…And the Hearse You Rode in On

Bill was already reaching for another cigarette, hadn't even finished the one in his mouth yet. Could say it was one of those days, except every day was that kind of day, a tauntingly slow motion slog from smoke break to smoke break. Bill made a game of seeing how many he could polish off in fifteen minutes without looking like he had a problem. He preferred Parliaments, not really because he liked the taste but because asking for Parliaments at the convenience store made him feel fancy.

10:30 am. Service should be wrapping up soon, time to warm up the hearse. He almost felt pity for the Lincoln. Sentencing such a fine vehicle to a lifetime of trafficking in the dearly departed was like using a $200 saucepan to make grilled cheese. She drove relentlessly smooth and sure, had a kind of misplaced regality normally reserved for non-governing heads of state and past-their-prime beauty queens. This was by far the nicest car you could never meet women with. Well, maybe Goth women, but how much fun can you have with someone while wondering whether she’s going to tie you up in the night, offer you to her pagan gods, a.k.a. the Moon as human sacrifice?

Curious line of work driving one of these things. Part limousine driver, part mover, part speed confidant, all strange. No matter how good one is at this job, there’s no such a thing as a ‘good day’. He’d better not be caught enjoying himself, joy is wholly inappropriate here. Hard to imagine how horrified a widow would be to find her hearse driver whistling while he worked, listening to Opie and Anthony on the radio, or trying to gossip about “True Blood” and Lebron James. Definitely can’t post status updates about how much he loves his job or is ‘taking it to the hole’.

People can't imagine how hard it is socializing as a hearse driver. Tell someone what you do at a bar, get an introspective "oh", followed by excruciatingly banal chitchat until someone gets the nerve to pretend their phone is vibrating. Nothing makes a guy feel happy to be out like watching someone desperately claw their brain for an exit strategy.

Can’t fault people for their discomfort, not a lot of entertaining places the conversation can go from there. It’s not like he had charming anecdotes and workplace hi-jinks to report “…so one time I was leading this motorcade and needed to stop for gas, the family was NOT pleased. I was like ‘What’s the rush? The dirt’s still going to be there’ …needless to say there were some curiously specific ‘general remarks’ on ‘preparedness and tact’ at the next strategy meeting. Why we have strategy meetings at a funeral home is beyond me. Pretty much everyone on earth is going to need us eventually; the only way we could broaden our market is by selling toilet paper and condoms on the side...”

10:45. Showtime at the front door, time to focus. Bill tried to concentrate on looking slightly somber yet dignified. Always ended up debating exactly how much of a smile would be appropriate for each group. Too little of a smile seems rude, too much grin looks like you work for the Reaper or are happy the guy is dead. Nothing like the science of miming empathy in a professional setting, Roma Downey and Della Reese would be proud.

11:35 Of all the recurring lines of post funeral dialogue, “Thanks for everything" had to be his personal favorite. Knew people were just trying to be polite, but really, thanks for what? He wasn’t driving this Lincoln town car as a personal favor. He was driving it because he wasn't quite focused enough his last two years of high school and this was all his uncle could hook him up with. He was just lucky his uncle didn’t run a rickshaw service, with his luck it’d be in some cardiovascular hell like San Francisco or Aspen. Next time someone tells you to stay awake in world literature class, listen.

The deceased’s mother invited him to attend the repast. He knew he would have to do it, but he could never figure out why people persisted in inviting him. Small talk was hard enough for guys in his line of work, but small talk at the funeral reception of a complete stranger was cosmically brutal. What does one even say? “Yeah, seemed like a good guy, but then again I only knew him dead.” Try to clean it up, end up making things worse “…for what it’s worth, he had a really nice body.” He had one hope; to stoke his face with crackers, bread, saltwater taffy, anything he could get his hands on that might take a while to chew. He couldn’t be expected to banter if his mouth stayed full of wheat thins.

He took one look around the reception hall and knew he’d have to quit this job, and soon. Formaldehyde and cracker binges do not a career make. There was no virtue in “going the distance” when the path was uninspired to begin with. That beautiful hearse couldn't choose its fate, he could. One of these days it would be someone else's job to drive him to the cemetery, and he’d damned if all the preacher could say is "he drove a mean Lincoln."