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. But she’s just an undertaker’s associate, which to my cynical mind suggests she has a boyfriend with money.
A boyfriend like the guy standing at the back of the room, watching us. Starr Davidson is handsome enough, fifty maybe, and owns the place. He looks more like a used car salesman than a mortician, though a lot of them do these days. Hair slicked back, eyes that never look in the same direction for more than a few seconds, a perma-smile. White teeth. He starts towards us and Belle backs away at the same time, which looks weird because there’s no way she has eyes in the back of her head. Maybe she’s on a string.
“I like your boots,” she says as she drifts away from me, and again I can’t tell if she’s joking. Probably not, they’re nice boots.
“Thanks.”
She stops her backward retreat. “What size are they?”
“Seven.” I have small feet, and blush a little when I tell her that.
“Me too.” She turns to walk away and brushes shoulders with Starr Davidson who’s almost upon me.
He shakes my hand. “Andrew, nice to see you.”
“Sorry I’m early,” I say, wishing even more desperately that I wasn’t.
“You’re not,” he says. “I invited you for seven, I wanted to talk to you.”
Flustered, I pull the invite from my jacket pocket and see that he’s right. The printed “8” is crossed out and he, or someone, has written “7” just above it.
“Oh,” I say. “Good.”
“I wanted to resume the conversation we started on email. Doesn’t make sense to have that kind of talk by email, does it?”
I know what he’s talking about, his offer to buy my business for a hundred grand. I wonder if he’s the one who sent those men but I don’t ask because, as far as I’m concerned, that conversation is over: he asked, I said no, done. But here I am an hour early and everything’s set up. What else am I gonna do?
A glass of red wine appears in his hand and he offers it to me. “Have a drink, Andrew.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
He steers me to one side of the room, gesturing to a plush-looking casket. It’s blond wood, silk-lined and padded throughout the interior. And this is what I’m talking about—look, our clients are dead. The ones who go inside these things, anyway. Selling luxury caskets like this is almost a sin in my book because no one needs anything like this. The salesmen are taking advantage of the bereaved in a moment of weakness; it’s as good as stealing from them. In my view, anyway.
“What do you think of this one?” he asks, wafting a hand over it. I smell his cologne now, and I think I might be allergic to it because I sneeze. I glance down and am relieved to see I haven’t spilled wine on or in the casket.
“Looks expensive.”
“It is. Six grand, just for the box.” He’s smiling, like a crocodile
