Captain Pike's Ship Log II

There used to be two funeral homes in town, one right across the street from the other. I got a job working for one of them. There were two distinct parts to this business, the flower shop and the mortuary. I worked in the flower shop. I remember getting in the red Samantha's from Bogotá Colombia. They came in bundles of 50, packed in ice. They seemed like they were 5 feet long -- Amazons from the Amazon.

There were some perks to working for an undertaker. One facet of my job involved getting the flowers that were on display in the shop during the funeral, over to the grave site before the burial. Once the last person had left little room where the services took place, it was my job to grab up all the arrangements and quickly put them in the back of the company van, hightail it over to the cemetery and place the flowers thoughtfully around the grave site and get out of Dodge before the funeral procession arrived. A special route had been marked out: out through the back, up a narrow side street, and then over, on to a long avenue ending at the cemetery. As an employee of this funeral home, I had an unwritten privilege to speed -- not unreasonably, but to be prudently prompt to do a great service for the grieving family. Did I mention it was a small-town? There may have been a quiet feud between the two undertakers. My boss did have an arrangement with yet another funeral home just across the Canadian border.

My employer was a curious old gentleman. He often smoked, or at least, held in his teeth, a fat, darkly colored cigar. I was only a high school kid and he must've been pushing 70, but we got on quite well. The old fellow was a collector of precious gems. Once in awhile, a small package would arrive by bonded carrier. Sometimes he would invite me to the opening of these packages. Large opals, uncut emeralds and rubies, glimmering from their small sturdy boxes were still no match for the twinkle in his eye as he explained how they were mined and cut to perfection. I often wondered why he trusted me to know of his receipt of these treasures. Most of the older folks I knew were understandably protective of their valuables. The television news programs always provide details about kids that had gone bad -- robbed their neighbors, stolen things and generally perpetrated unpredictably shocking mischief. Often the older generation seemed like they were easy prey for these malcontents. His trust in me seemed to encourage a certain responsibility. I don't believe I ever told any of my ruffian friends about the existence of the precious gems.

It was near the end of the year, I had just returned in the company van from a distant large city, having purchased a load of poinsettias. My boss took me aside and told me how he'd like to visit his son who lived several hours away. Basically, it was a long weekend including New Year's Day that he wanted to spend with his son. Only one of the days where he would be gone I would have to run the flower shop all by myself. This was a great complement to me: it meant he was happy with how I created the various arrangements that we sold. I told him I felt that it would not be a problem and I would be happy to hold down the fort until he got back. "There's just one thing, that probably will never come up", he began as he told me about what provisions he had made in the case that someone in the community died and requested that our company handled the funeral. Something twisted down deep in my intestines, but my great admiration and trust for this man stilled my nerves and I was determined to remain receptive to what he was saying.

It was simple really, and as he explained it, and gave me the key to the flower shop and garage, I immediately felt much more at ease. The fellow that operated a similar business across the border in Canada had often acted on his behalf in his absence, and vice versa -- they helped each other out. While my boss was away his answering service would be instructed to contact me at my home if calls came in outside of the normal business hours. If someone died and called up our company I was simply to contact his compatriot over the river at his home number, and this man would take care of all the details. This seemed straightforward to me, and further, as my employer or explained, our town was very small and the chances of somebody's dying during a brief period while he was away were nearly astronomical. In addition, I would have the number of his son in the odd chance that some unforeseen difficulty arose. My mind returned pleasantly to imagining my day in the flower shop, in charge and completely able to put together arrangements that would make my employer proud. It's actually a very enjoyable job; taking orders for bouquets when, often the customer is unsure what he wants and needs help. The delivery of flowers is also a great joy -- you receive all the admiration yet you bear none of the cost. Sometimes, people want to remain anonymous especially in cases of secret admiration. Try as they might, no mystified damsel has yet been able to cause me to betray her benefactor. I especially enjoyed arranging and preparing such wonderful biological specimens as bright red roses and the rare Easter lilies. It's a great feeling to be trusted and left in charge. And I knew, deep down inside, that would do a fine job -- this was very important to me.

Friday, New Year's Eve wasn't even as busy all day as I had imagined. My good friend Stephen stopped by in the middle of the day and brought me a coffee. He sat on the rickety little stool just on the other side of the cash register. Between the times when I was servicing the few customers that came into the shop I was able to show my friend our refrigerated inventory. Opening the old, Oak framed, beveled glass doors to the flower repository, one is hit with a cool blast of pure fragrances emanating from a multitude of flowers at the peak of their bud-hood. He invited me to a party to his family had allowed him to throw at his home that evening. This was exciting to me. Steve had a certain charm with the women and surely there would be many unattached young ladies to socialize with. I actually stayed a little bit late at the shop on account of one fellow who couldn't make in this mind and vowed to call back to order an arrangement for a tentatively new girlfriend. This was a no no for many reasons. Most notably was the fact that if this guy ever did make up his mind, not only would I have to create his arrangement, but deliver it as well.

New energy flowed in as I showered and got ready to go to the New Year's Eve party. A fresh, clean, white oxford button-down shirt felt like loose, comfortable social chain mail, especially when fortified with a sky blue V-neck sweater. Steve's parents were very amiable and seemed able to fit in with the many young folks attending the party. It wasn't until I had reached the present state of ease and comfort that alcohol can give, that my mother called with a grave message from the funeral home's answering service. I assured her that I would call them directly, but before I actually hung up I began again to feel that uncomfortable twist in my intestines which was becoming all too familiar. As much as my conscious mind tried to dodge around it, irrefutably simple was the information from the answering service: the local nursing home required the removal of a body! THE REMOVAL OF A BODY!

I hung up the phone and nonchalantly finished my drink. The phone that I was using was in the middle of the living room but nobody seemed to be noticing me. I reached in my wallet for the business card of the fellow over the river in Canada and dialed up the number. A man answered, and I was very surprised to hear loud music in the background. I thought at first I had the wrong number. But no, this fellow seemed to know who I was, and further, he seemed at least somewhat aware of the situation. It seemed very strange, but I was glad to have reached this man in person. My bowels again signaled an alarming concern however, when he made me aware that he too was somewhat the worse for drink and would not be able to cross the border to pick up a body. My head swam. It is alarming the amount of disastrous scenarios my mind can come up with when presented with an apparent conundrum. I imagined the swelled veins in the forehead of my enraged employer, as he delineated the shame and scandal that were now the earmarks of his failed company. The Canadian embalmer repeated himself at least once before his words reached through my unhinged consciousness "you'll have to bring the body over, I can handle it from here". It was infinitely better than no solution at all. But how could I... it seemed there had to be a better way. It was now nearly 10:30 p.m., really too late call my boss at his son's house. And why should I? I had the key to the garage which contained the hearse. What else? It seemed like a thing that ought to be thought through more fully. And yet, as I looked across the room at my friend Steve, a plan seemed to emerge. Just then, he looked up at me, squinted his brow a bit as if to say, "everything okay?" It was the kind of look that you'll only get from a great friend who will do anything in your time of need. It is amazing the amount of information that can be conveyed between two close friends using a bit of body language. I shook my head no, and then motioned with my head that he was to come closer.

"You up for something a little crazy?", was the way I decided to try selling it to him.

"Well, sure, I guess, what do you mean? Hey, what's going on? Who called?", he was definitely somewhat suspicious, but he was hooked already, all I had to do was guide the way. I tipped my head away from his house, and then broke into a trot downhill, into the cool night. Soon he was at my side, we jogged together. I took an little used side street, still covered with an unblemished quarter inch of snow which had fallen in the early evening. It was clear now, as we jogged easily along under the streetlights, steamy breath alternating from us like dueling steam engines. "No, really, what's up?", he spoke easily even though we had jogged several blocks now. The minimal painting of snow on the ground obscured any evidence of frozen mud puddles or ice patches that might be lurking below. Somehow, as we went downhill now, angling, unbeknownst to him toward the funeral home, our jogging cadence was safer than cautiously stepping along, trying to avoid any slippery spots. Once in a while, one of us would slide slightly along an icy patch, temporarily disrupting the periodicity of our echoing footfalls. Our forward momentum coupled with the dexterity of youth ensured safe passage through somewhat challenging terrain. We stopped across the street from the funeral home.

"We're going to take a little ride, you're going to get a kick out of this", I left him again as I quickly crossed the street and crept up to the edge of the three-story garage containing the funeral home's hearse. He came closer, trying to see what I held my hand in the darkness. He stopped, stood upright and looked at me. "That's right, I've got the key, c'mon". We went in the side door and the automatic control I pressed raised the door in front of the hearse, silently. His mouth was agape, his hands went up like the victim of a stickup, his head began to shake. "It's cool, get in, we're on a mission from God!", I commanded.

The inside of the hearse lit up like the cockpit of a military aircraft. The huge engine in this converted Cadillac purred imperceptibly, all that could be heard was the tentative crunching of snow beneath its wheels as we pulled out of the driveway and on to the street. "I know we're in big trouble now, but I wouldn't miss this for the world!", his feet began to stomp alternately in joy at the thought of an upcoming caper. This young man and and I had once explored the attic of our new high school for hours, until a janitor saw us, peering down through a vent into the library. The streets were quiet as we rolled along anonymously in that great ghost of an automobile. I selected moderate heat and medium music as we crept, almost floated, along, silently; great cones of curling snow trailed either side of us like wingtip vortices. As we approached the turn obvious to me (since I knew we were going to the nursing home) I cut the wheel a little and goosed the caddie ever so slightly. The result, of course, was a great, gradual, out-of-control slide which I smoothly corrected for, which put us on course at a right angle to our previous path: it was one of those times in life, in youth, when I felt somehow impervious to any danger, as if a movie star having the dangerous parts seamlessly undertaken by a stunt double. "Jesus Christ, man, do you want to get us killed... in a frigging hearse even!". He continued speaking, muted, as though in a silent aside to an invisible audience. "Oh no, not this, not here, no way, no way am I up for this", now he was serious.

"Okay, I know, you don't have to do anything, I just want somebody with me, okay?", I didn't give him any time to answer, backing the hearse up to an odd little small garage door. "Just come in with me, I might need a witness, that's all, really, please, it'll only take a few minutes", I was pleading now and a, in truth, I would need his help almost surely. I took a deep breath, Steve followed reluctantly behind me as we went through the double doors. A large orderly in a short-sleeved white shirt and pants met us, or more exactly, caught us up short and cocked his head oddly as I explained our charter to him. He said nothing, turning on his heel before I had finished and started off. We exchanged shrugs but followed quickly behind him, in our best Marx Brothers shuffle.

We were led to a stark, rectangular room with an uncovered, buzzing fluorescent light overhead. The cinderblock walls were thickly painted a creamy light green. A small, white-haired woman lie on a stainless steel table, a hospital johnny partially covered her body. The orderly handed me what looked like a cheesy black suit bag, obviously a body bag to contain the corpse. Any effect that the alcohol had had on me was now completely gone and my mouth fell a bit dry, actually. The orderly said something and left. I was incensed by his lack of professionalism. Here we were, obviously a couple of kids with no idea what we were doing and he just leaves us, with no explanation at all. Nevertheless, our task was clear enough. The body bag had a zipper along its length. Steve's head was shaking no but I did my best to compel him to help me lift the body. I must've been at a funeral before this -- must've seen a dead body before, but this was different. For one thing, all the traditional pomp and circumstance was gone. There was no supervision! I mean, here we were a couple of high school kids alone with a dead body. This shouldn't be able to happen, should it? Wouldn't the family of this lady want somebody professional, or least adult, handling her? I felt a strange responsibility creeping to me: now was the time to do the right thing, to be polite and proper. I looked up at Steve. We both burst a laughing. "Okay, okay, we've got to be serious", I blurted out. "You'll pick up her legs, and I'll start pulling the bag on her", I tried.

"Are you ****ing kidding me? I'm not touching those feet, look at her toes!", he yelled, there was no convincing him. Her toenails were yellowed, cracked, long and curved downward almost like talons, somehow I felt embarrassed for her to look upon them now. I remember being told by my employer that often the hair and nails grow somewhat after death. This helped me to convince myself that probably this woman hadn't allowed her toenails to reach this condition while she was living.

"Just... come on, just long enough so I can get the bag over her feet", I wanted to get this over with. I felt that if we could just get started, then probably we could do this thing. "Oh, what ever, okay, take this", I threw the bag at him and grabbed her legs about mid calf. As I tried to lift, a certain thought was forced into my consciousness: her legs felt just like a partially thawed out Turkey I had just recently handled in the sink at home, on the surface, spongy, yet internally unyielding and stiff -- it gave me the willies. I dropped her legs. I took two steps backward. Steve looked worried, he was a good friend and really wanted to help. I came at her again, this time swooping down, grabbing both legs, I had to bend over her, so that my face was right next to those toes, those talons, bigger than life and in my face. I lifted, and her legs came up, I tried extra hard not to look up her dress. "Pull the bag on, pull the bag on", I grunted, using up all my air. He got the bag on her legs OK, we continued, kind of rolling her back and forth edging the bag up, further and further. There was a strange smell, a sort of shut in smell. Her johnny crept up her body as we pulled the bag on. My gorge rose, I had to step back.

Steve lifted her shoulders from the end of the table, "it won't matter, we've got to get this done", he said it with shocking togetherness. I yanked the bag up past her shoulders. We zipped it up, her face disappeared as if being swallowed up by dark waters. A squeaking sound we had been hearing turned out to be the orderly coming with some kind of stretcher arrangement on wheels. He pulled up alongside the table and helped us to convey her across. I realized that this gurney device belonged to my employer as the orderly explained how its wheels would collapse allowing it to slide into the rear of the hearse. So, after all, I guess the orderly had helped us out. Still, he could have said something. In no time, the pale green room seemed like ancient history as we wheeled out through an open garage door to the parking lot near the hearse. The worst was over now, I felt sure this would come out OK.

The rear of the hearse had a wide tailgate which opened easily. With Steve pushing, I guided the gurney easily toward the open coach. The front set of wheels collapsed easily up, underneath of the gurney, but suddenly, the rear of the gurney slid sideways and one wheel began to open out again. The gurney tilted and angled downward allowing the body to slide slowly off, her head knocking into the curbing at the base of the flower garden. This happened in the worst way possible: as she began to slide, somehow the bag must have fetched up on something, and of course, the zipper was open enough so that her head and shoulders were able to emerge from the bag, her face hideously looking up dumbly under the care of a couple of idiots. It was as if it was all in slow motion and we were frozen unable to resist. Her head hitting the asphalt made a hollow sound which sent chills up my back. Steve let out a small chuckle, just a giggle at first, and then burst out, busting a gut with laughter. He had actually dropped to his knees, his face bright red nearly unable to breathe. I guess it was funny, I just couldn't believe I let this happen: what if some old friend, an inhabitant of the nursing home had been looking out watching all this? I just stood there irate. Eventually, his outburst slowed to a spasming guffaw, he stood up, seemingly now able to resume his duty. Everything seemed okay until he looked me in the eye -- then we both exploded, as inappropriately as hell. Why is it that things seem the funniest when the last thing you're supposed to be doing is laughing? I mean, this really wasn't funny. This was probably somebody's grandmother. Nevertheless, somehow we mustered the strength and composure to get this poor dead lady on her way to the funeral home.

Now you would think that there would be some sort of paperwork, some receipt that would be important to possess if one were going to be driving around with a dead body. And there may have been some, but I don't recall. I guess if you're willing to show up with the hearse around the time that someone has died you can take away a body more easily than you can rent a video tape. As we drove off, I couldn't help looking in the rearview mirror. I don't know if I expected the poor lady to lodge some kind of complaint, or whether I just wanted to make sure she wasn't sitting up back there. We were driving down past the duty-free stores heading for the international border when Steve reached over and grabbed my wrist forcefully. When I saw his face, it was as though he seen a ghost. "I probably shouldn't have my weed with me, should I?", his words were metered out like some kind of speaking machine. I came really close to slamming on the brakes. There was still time to stop before entering the border crossing. But we were much too close not to arouse suspicion.

"Just be cool, don't act weird", I was angry, but I was as much to blame as he. More visions of an incredulous boss fluttered through my mind: "how could you...", and so forth. There was a strange power that came with the acceptance of what we had already gone through that gave me a feeling of some kind of cosmic immunity. "Got a body in back, taking it over to Porter's", was all is said to the Canadian customs official when he leaned in my window. He simply closed his mouth then closed his eyes pushed off from the car and nodded for me to continue on. All the times I've gotten some kind of hassle "what are you bringing over", "what business do you have in Canada tonight?", "all American citizens?", it's always something. I mean, you're going into another country after all. But tonight, with a dead body and some marijuana on board and NEW YEARS EVE to boot, one would expect some questions. We got to Porter's mortuary without incident and discharged our very agreeable passenger to the not too tipsy undertaker.

The hearse seemed a lot lighter with just the two of us. We didn't talk much at all driving down the deserted streets of the small Canadian town. While a great load was lifted from our shoulders, our hearts were heavy with introspection. All the worries and designs of life don't include an emotional definition for the finality of death. Even though we know it comes to us all and that no argument prevails, we rejoice somewhere inside secretly to evade it another day. As we slowed to a stop before turning on the main road to head back to the border, to America, to our friends and family, a pretty, young girl halted hurriedly in the sidewalk before us as if to say "are you going to go?". I motioned for her to cross in front of us; after all, we were sitting down in the warmth of an automobile, she was clutching at her short jacket, her pretty head pulled down into her collar and set against the cold wind, we were gentlemen. After she passed in front of us and skipped up on to the adjacent sidewalk, she looked back briefly as I called to her, "hey, ah, we've got a bed in back..."