:46:30) dalaiTony: i dunno
(00:46:39) Peter: ripping it off
(00:46:41) dalaiTony: but when you jump on a trampoline you normally take your boots off
(00:47:05) dalaiTony: why are test tube babies the most beautiful ones?
(00:47:09) dalaiTony: because they're hand made
(00:47:16) Peter: haha
(00:47:23) dalaiTony: what's brown and gurgles?
(00:47:27) dalaiTony: a dead baby in a casserole
(00:47:48) dalaiTony: how do you stop a baby from crawling around in circles on the floor?
(00:47:56) dalaiTony: nail its other hand to the floor
(00:48:16) Peter: what do you call 10 dead babies
(00:48:27) dalaiTony: house paint?
(00:48:35) Peter: early thanksgiving
(00:48:40) dalaiTony: well, actually it depends on how hard you throw them
(00:48:43) Peter: what do you call 10 dead black people
(00:48:47) dalaiTony: i dunno
(00:48:50) Peter: a good start
(00:48:54) dalaiTony: haha
(00:49:36) dalaiTony: how do you get 100 dead babies into a bucket?
(00:49:43) dalaiTony: with a blender. how do you get them out again?
(00:49:46) dalaiTony: with tortilla chips!
(00:50:20) dalaiTony: but why do you stick a baby in a blender feet first?
(00:50:28) dalaiTony: to see the expression on its face, of course
(00:50:44) dalaiTony: what does a baby and a pinto have in common?
(00:50:50) dalaiTony: both fun to ride until they die
(00:51:12) dalaiTony: whats the difference between a truck full of bowling balls and a truck full of dead babies?
(00:51:26) dalaiTony: you cant unload the truck full of bowling balls with a pitchfork
(00:51:59) dalaiTony: whats the difference between a dead baby and a peanut butter cup?
(00:52:06) dalaiTony: the dead baby wont stick to the roof of your mouth
(00:52:18) dalaiTony: why didnt they crucify baby jesus?
(00:52:24) dalaiTony: naw, i dont know why either
(00:52:46) dalaiTony: whats the difference between a dead baby and my girlfriend?
(00:52:52) dalaiTony: i dont kiss my girlfriend after sex
(00:53:11) dalaiTony: whats the difference betwen a grandmother and a baby?
(00:53:21) dalaiTony: grandmothers dont die when you fuck em in the ass
(00:53:41) dalaiTony: whats worse than a dead baby in a trashcan/
(00:53:47) dalaiTony: a traschcan in a dead baby
(00:54:06) dalaiTony: how many dead babies can fit in a barrel?
(00:54:10) dalaiTony: 4 and a half
(00:54:27) dalaiTony: what goes plop plop fizz fizz?
(00:54:31) dalaiTony: twins in an acid bath
(00:54:47) dalaiTony: oh, what is red and creeps up your leg?
(00:54:51) dalaiTony: a homesick abortion
(00:55:25) dalaiTony: what can a blind, deaf, quadraplegic baby get for christmas?
(00:55:27) dalaiTony: cancer
(00:55:57) dalaiTony: whats worse than smoking pot with a baby?
(00:56:02) dalaiTony: making a bong out of it
(00:56:21) dalaiTony: difference btwn dead baby and styrofoam cup?
(00:56:35) dalaiTony: dead baby doesnt harm atmosphere when you burn it
(00:57:49) dalaiTony: red and bubbly and scratches at the window before exploding?
(00:57:54) dalaiTony: baby in a microwave
(00:58:10) dalaiTony: whats grosser than gross?
(00:58:20) dalaiTony: a garbage can full of dead babies
(00:58:24) dalaiTony: whats grosser than that?
(00:58:30) dalaiTony: the one at the bottom is still alive
(00:58:34) dalaiTony: whats grosser than that?
(00:58:39) dalaiTony: he has to eat his way to freedom
(00:58:43) dalaiTony: whats grosser than that?
(00:58:47) dalaiTony: he goes back for seconds
(00:59:17) dalaiTony: whats harder to do than nailing a dead baby to a tree?
(00:59:25) dalaiTony: nailing it to a dead puppy
(00:59:47) dalaiTony: what do you get when you cut a baby?
(00:59:50) dalaiTony: an erection
(01:00:43) dalaiTony: how do you make a dead baby float?
(01:00:49) dalaiTony: add two scoops of ice cream
(01:02:01) dalaiTony: ok im spent
(01:02:47) Peter: I printed that out
(01:02:53) dalaiTony: hahahaha
Monday, August 26, 2013
death and the salesmen (conclusion)
“Hey navigator?” Bill asked as sarcastically as his frustration would allow without making him sound angry. “You solve this riddle yet?”
Bill and Dean made it to the right exit on the interstate, but somewhere between there and their current location, they made a series of wrong turns. Dean had long since given up on his paperwork. He was more concerned at that point with his “hot date” and his tyranny over the airwaves.
Dean didn't bother responding to Bill's antagonism. They were at the point in the trip where each was blaming the other for their misfortune, not bothering to remember that it was a combination of bad directions from the navigator and slow reactions from the driver that had forced them on their detour.
“And I'm really getting sick of this music. I swear that last song was about some woman planning to murder her boyfriend with a shotgun. C'mon man, cut me a break with this already. I'd rather just turn it off. I have a headache, uh, from this cold I've been fighting off all morning. We could listen to anything else. Easy listening? No one can hate that, they play that in nursing homes and doctors offices, those people are hurting all the time and they listen to it.”
Bill's pleading was getting him nowhere. He knew the argument had devolved at some point, he knew it back at what he thought was that last wrong turn. It was no longer an argument over a music station or whether or not Dean's woman belonged on the runway or in the pasture, it was a proxy war that both young men were using to fight their own frustration with their circumstances. They'd been driving for twice as long as it should have taken and their destination was still nowhere in sight. The argument was about to get ugly and Bill wasn't enthused.
Dean frowned as he looked over at Bill and said “Everybody at work knows that you're not sick. You're just hungover. You drink too much and we're not changing the station. This is easy enough to listen to and I don't really give a damn if your head hurts. No one forces you to drink like you do.” He rubbed his eyes and let out a deep sigh before continuing “I just want to find this place and get home.”
Bill slammed on the brakes and made a hard, fast turn into the driveway on his right. In his haste he only managed to get most of the van into the drive. “What was the house number again? No, check the paper your Dad gave you.” Bill was nearly yelling at Dean.
Dean, not wanting to question his suddenly aggressive co-worker, rifled through the paperwork he'd been carrying and said “I've checked this a dozen times. It says '121'. We're looking for '121 Chestnut Avenue'.”
Pointing to a house about 30 yards down the street in the direction they had just been driving, Bill asked “Are you sure it's not a '5'? As in '151 Chestnut'? Because that house is 151 Chestnut and we've driven past it a dozen times already. Let me see that damn paper.” He grabbed at the directions and continued “You're killing me, Dean. This clearly says '151', we could have been on our way back right now if you could just read a set of directions. What the hell's the matter with you?”
Dean defended himself as best he could by saying “No, if you're right about the house number then you can't blame me for it. It's my Dad's fault for his sloppy handwriting.”
Putting the van in reverse, Bill jumped on the gas and spun his tired in the wet ground just next to the driveway for a few seconds as he turned around and they headed back towards the house in question.
Bill said “At this point I don't even care if that's the right place. I'm knocking on their door. Whoever answers is bound to know if they have any dead bodies lying around. We'll just take whatever they got.”
Bill turned the wheel and coasted the van to a stop at the bottom of the driveway of 151 Chestnut Avenue. He hopped out and his foot landed in a sizable puddle in the muddy looking gravel the van was parked on. Dodging a second puddle with a spring in his step because he thought he was so close to having this nightmare morning over with, Bill reached out and rang the bell. He shivered while he was waiting, and thought that winter seemed to be coming early, and of course, the cold drizzle he was standing in did nothing to help make him feel warmer.
A man finally answered the door, just as Dean was stepping onto the landing. Dean said “Perfect timing, as usual.” and jumped right into his 'salesman' mode. John Walder Sr. had instilled in his son from a very young age that he should always treat customers with the utmost care. Dean took to this idea like a fish to water, while just a few minutes earlier he was surly, Bill watched as Dean was nothing but sweet and caring in front of this man. Sweet and caring and within 15 seconds of meeting this guy Dean was already making suggestions for the funeral, expensive suggestions. Straight to business, as usual.
Dean's salesman mode was another point of contention between he and Bill. The latter always saying “Those people have to hate the shit out of you. You kiss their ass and then dump a huge bill in their laps for all the death accessories and death services. Have some shame, man. Not everything is about dollars and cents.”
Upon hearing this, Dean would invariably reply with “That's where you're wrong, Billy, that's where you're wrong.” Then, in just the same patronizing way his old man did, Dean would give him a pat on the back.
The morning had dragged along at a snail's pace and Bill wasn't in the mood for Dean's duplicity. He shook his head and muttered “Dick head” under his breath.
Dean and the customer, Victor, stopped and looked at Bill. Dean asked “What did you just call me?” His eyes flaring, all that frustration from earlier clearly bubbling just under the surface.
“Nothing, just a cough. Told you I was catching a cold.” Bill said, as he coughed a few times, pretending to be clearing his throat. He hadn't intended for anyone to hear that. Sometimes Bill's habit of expressing himself under his breath got louder than he wanted. It was just his way of releasing some tension without actually hurting any feelings. Occasionally though, his habit became a passive aggressive assault on the world.
Victor, the grieving son, said “I feel so terrible about not finding her until last night. I was supposed to take her to the store the other day but I had to call and cancel because my daughter was sick. I called the day after that and she didn't answer but I thought maybe she was next door, she's good friends with the neighbor. But oh, oh I called last night and I called and called again and she didn't answer and wasn't returning the calls and I just feel so terrible.” Victor was overflowing with guilt.
This was the third time he told Dean how bad he felt. The first was on the landing, while Bill and Dean were still standing in the rain. Bill wasn't interested in the story that time, or the second time he told it just as soon as they had stepped inside. The only reason Bill's attention was caught this time was because Victor added “I just want to make sure I do whatever it takes for her now, while I still can.”
With a glance around the house, Bill knew that last comment meant Victor was looking to spend that guilt away. Dean's old man was right, thought Bill, this guy is going to spend whatever he can. Guilty and grieving, never a healthy combination. The neighborhood was nice enough to let your mother live out her days in, but she had an entire house full of new stuff. A brand new set of kitchen appliances were spread across the larger than average kitchen area. There was a huge flat screen television in the living room with a comfortable looking couch to the left and a recliner perched in front, clearly Victor's favorite spot whenever he was visiting because he was in his 60's, so his mother must have been ancient. She was certainly too old to appreciate an HDTV, her eyes were probably shot to hell. Bill was angry when he thought about how this old lady had the luxury of high definition while he had to sit at home in squalor and watch everything in regular definition.
As they followed Victor through the house to the sitting room where his mother was waiting for her last road trip, Bill thought about how pathetic Victor seemed. It was clear that he didn't spend a lot of time with his mother, he just bought her things. The brand new kitchen set had dust on it and the television was most likely only turned on when Victor came over. He bought her stuff to fill her house that she didn't need or didn't use, stuff that he wanted for himself, never bothering to think about what his mother wanted. What she wanted was his time. Either Victor couldn't understand that or he didn't want to give her any. He hoped he could buy her off, but Bill could see what the old bat had really wanted, just as if she'd told him herself. He could see all this because they didn't find her in the room with all the comfortable chairs and wide screen TV, but in a small study room with one window letting the early afternoon sun illuminate a handful of pictures on the desk. They looked to be of Victor and what must have been his wife and children. Victor was his mother's only son, at least the only son she had pictures of in her house, and Bill and Dean found her seated in a rocking chair, those pictures probably one of the last things she ever saw.
“Oh Christ, she's been sitting like that for a day and a half?” Bill asked angrily.
Eric, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the phrasing and tone of the question, replied “Yeah, that's what the paramedic told me.”
Dean began to explain, “This type of thing happens all the time. I'm sure your mother died peacefully, you don't need to feel bad. Bill's just worried because rigor mortis has set in and the tissues and tendons won't relax quite right. Since your mom's been in that position for that long, she's uh, stiffened up a bit.”
As Bill and Dean began putting on their latex gloves, Victor asked “So, uh, what's that mean for me?” Clearly wondering whether this new revelation should make him feel any more guilt. Asking, in effect, “Should I spend more money?”
Dean, being the consummate salesman and understanding the hidden message, reassured his customer with “Oh Vic, there's no need to worry about anything, we'll have her looking as pretty as she did ten years ago by the time of the viewing at the funeral home. We'll take care of this, no problem. Now, actually, if you'll excuse us we can take care of everything else, if uh, maybe you wanted to go collect any jewelry or personal items you'd like her to have.” However, Dean's tone didn't have the same level of assurance that his words did. He knew that this woman was about as stiff as she was going to get, stuck in that position for the ride home.
Victor finally got the hint that he should make himself scarce and said “Yeah, there's a beautiful necklace that I bought her a couple years ago. I was looking for it when you got here, I'll get back to that.”
As soon as he thought Victor was out of earshot, Bill said “This is bullshit, you know that right? That guy must have told your old man this old witch was in a rocking chair when she kicked it. He sent us on a dummy mission. Why didn't he tell us she's been stiffening up in a rocking chair for the past 36 hours? We have to take her back like this, arms and legs up in the air like that the whole ride home, ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I know, but at least the windows are tinted. You got legs this time” said Dean, as he went around and put his gloved hands under her shoulders so they could haul her out to the van.
Navigating their way around the desk next to the door, the woman's outstretched right arm (which looked more like a claw with that particular bend of her fingers) knocked into the lamp. It teetered as the shade was pushed out of proper alignment.
Laughing, Bill said “Hey Dean, this cheap bitch is still trying to turn the lights off when she leaves the room. She's been dead for days and still worried about the light bill.”
They made their way through the rest of the house without any further events. As they neared the door, Dean said “Set her down Bill, we have to cover her up before we go outside, she looks like a prop from a zombie movie.”
Bill laughed, dipped his head down near the old woman's outstretched claw and said “Hope she doesn't eat my brains!”
As they stepped outside a gust of wind blew up and nearly ripped the sheet off the old lady. While they were inside, the weather had only gotten worse. Bill didn't like the drizzle while he was waiting for the door on the way in, but he decided he hated the cold drops falling down on his way out.
“Quit worrying about your shoes getting muddy and hurry it up Dean! It's colder than a miner's asshole out here” said Bill, as he hopped left to avoid the puddle that got him earlier. Following, and without a good view of where he was placing his feet, Dean shouted “Shit! My shoe's all wet now!”
Bill reached out and opened the back door as he carefully balanced their package with his other arm and the side of the van. Once the door was opened, they had no problem pushing the old woman in on the specially designed rollers. Bill loved those casket rollers, if he didn't tie down whatever cargo he was hauling, he could get it to roll back and forth if he pumped the pedals. This time though, Bill made sure the old woman was tied down tight and the rollers locked.
“Finally! But now by the time we get back it's going to be almost dinner time. And my foot is cold, and wet. Come on Bill, let's get going.” Dean whined, already in the passenger seat.
“I am, don't worry. I want to get out of here just as much as you. This was a terrible trip, ghoulish.” said Bill as he jumped into the driver's seat and turned the key. He shifted into gear and put his foot on the gas pedal and the tires spun and spun in the gravelly mud.
Both Bill and Dean sat looking at each other, neither saying a word. The only sound in the van was the country station DJ saying “We're gonna get right back to you good folks out there with nothing but the country hits right after we pay some bills.” At least he's honest, thought Bill.
**********
Two and a half hours later the tow truck driver finished hitching the van (half-covered in a murky brownish mixture of mud and gravel pieces from the failed attempts at freeing itself) to his truck and pulled it safely back on the road. Once they were out of the driveway, Dean signed some papers for the truck driver before they were able to finally start on their way home.
“It's not my fault, it's your dad's, for being such a cheap son of a bitch and not buying an SUV for this kind of stuff. Every other funeral home has a Suburban or a Tahoe or something, and all those vehicles have four-wheel drive.” Bill continued “What's this Windstar got? No balls, that's for sure.”
“If you'd payed any attention before you parked in that swamp, we'd be home by now.” Dean said as he reached in his pocket for his phone. His battery had to be getting low, thought Bill, because Dean had been on the phone non-stop calling first his father, then the tow truck company, his father again, the tow truck company a second time because he forgot the name of their company, his father a third time, and finally his 'hot date', explaining that he might not make it in time. He stayed on with his lady friend for the majority of the time spent waiting for the tow truck and it was only a few minutes before help arrived that the argument over who was at fault began.
“I don't care, blame me then. I'm getting tired and I'm hungry like the wolf.” said Bill “I'm pulling in to the next place with a drive-thru that I can find.”
Though they hadn't been driving for very long, the sheet being used to cover Victor's mother had slowly worked itself off of her posing limbs and into a ball on her torso. Her body was still in the night-gown and position they found her in, but lying on her back, uncovered. She looked more like an overturned turtle. Only this terrapin wasn't flailing its legs to try and right itself. It sat in the back gently swaying as the van took the turns and inclines in that hilly region of Pennsylvania. If either Bill or Dean would have looked back at the corpse, they would have been reminded how terrible their day had gone. Neither looked back, consequently, when Bill pulled the van up to the drive through window to pick up their order, he was greeted with a warm smile that turned into a scream instead of any fast food delights.
“Oh. My. God.” the girl finally managed to choke out after a few long seconds. “Is that a dead person? Oh my god.” she repeated. In her defense, she was clearly not expecting to see any corpses driving through the window during her shift, especially not one striking a pose like Victor's mom.
“Yes, that's a corpse. People die, all right? Get over it.” then, realizing that statement in no way explained why he was driving around with a corpse in the back seat, continued “I work for a funeral home, it's fine. Please, just don't scream at me again.” Bill told the girl, as Dean hurried to adjust their parcel's sheet.
After parking the car Bill took a big swallow of milkshake and rubbed his forehead. “Maybe we should have gone in and eaten. At least that way I wouldn't have had my ears assaulted by that burger flipping bitch.” he suggested.
Dean, choking on his food as he started to laugh, said “No way man, with how this day's been going for us, someone would have looked in the window and seen a dead woman in a van that's half covered in mud. They'd call the police and say someone's been out robbing graves.”
Bill laughed and said “Dean, that's a good point. You know, you're not so bad sometimes.”
“That's the nicest back-handed compliment I've gotten all day!” Dean said sarcastically. “But seriously, this old lady is starting to give me the creeps. I think she might be cursed or something. And she really does look creepy. If I were that girl at the window I might have screamed too. It's funny too, looks like she's sitting in a phantom rocking chair!” Dean laughed at his own joke.
“And you just proved why I only said you're not so bad sometimes.” said Bill. “But do you think you can drive the rest of the way? I did an awful lot of driving around in circles this morning and I'm really tired.” Bill laughed. “Hungover, whatever.”
“Uh, actually, I still have some paperwork to finish going over.” Dean paused, thinking for a moment, he said “No, I changed my mind. I can drive. My dad can finish his own damn paperwork if he wants it finished. I think you might be right about him, Billy, he is kind of a dick. He could have checked his own paperwork, but no, he didn't. He told me to do it and to go to East Jesus, PA and fetch a cursed corpse while he sat around playing solitaire all day.”
“Awesome. Thanks pal. Hey where are you taking that date of yours later? It's only a little after seven, you still have plenty of time to get ready. Maybe if I can get my nap-on, I'll swing by there for drinks tonight.” Bill said “Maybe I'll see for myself what this beast-piece looks like.”
Dean, surprisingly smiled at Bill's joke. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Bill thought that maybe Dean was starting to not take everything so seriously. Bill adjusted his seat and was asleep within minutes, to a song playing on the station Dean claimed was his favorite. He remembered thinking “This song is good. I'm surprised.” just before he fell asleep.
“I knew he was going to pass right out” Dean said as soon as he heard Bill's gentle snores. “He drinks too much.” Dean never thought it was strange that he talked to corpses. It had something to do with the amount of time he'd spent around dead people. Growing up, Dean was always more interested in his dad's business affairs than the other children his age.
Dean normally kept his conversations with the departed short and sweet, with a quaint phrase or two, and only when he thought no one else could hear him. He made sure to keep this conversation short though, not because he thought Bill could hear him, but because he wasn't kidding when he said the old woman was creeping him out.
He wasn't superstitious or a big believer in anything supernatural, but there was something in the way the headlights from the car behind him played with the shadow of the woman's hand. It drifted back and forth across his rear view mirror and it was starting to get to him. He turned the music up hoping that it would somehow take his mind off the corpse and his nightmare day.
It didn't work. The van lurched in a pothole and Dean thought he saw the hand move, but he reassured himself that the worse of the day was over, yet he couldn't stop looking at that hand in the mirror. The tips of the fingers looked pointed as they played in the shadows, but the fingers themselves curled slightly in towards her palm. It was as if she were trying to grab on to whatever good luck was left in their day and take it with her to the next world.
They were almost home, only about 5 miles from the Walder Funeral Home Inc. when Bill finally woke up. Sleeping in a moving vehicle never agreed with him so Bill stretched his arms out wide to try and get the kink out of his shoulder. He brushed the back of Dean's head as he stretched.
Dean, meanwhile, had not been paying attention to his living passenger, just the dead one in the back. He had been fixated on the shadows and the headlights behind him, so when a strange hand brushed the back of his neck, Dean screamed and his face went white with fear. He instinctively swerved to pull the car off the road, but he swerved too hard and sailed straight off the road, finally coming to a stop a few feet from an ancient looking oak tree with the wheels buried in the wet soil.
Dean realized just a few seconds too late that the hand brushing against his neck was just Bill. He realized the hand was Bill's right before he realized that they were going to have to call the a tow truck again and explain everything to his Dad. Dean looked in the mirror again and saw that hand, it didn't look as ominous now. It looked more like the old lady was finally waving goodbye, she'd let loose the last of her curse and was finally ready to leave.
As he was trying to figure out what had just happened, Bill heard the DJ on the radio saying “This is the last song I'll be playing for you tonight. I'm signing off, but DJ Cowboy Jimmy's in the studio and he'll play you through the rest of the night.”
Bill and Dean made it to the right exit on the interstate, but somewhere between there and their current location, they made a series of wrong turns. Dean had long since given up on his paperwork. He was more concerned at that point with his “hot date” and his tyranny over the airwaves.
Dean didn't bother responding to Bill's antagonism. They were at the point in the trip where each was blaming the other for their misfortune, not bothering to remember that it was a combination of bad directions from the navigator and slow reactions from the driver that had forced them on their detour.
“And I'm really getting sick of this music. I swear that last song was about some woman planning to murder her boyfriend with a shotgun. C'mon man, cut me a break with this already. I'd rather just turn it off. I have a headache, uh, from this cold I've been fighting off all morning. We could listen to anything else. Easy listening? No one can hate that, they play that in nursing homes and doctors offices, those people are hurting all the time and they listen to it.”
Bill's pleading was getting him nowhere. He knew the argument had devolved at some point, he knew it back at what he thought was that last wrong turn. It was no longer an argument over a music station or whether or not Dean's woman belonged on the runway or in the pasture, it was a proxy war that both young men were using to fight their own frustration with their circumstances. They'd been driving for twice as long as it should have taken and their destination was still nowhere in sight. The argument was about to get ugly and Bill wasn't enthused.
Dean frowned as he looked over at Bill and said “Everybody at work knows that you're not sick. You're just hungover. You drink too much and we're not changing the station. This is easy enough to listen to and I don't really give a damn if your head hurts. No one forces you to drink like you do.” He rubbed his eyes and let out a deep sigh before continuing “I just want to find this place and get home.”
Bill slammed on the brakes and made a hard, fast turn into the driveway on his right. In his haste he only managed to get most of the van into the drive. “What was the house number again? No, check the paper your Dad gave you.” Bill was nearly yelling at Dean.
Dean, not wanting to question his suddenly aggressive co-worker, rifled through the paperwork he'd been carrying and said “I've checked this a dozen times. It says '121'. We're looking for '121 Chestnut Avenue'.”
Pointing to a house about 30 yards down the street in the direction they had just been driving, Bill asked “Are you sure it's not a '5'? As in '151 Chestnut'? Because that house is 151 Chestnut and we've driven past it a dozen times already. Let me see that damn paper.” He grabbed at the directions and continued “You're killing me, Dean. This clearly says '151', we could have been on our way back right now if you could just read a set of directions. What the hell's the matter with you?”
Dean defended himself as best he could by saying “No, if you're right about the house number then you can't blame me for it. It's my Dad's fault for his sloppy handwriting.”
Putting the van in reverse, Bill jumped on the gas and spun his tired in the wet ground just next to the driveway for a few seconds as he turned around and they headed back towards the house in question.
Bill said “At this point I don't even care if that's the right place. I'm knocking on their door. Whoever answers is bound to know if they have any dead bodies lying around. We'll just take whatever they got.”
Bill turned the wheel and coasted the van to a stop at the bottom of the driveway of 151 Chestnut Avenue. He hopped out and his foot landed in a sizable puddle in the muddy looking gravel the van was parked on. Dodging a second puddle with a spring in his step because he thought he was so close to having this nightmare morning over with, Bill reached out and rang the bell. He shivered while he was waiting, and thought that winter seemed to be coming early, and of course, the cold drizzle he was standing in did nothing to help make him feel warmer.
A man finally answered the door, just as Dean was stepping onto the landing. Dean said “Perfect timing, as usual.” and jumped right into his 'salesman' mode. John Walder Sr. had instilled in his son from a very young age that he should always treat customers with the utmost care. Dean took to this idea like a fish to water, while just a few minutes earlier he was surly, Bill watched as Dean was nothing but sweet and caring in front of this man. Sweet and caring and within 15 seconds of meeting this guy Dean was already making suggestions for the funeral, expensive suggestions. Straight to business, as usual.
Dean's salesman mode was another point of contention between he and Bill. The latter always saying “Those people have to hate the shit out of you. You kiss their ass and then dump a huge bill in their laps for all the death accessories and death services. Have some shame, man. Not everything is about dollars and cents.”
Upon hearing this, Dean would invariably reply with “That's where you're wrong, Billy, that's where you're wrong.” Then, in just the same patronizing way his old man did, Dean would give him a pat on the back.
The morning had dragged along at a snail's pace and Bill wasn't in the mood for Dean's duplicity. He shook his head and muttered “Dick head” under his breath.
Dean and the customer, Victor, stopped and looked at Bill. Dean asked “What did you just call me?” His eyes flaring, all that frustration from earlier clearly bubbling just under the surface.
“Nothing, just a cough. Told you I was catching a cold.” Bill said, as he coughed a few times, pretending to be clearing his throat. He hadn't intended for anyone to hear that. Sometimes Bill's habit of expressing himself under his breath got louder than he wanted. It was just his way of releasing some tension without actually hurting any feelings. Occasionally though, his habit became a passive aggressive assault on the world.
Victor, the grieving son, said “I feel so terrible about not finding her until last night. I was supposed to take her to the store the other day but I had to call and cancel because my daughter was sick. I called the day after that and she didn't answer but I thought maybe she was next door, she's good friends with the neighbor. But oh, oh I called last night and I called and called again and she didn't answer and wasn't returning the calls and I just feel so terrible.” Victor was overflowing with guilt.
This was the third time he told Dean how bad he felt. The first was on the landing, while Bill and Dean were still standing in the rain. Bill wasn't interested in the story that time, or the second time he told it just as soon as they had stepped inside. The only reason Bill's attention was caught this time was because Victor added “I just want to make sure I do whatever it takes for her now, while I still can.”
With a glance around the house, Bill knew that last comment meant Victor was looking to spend that guilt away. Dean's old man was right, thought Bill, this guy is going to spend whatever he can. Guilty and grieving, never a healthy combination. The neighborhood was nice enough to let your mother live out her days in, but she had an entire house full of new stuff. A brand new set of kitchen appliances were spread across the larger than average kitchen area. There was a huge flat screen television in the living room with a comfortable looking couch to the left and a recliner perched in front, clearly Victor's favorite spot whenever he was visiting because he was in his 60's, so his mother must have been ancient. She was certainly too old to appreciate an HDTV, her eyes were probably shot to hell. Bill was angry when he thought about how this old lady had the luxury of high definition while he had to sit at home in squalor and watch everything in regular definition.
As they followed Victor through the house to the sitting room where his mother was waiting for her last road trip, Bill thought about how pathetic Victor seemed. It was clear that he didn't spend a lot of time with his mother, he just bought her things. The brand new kitchen set had dust on it and the television was most likely only turned on when Victor came over. He bought her stuff to fill her house that she didn't need or didn't use, stuff that he wanted for himself, never bothering to think about what his mother wanted. What she wanted was his time. Either Victor couldn't understand that or he didn't want to give her any. He hoped he could buy her off, but Bill could see what the old bat had really wanted, just as if she'd told him herself. He could see all this because they didn't find her in the room with all the comfortable chairs and wide screen TV, but in a small study room with one window letting the early afternoon sun illuminate a handful of pictures on the desk. They looked to be of Victor and what must have been his wife and children. Victor was his mother's only son, at least the only son she had pictures of in her house, and Bill and Dean found her seated in a rocking chair, those pictures probably one of the last things she ever saw.
“Oh Christ, she's been sitting like that for a day and a half?” Bill asked angrily.
Eric, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the phrasing and tone of the question, replied “Yeah, that's what the paramedic told me.”
Dean began to explain, “This type of thing happens all the time. I'm sure your mother died peacefully, you don't need to feel bad. Bill's just worried because rigor mortis has set in and the tissues and tendons won't relax quite right. Since your mom's been in that position for that long, she's uh, stiffened up a bit.”
As Bill and Dean began putting on their latex gloves, Victor asked “So, uh, what's that mean for me?” Clearly wondering whether this new revelation should make him feel any more guilt. Asking, in effect, “Should I spend more money?”
Dean, being the consummate salesman and understanding the hidden message, reassured his customer with “Oh Vic, there's no need to worry about anything, we'll have her looking as pretty as she did ten years ago by the time of the viewing at the funeral home. We'll take care of this, no problem. Now, actually, if you'll excuse us we can take care of everything else, if uh, maybe you wanted to go collect any jewelry or personal items you'd like her to have.” However, Dean's tone didn't have the same level of assurance that his words did. He knew that this woman was about as stiff as she was going to get, stuck in that position for the ride home.
Victor finally got the hint that he should make himself scarce and said “Yeah, there's a beautiful necklace that I bought her a couple years ago. I was looking for it when you got here, I'll get back to that.”
As soon as he thought Victor was out of earshot, Bill said “This is bullshit, you know that right? That guy must have told your old man this old witch was in a rocking chair when she kicked it. He sent us on a dummy mission. Why didn't he tell us she's been stiffening up in a rocking chair for the past 36 hours? We have to take her back like this, arms and legs up in the air like that the whole ride home, ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I know, but at least the windows are tinted. You got legs this time” said Dean, as he went around and put his gloved hands under her shoulders so they could haul her out to the van.
Navigating their way around the desk next to the door, the woman's outstretched right arm (which looked more like a claw with that particular bend of her fingers) knocked into the lamp. It teetered as the shade was pushed out of proper alignment.
Laughing, Bill said “Hey Dean, this cheap bitch is still trying to turn the lights off when she leaves the room. She's been dead for days and still worried about the light bill.”
They made their way through the rest of the house without any further events. As they neared the door, Dean said “Set her down Bill, we have to cover her up before we go outside, she looks like a prop from a zombie movie.”
Bill laughed, dipped his head down near the old woman's outstretched claw and said “Hope she doesn't eat my brains!”
As they stepped outside a gust of wind blew up and nearly ripped the sheet off the old lady. While they were inside, the weather had only gotten worse. Bill didn't like the drizzle while he was waiting for the door on the way in, but he decided he hated the cold drops falling down on his way out.
“Quit worrying about your shoes getting muddy and hurry it up Dean! It's colder than a miner's asshole out here” said Bill, as he hopped left to avoid the puddle that got him earlier. Following, and without a good view of where he was placing his feet, Dean shouted “Shit! My shoe's all wet now!”
Bill reached out and opened the back door as he carefully balanced their package with his other arm and the side of the van. Once the door was opened, they had no problem pushing the old woman in on the specially designed rollers. Bill loved those casket rollers, if he didn't tie down whatever cargo he was hauling, he could get it to roll back and forth if he pumped the pedals. This time though, Bill made sure the old woman was tied down tight and the rollers locked.
“Finally! But now by the time we get back it's going to be almost dinner time. And my foot is cold, and wet. Come on Bill, let's get going.” Dean whined, already in the passenger seat.
“I am, don't worry. I want to get out of here just as much as you. This was a terrible trip, ghoulish.” said Bill as he jumped into the driver's seat and turned the key. He shifted into gear and put his foot on the gas pedal and the tires spun and spun in the gravelly mud.
Both Bill and Dean sat looking at each other, neither saying a word. The only sound in the van was the country station DJ saying “We're gonna get right back to you good folks out there with nothing but the country hits right after we pay some bills.” At least he's honest, thought Bill.
**********
Two and a half hours later the tow truck driver finished hitching the van (half-covered in a murky brownish mixture of mud and gravel pieces from the failed attempts at freeing itself) to his truck and pulled it safely back on the road. Once they were out of the driveway, Dean signed some papers for the truck driver before they were able to finally start on their way home.
“It's not my fault, it's your dad's, for being such a cheap son of a bitch and not buying an SUV for this kind of stuff. Every other funeral home has a Suburban or a Tahoe or something, and all those vehicles have four-wheel drive.” Bill continued “What's this Windstar got? No balls, that's for sure.”
“If you'd payed any attention before you parked in that swamp, we'd be home by now.” Dean said as he reached in his pocket for his phone. His battery had to be getting low, thought Bill, because Dean had been on the phone non-stop calling first his father, then the tow truck company, his father again, the tow truck company a second time because he forgot the name of their company, his father a third time, and finally his 'hot date', explaining that he might not make it in time. He stayed on with his lady friend for the majority of the time spent waiting for the tow truck and it was only a few minutes before help arrived that the argument over who was at fault began.
“I don't care, blame me then. I'm getting tired and I'm hungry like the wolf.” said Bill “I'm pulling in to the next place with a drive-thru that I can find.”
Though they hadn't been driving for very long, the sheet being used to cover Victor's mother had slowly worked itself off of her posing limbs and into a ball on her torso. Her body was still in the night-gown and position they found her in, but lying on her back, uncovered. She looked more like an overturned turtle. Only this terrapin wasn't flailing its legs to try and right itself. It sat in the back gently swaying as the van took the turns and inclines in that hilly region of Pennsylvania. If either Bill or Dean would have looked back at the corpse, they would have been reminded how terrible their day had gone. Neither looked back, consequently, when Bill pulled the van up to the drive through window to pick up their order, he was greeted with a warm smile that turned into a scream instead of any fast food delights.
“Oh. My. God.” the girl finally managed to choke out after a few long seconds. “Is that a dead person? Oh my god.” she repeated. In her defense, she was clearly not expecting to see any corpses driving through the window during her shift, especially not one striking a pose like Victor's mom.
“Yes, that's a corpse. People die, all right? Get over it.” then, realizing that statement in no way explained why he was driving around with a corpse in the back seat, continued “I work for a funeral home, it's fine. Please, just don't scream at me again.” Bill told the girl, as Dean hurried to adjust their parcel's sheet.
After parking the car Bill took a big swallow of milkshake and rubbed his forehead. “Maybe we should have gone in and eaten. At least that way I wouldn't have had my ears assaulted by that burger flipping bitch.” he suggested.
Dean, choking on his food as he started to laugh, said “No way man, with how this day's been going for us, someone would have looked in the window and seen a dead woman in a van that's half covered in mud. They'd call the police and say someone's been out robbing graves.”
Bill laughed and said “Dean, that's a good point. You know, you're not so bad sometimes.”
“That's the nicest back-handed compliment I've gotten all day!” Dean said sarcastically. “But seriously, this old lady is starting to give me the creeps. I think she might be cursed or something. And she really does look creepy. If I were that girl at the window I might have screamed too. It's funny too, looks like she's sitting in a phantom rocking chair!” Dean laughed at his own joke.
“And you just proved why I only said you're not so bad sometimes.” said Bill. “But do you think you can drive the rest of the way? I did an awful lot of driving around in circles this morning and I'm really tired.” Bill laughed. “Hungover, whatever.”
“Uh, actually, I still have some paperwork to finish going over.” Dean paused, thinking for a moment, he said “No, I changed my mind. I can drive. My dad can finish his own damn paperwork if he wants it finished. I think you might be right about him, Billy, he is kind of a dick. He could have checked his own paperwork, but no, he didn't. He told me to do it and to go to East Jesus, PA and fetch a cursed corpse while he sat around playing solitaire all day.”
“Awesome. Thanks pal. Hey where are you taking that date of yours later? It's only a little after seven, you still have plenty of time to get ready. Maybe if I can get my nap-on, I'll swing by there for drinks tonight.” Bill said “Maybe I'll see for myself what this beast-piece looks like.”
Dean, surprisingly smiled at Bill's joke. As they pulled out of the parking lot, Bill thought that maybe Dean was starting to not take everything so seriously. Bill adjusted his seat and was asleep within minutes, to a song playing on the station Dean claimed was his favorite. He remembered thinking “This song is good. I'm surprised.” just before he fell asleep.
“I knew he was going to pass right out” Dean said as soon as he heard Bill's gentle snores. “He drinks too much.” Dean never thought it was strange that he talked to corpses. It had something to do with the amount of time he'd spent around dead people. Growing up, Dean was always more interested in his dad's business affairs than the other children his age.
Dean normally kept his conversations with the departed short and sweet, with a quaint phrase or two, and only when he thought no one else could hear him. He made sure to keep this conversation short though, not because he thought Bill could hear him, but because he wasn't kidding when he said the old woman was creeping him out.
He wasn't superstitious or a big believer in anything supernatural, but there was something in the way the headlights from the car behind him played with the shadow of the woman's hand. It drifted back and forth across his rear view mirror and it was starting to get to him. He turned the music up hoping that it would somehow take his mind off the corpse and his nightmare day.
It didn't work. The van lurched in a pothole and Dean thought he saw the hand move, but he reassured himself that the worse of the day was over, yet he couldn't stop looking at that hand in the mirror. The tips of the fingers looked pointed as they played in the shadows, but the fingers themselves curled slightly in towards her palm. It was as if she were trying to grab on to whatever good luck was left in their day and take it with her to the next world.
They were almost home, only about 5 miles from the Walder Funeral Home Inc. when Bill finally woke up. Sleeping in a moving vehicle never agreed with him so Bill stretched his arms out wide to try and get the kink out of his shoulder. He brushed the back of Dean's head as he stretched.
Dean, meanwhile, had not been paying attention to his living passenger, just the dead one in the back. He had been fixated on the shadows and the headlights behind him, so when a strange hand brushed the back of his neck, Dean screamed and his face went white with fear. He instinctively swerved to pull the car off the road, but he swerved too hard and sailed straight off the road, finally coming to a stop a few feet from an ancient looking oak tree with the wheels buried in the wet soil.
Dean realized just a few seconds too late that the hand brushing against his neck was just Bill. He realized the hand was Bill's right before he realized that they were going to have to call the a tow truck again and explain everything to his Dad. Dean looked in the mirror again and saw that hand, it didn't look as ominous now. It looked more like the old lady was finally waving goodbye, she'd let loose the last of her curse and was finally ready to leave.
As he was trying to figure out what had just happened, Bill heard the DJ on the radio saying “This is the last song I'll be playing for you tonight. I'm signing off, but DJ Cowboy Jimmy's in the studio and he'll play you through the rest of the night.”
death and the salesmen (part 1)
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.”
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.”
shout my name
Can't say that I normally write that particular phrase that often. It's said, from time to time, with varying degrees of seriousness, yet rarely written.
It's January. Like, late January too. I am nearly a month behind in getting this easily shared but I want you to bask in the glory of the Best of Bootie 2012 Mashup Mania Mega Mix Tape Bonanza Extravaganza.
My favorite of the "20 Individual Tracks" option is "Shout My Name" - Ting Tings vs. Lulu vs. Green Day. You can listen to it here if you don't feel like going to the trouble of finding out for yourself by following the link above, lazy bastard. The more you know, right?
Here is another gem for some of the boy fans out there *wink*wink* as well as the rest of the world because the other half of this One Direction pairing is none other than Journey. This jam-a-lam-a-ding-dong-a-long tune is called "What Makes You Stop Believing" (obviously). You're also about to be treated to a wonderfully strange video of some ethnic looking teenagers (possibly American, who can even tell at this point?) in what is undoubtedly one of the first unveilings of the next generation's female Spike Jonze.
There is a very real possibility that this is part of some avant garde guerilla filmmaker's doctoral thesis on the timelessness of classics such as Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" and the irrefutable power of "the boy band" over the young ladies (and often times grown men) of our country. It's cinema verite without all that pomp, nonsensical self referencing, and mutual self-gratification. Allegedly.
Also, it's noted that there has been quite some time since anything new has been posted here or on any of the other subdomains. Though, thinking of it just now, there may be a thriving subdomain somewhere since there are a few folks with author access, anyways I wouldn't know because I haven't checked. On a side-note, if you're reading this and are (obviously) bonafide, you are more than welcome to reign the helm until TBA. A philosophical decision that was made (belatedly in the instance of this particular site until the situation changes) with the best practices of search engine optimization/ease of user navigation dictates a full "re-organization." Currently, at work I do not have the technical capabilities, and at home I do not have a suitable workspace (and somewhat limited with technology due to my lack of a "normal" keyboard, seriously how do people type on laptops so easily? I type worse than Edward Scissorhands).
tl;dr: If you'd like to write here or any where else on this site (keeping more or less in tune with the general jovial atmosphere) you're more than welcome. I make no money off of this and neither will you, but that was never really the point. I don't know what the point was, at least not yet... This is getting extremely meta for me at the moment and I'm going to stop before I set off some kind of feedback loop and explode. Seriously though, email me or twitter at me (I still think they should call them "twats" instead of "tweets") or G+ at me or Facebook. It's 2013, you can figure it out. There's even a handy link immediately below these words.
It's January. Like, late January too. I am nearly a month behind in getting this easily shared but I want you to bask in the glory of the Best of Bootie 2012 Mashup Mania Mega Mix Tape Bonanza Extravaganza.
My favorite of the "20 Individual Tracks" option is "Shout My Name" - Ting Tings vs. Lulu vs. Green Day. You can listen to it here if you don't feel like going to the trouble of finding out for yourself by following the link above, lazy bastard. The more you know, right?
Here is another gem for some of the boy fans out there *wink*wink* as well as the rest of the world because the other half of this One Direction pairing is none other than Journey. This jam-a-lam-a-ding-dong-a-long tune is called "What Makes You Stop Believing" (obviously). You're also about to be treated to a wonderfully strange video of some ethnic looking teenagers (possibly American, who can even tell at this point?) in what is undoubtedly one of the first unveilings of the next generation's female Spike Jonze.
There is a very real possibility that this is part of some avant garde guerilla filmmaker's doctoral thesis on the timelessness of classics such as Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" and the irrefutable power of "the boy band" over the young ladies (and often times grown men) of our country. It's cinema verite without all that pomp, nonsensical self referencing, and mutual self-gratification. Allegedly.
Also, it's noted that there has been quite some time since anything new has been posted here or on any of the other subdomains. Though, thinking of it just now, there may be a thriving subdomain somewhere since there are a few folks with author access, anyways I wouldn't know because I haven't checked. On a side-note, if you're reading this and are (obviously) bonafide, you are more than welcome to reign the helm until TBA. A philosophical decision that was made (belatedly in the instance of this particular site until the situation changes) with the best practices of search engine optimization/ease of user navigation dictates a full "re-organization." Currently, at work I do not have the technical capabilities, and at home I do not have a suitable workspace (and somewhat limited with technology due to my lack of a "normal" keyboard, seriously how do people type on laptops so easily? I type worse than Edward Scissorhands).
tl;dr: If you'd like to write here or any where else on this site (keeping more or less in tune with the general jovial atmosphere) you're more than welcome. I make no money off of this and neither will you, but that was never really the point. I don't know what the point was, at least not yet... This is getting extremely meta for me at the moment and I'm going to stop before I set off some kind of feedback loop and explode. Seriously though, email me or twitter at me (I still think they should call them "twats" instead of "tweets") or G+ at me or Facebook. It's 2013, you can figure it out. There's even a handy link immediately below these words.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)