I have much to do this week, little time to write, and no interesting incidents to write about, so I’ve got an “oldie” for ya.

This is a story I wrote back in 2003. You’ll die laughing. LOL
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I survived my first week of death. It was stranger than strange.

After 20 years as a stay-at-home mom, I went on the Great Job Hunt.

People don’t take you seriously when your last resume entry is from the 1980’s. It did not go well. I scanned the classifieds, called for appointments, went in for interviews and was rejected. A lot. Turns out a “lot” as in “cemetery lot” is the only career opportunity open to me.

It ain’t easy sellin’ death. They will hire pretty much anyone who is still breathing (bad pun). My broken leg ended my “career” peddling dirt for the deceased. (There’s a silver lining to every dark cloud.)

I wrote this piece during my time there, which was kind of like “doing time”…on death row. (Snicker).

There are three of us in the training: me, a Hispanic woman who began speaking English a couple of weeks ago, and a man who appears to have been cryogenically frozen for several decades, who showed up with clothing and attitude from 1958. His hair was dyed shoe-polish black, he had a Hitler moustache, and he slapped me on the butt repeatedly.

We have been studying “The Presentation,” the sales pitch for cold calls (knocking on doors). We are schooled in handling any situation, and told to behave politely and normally, regardless of the “family situation.”

This means if a dominatrix answers the door wearing a leather bustier with nipple cutouts and has a naked man on a leash, we smile and launch into the spiel. Actually, this is NOT a scenario the trainer acted out;(too bad LOL) I just considered it as a possibility, after visiting some of the homes in my assigned neighborhood.

They are pushing us to sell “above ground,” in the new mausoleum that will hold a gazillion people. It is cheaper for the company, they can stack a hundred of ‘em in the space ten regular graves would take. They tell us that the selling point is “dignified decay”. Isn’t that an oxymoron?

I was teamed with a seasoned “counselor”. (Sounds so much better than “Death Merchant”, huh?) He is a young guy, probably around 30. It’s kind of hard to gauge his age, as the fascination of watching the undulations of his stomach (which meets his kneecaps when he sits) is so hypnotic. He wears his necktie with only about an inch of it on the underside, as all the rest of the length has to be used to swoop down his enormously overhanging belly.

He is a real jerk. He insists we stop for fast food between every house call. He goes on and on about how intelligent he is. He is loud and arrogant and tells me at least 50 times a day that he hates repetition.

So we’re off to a great start.

We went to see a woman who had called to reschedule her original appointment, and she answered the door with a blanket wrapped around her, and said she had just been released from the hospital. She was less than receptive to the sales pitch. He suggested she could have died and THEN who would have to take care of her rotting carcass?

She didn’t buy.

I was instructed to call some of the Memorial Day leads, (someone who was visiting the cemetery and filled out an entry in a drawing for a free TV - a ruse to collect names and phone numbers) and spoke to a lady about “dropping off some information” (code for trying to sell ya somethin’). Her last name was the same as my first husband, to whom I was married only one year, and divorced at the ripe old age of 20. Her name was the same as his sister.

Still…..nah, couldn’t be.

Then I called, asking the names of the loved ones’ gravesites she was visiting, and she mentions her dearly departed granny. The last name was the same as I recalled his mother’s maiden name. Still…what are the odds?

Hey, we’re talkin’ ME here.

Sure `nuff, it was my in-laws of 30 years past. His sister has apparently never married. Could it be that hideous cackle-laugh, deployed like an audio assault bomb every thirty seconds, as she found all of her own little “jokes” hysterically funny? (Says Marti cattily, thanking the Lord that she never bore any children cursed with that DNA).

They didn’t recognize me (Gosh have I changed in 30 years?) and the name “Marti” apparently didn’t ring any memory-bells, so I remained silent. Still, the whole situation was very Twilight Zone.

I was glancing around at all of the family photos, searching for the surreal experience of seeing myself in an old wedding ensemble. Alas, none were on display, perhaps due to the fact that I had initiated the divorce, and left the family with some hard feelings. Wise to have remained silent, I listened to them tell us that her brother was thrice divorced, and smiled politely at the recent photos of his son’s high school graduation (the son was a dead ringer for his father as a youth, adding to the overall weirdness).

Cackle-Sis made the purchase, we left, and I told Blubber Butt that they were my former in-laws. (Which stunned even his I’ve-seen-everything sensibilities).

I had nightmares for a week. Dead ex-in-laws, crawling out of their mausoleum slots, chasing me down, pelting me with color TV’s until I collapse, then torturing me with that hideous laughter.

What a world. I wasn’t there long, but stay tuned, someday I may tell a few more Tales from the Crypt.

Categories: Writing, Humor