The only thing saving me has been the city’s expanding population, which means an uptick in, well, tickers not working.
My reputation, too, that is a life-saver. For me, I mean, life-saving in general isn’t my cup of tea, quite the opposite. But I’m known in south Austin as the reliable, red-headed undertaker in cowboy boots. I’m the guy who buries Austin’s old-school residents, the ones who want their man in black to wear cowboy boots as he powders their unbreathing noses and cotton-balls their sunken cheeks.
They don’t want the new breed of body-snatchers, the wing-tipped greasers from the east who paint and polish their plywood caskets and call them “heartwood,” as if the grieving can’t tell the difference between that and “hardwood.” They have their “eco” caskets, and charge a super-premium for “wrapped caskets” that are covered in pictures of the deceased person’s family, just like those tacky cars you see on the highway that advertise insurance or the latest protein powder.
Look, I’m all for making a buck, but someone needs to explain to the family interested in a wrapped casket that it’s about to be buried under six feet of earth. Since the dead fella inside isn’t enjoying the pictures, and no one on the surface is, you’re paying a couple extra grand for the viewing benefit of some worms.
No, I’m a traditionalist and I offer you the basics: three casket options, and my valuable time making your loved one look presentable for the viewing. And, as a traditionalist, I’m pleased that I am still an invitee to the Austin Mortician’s Party, despite my throw-back ideas and ideals.
My one worry is that I might get the hard sell. Rather, the hard buy. A couple of the larger outfits want me to sell my business to them and have been quite pushy about it. Polite inquiries turned into lengthy letters and a couple of months ago I got a visit from two men who wouldn’t identify exactly who they worked for. They came to my office on a Monday afternoon. One perched on the desk while the other stood looking out of the window.
“My boss doesn’t take no for an answer,” Mr. Perching-man said. He did all the talking for the two of them, which I found weird because he was also the muscly one. What was the other one there for?
“I’m not selling,” I told him. “I have no reason to, it’s all I know.”
“You’ll accept his offer, or we’ll give you a reason to.”
“You haven’t even said who your boss is!” I protested. I mean, what’s the point of threatening someone if you give them no idea who to be afraid of? “I’ve had several offers, you know.”
“Trying to negotiate now?” he asked, thick eyebrows rising.
“No, it’s true. But I’m not selling to you or anyone else. And I don’t appreciate being threatened.”
“No one ever does,” he said.
“I’m going to the Association. I won’t take this lying down, believe you me.”
He got up from the desk and ambled to the door, his partner following him. Before he let himself out, he turned and looked at me. “Lying down. That’s a good one. Very appropriate.”
I made that complaint and even called the police, but no one did anything about it.
* * * *
The night of the party, I lay out my clothes on the bed. Black suit, dark gray shirt, a tie that is actually blue but looks black. A gold tie pin that my father gave me, and that his father had given him.
Which reminds me, I need to find a wife, otherwise this tie pin will be going into my casket when that time comes. You’d think the pretty women of Austin would be all over a guy who runs his own business, who’s good with his hands, and who can take care of a woman not just in sickness and in health, but even in death! I can cook, too, although I probably should quit pointing that out right after talking about dead people.
Problem is, I’m not good at the bar scene and my personality doesn’t seem to come across when I try the online dating thing. Or maybe it does and that’s the problem. Either way, seems like the moment a girl finds out what I do she acts intrigued while taking several steps back. Usually into the arms of another man, from what I can tell.
Last year there was an associate undertaker at the AMP I quite liked. Maybe she’ll be there again this year and I can actually talk to her. I was too shy last year. And it has to be talking because there’s no dancing at these things, everyone just a bit too, well, stiff, for that.
Standing in front of my bed in my underwear, I decide to wear a dark purple pocket square to shake things up. Of course it looks black from a distance but when I get close and talk to people they’ll be in for a surprise.
My party clothes are all blacks and grays, but I like to see myself as a progressive traditionalist, pocket square notwithstanding, so once I’m dressed in the suit I sit on the bed and pull on my cowboy boots, a pair of square-toed Tony Lamas, made from worn goat-leather. Three shades of brown that I keep polished to a glowing shine for my rare attempts at a social life. I’m proud to say that I don’t even own a pair of wing-tips.
I take an Uber to the party, which is at the premises of Austin’s largest mortician over on the east side, basically the Wal-Mart of our industry. My driver’s all interested in what I’m up to and I’m all interested in her, until I make the mistake of actually answering her questions and then she goes quiet for a moment, glancing back at me in the mirror as she turns up the radio. Maybe I should have sat in the front seat, maybe that would have made her more comfortable. Not.
I arrive at the party at ten minutes to seven, which is fine because I like to be in bed by nine, ten at the latest so an 8:00 p.m. start time doesn’t work well for me. Except the parking lot is basically empty and I hate being the first one there, standing out like that. I have the idea that I can help set up, get to know a few people that way. Maybe that associate undertaker, who happens to work at the host’s place of business, will be one of the people setting up for the party.
In fact, she’s the one who lets me in the door and her name tag reminds me that she’s called Belle. I’m surprised I don’t remember that because she is. Very.
“Oh,” she says with a straight face, “it’s the life of the party.” She has this flat affect and I don’t know if she’s joking. She cocks her head. “What was your name again?”
“Andrew Banks. My friends call me Drew.” If I had some they would.
I look behind her and see that the party is set up and ready to go. As usual, they’ve gone heavy with the creepy theme. I guess it’s hard to do anything else when you’re holding a party in a room full of caskets and a couple of old coffins. I get that question a lot, What’s the difference between a coffin and a casket?
My answer is always the same: Two.
Here’s why: a coffin is one of those six-sided, not-quite-rectangular boxes you see on television, especially westerns. A casket is what we use nowadays, a simple rectangular container, usually with a curved, smooth top.
Predictably, they’ve gone for the crypt-look with lots of red velvet drapes and candelabras, and I have to admit they’ve done a good job disguising the bland, corporate feel of the place. They haven’t put the food out yet but there are bottles of wine and champagne scattered about the large room. I wonder how much it costs to put this on, knowing I can’t afford to.
“Drew. Right. You’re very early. Is that tie blue or black?” Her tone doesn’t change and I feel a twinge of disappointment because her lack of personality is making her seem less pretty to me; I notice that even though she has beautiful brown hair it’s pulled back so tight it looks like it should hurt, and she has no make-up on. She’s wearing an expensive tweed suit, very dark green with that fine herringbone pattern that you know costs a fortune.