Burial Fantasies
Another hallway. But unlike the unprepossessing maze of corridors “behind the scenes” at the Merryhill Morgue this one’s far more idyllic. From an interior decorator’s perspective, at least.
The walls are unsoiled and beige, lined with symmetrically placed Georgian accent tables of vintage red oak. Each table’s been topped with matching Greek hydria glazed with images of naked, muscular argonauts adorned with round shields, long spears, and beards. Every mouth of every vase possesses a bouquet of white chocolate roses; a standard feature of most modern American funeral homes.
Betwixt two matching table-vase-flora sets, embedded in the beige, inches below the ceiling is a sign. It reads: Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate, which, when translated into English from the original Latin reads: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Beneath the sign, a pair of black double-doors. They swing open to Nora and Slug, sashaying side by side like a couple of physically juxtaposing cartoon characters.
“I don’t think you can have half your body cremated and the other half embalmed,” Slug lightheartedly sneered.
“I’m not asking to be bisected top-to-bottom, just saw me off at the gut,” Nora said tracing an invisible dotted line running across her belly with a finger, “and burn everything from the waist down. I don’t need my upper half preserved, just on display like Jessie James or John Lenin. Then I’d like my ashes in the coffin with me, in the spot where my legs used to be and sprinkled in a way that makes it look like I have a ghost tail that gets smaller and thinner until it ends at my urn.”
“You want to look like macabre, dead genie?”
“I was picturing more of an hourglass-looking metaphor for the inevitability of death.”
“I think that’s going to be a given with any funeral, to be honest, but I admire the over complicatedness of your vision.”
“Merci beaucoup. So what are you going to do with your mortal remains?
Slug ponders for a second, humming while she contemplates.
“First, I’ll have a closed casket. Nothing fancy, a simple pine box will do-”
Surprisingly modest.
“-to be buried in a private Jewish cemetery, in a grave under a big oak tree where my friends and loved ones will gather to pay their final respects and lamentations-“
Yeah, good luck getting a plot with that Tinkerbell tattoo.
“-and after the Rabbi finishes reading his Psalm and the 13th fistful of dirt’s been tossed someone, maybe Trevor, will be blasting, “I Want to See You Go Wild” by Andrew W. K. on a boom box, just like John Cusack in Say Anything. And you, my dear, will toss my tethered corpse out of the tree overlooking my grave so I can swing around the mourners in sync with the music."
“Shit. That’s WAY better than my corpseceañera.”
“תודה,” Slug chortled, “I got the idea from a clip I saw on the internet.”
A hum of recognition from Nora, feeling the energy of their game slowly dissipating into awkward, unruly silence. Slug takes the pause as a signal to redirect the conversation.
“So do you want too, y’know, talk?”
“We are talking.”
“I mean, real talk. Joshing around’s fun and all, but you know I’m here for you, right?
“I know Slug, I know. But now’s not the time.”
“And why not?”
“Because the foyer’s packed to the gills with cops.”
Nora was right. As the girls stepped into the main lobby of the Merryhill Morgue they could see a pod of about 50 officers. Men and women of varying ages, sizes, colors, and creeds, all in matching blue and grey uniforms; some drinking out of styrofoam coffee cups, others talking amongst themselves, all gloomy and in attendance for their colleges’ last rites.
“Oh,” Slug said meekly.
“Outside?”
“Outside.”
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