The following account is real. Names have been changed to protect the living and
the innocent. This journal contains language and content that may not be suitable for
all listeners. Hi. Everyone, hopefully you listen to part one of Stepping
In It. If you didn't, I recommend you do so before listening to
this episode. For context, this story takes place approximately three months after part
one. In full transparency, I've written two different eight or nine page intros
for this chapter and they all just take away from the episode, So we're
just gonna jump right back in. This episode is an all blood, guts
and gore like some of the previous episodes, so I understand if it's not
for everybody, but this is an important story in my misguided and irresponsible youth
of working at the funeral home. Anyway, with all that being said,
I really hope you enjoy this episode. My name is Grant and these are
my my funeral home stories. Chapter twenty one, Stepping In It, Part
two, Friday. I wake up on the couch in my living room,
drenched in sweat and completely out of breath. When did I fall asleep?
And why is it so dark? I sit up quickly and squint to look
at the analog clock with glowing hands on the wall near the wet bar seven
point fifteen. Are you kidding me? This was my last weekday of vacation
and I spent it in fucking dreamland on my couch. Great, But why
am I so tired? I hunched down to stretch my lower back and rub
the base of my palms into my eyeballs, feeling the sweat from my forehead
transferred to my fingers. Ugh. My entire body's damp, and I've got
such a bad headache. Maybe I'm getting the flu again. I touched the
back of my hand in my forehead. It's hot. Oh no. I
had the flu in August, and in terms of flus I've had in my
short lifetime, it was the worst. It lasted over two weeks, and
for the duration I couldn't keep anything down and was constantly fluctuating temperatures while my
body ached worse than it ever had from any past illnesses. I thought it
was food poisoning from China Star down the street, but when I didn't feel
better in forty eight hours, I knew it was something else. Let me
tell you, there's nothing worse than having the flu and working at a funeral
home just short staffed enough that calling in sick isn't an option. Everyone ends
up bringing whatever they have with them and spreading the sick throughout the office,
taking a sieech down one by one. At some point every year, we're
all sick to varying degrees. Some are getting over it, while others find
themselves barely surviving. But the phone doesn't stop ringing because death has no sympathy
for the sick. Honestly, doing the grunty, labor intensive part of the
job isn't all that bad when you're sick. Most of the time, when
facing a death call or in bombing. In that condition, the hours go
by pretty quick and you forget how bad you feel because you have a job
to do. Dealing with people, PaperWorks, scheduling, and expectations is a
whole other story, though. Note never admit to a family you're so ner
that you're sick. There's really no point in telling them what are you expecting
compassion for you? Please someone they love just died. They really don't care
about your problems. Admitting you're sick and subsequently distracted by your illness isn't reassuring
for a family. Planning a service. It's like you're making excuses for mistakes
that haven't happened yet because of your diminished physical and mental capacity. A family's
only focus should be on grieving their loss, not worrying about the details you're
undoubtedly missing, reveling in your illness regardless of how you feel. Arrangements and
execution of set arrangements must be perfect always. My dad wouldn't have it any
other way. It's our job to turn one of life's worst experiences into a
positive memory that families can live with forever. Working a funeral service sick feels
a lot like what I imagine being sick on Broadway must be like, in
the sense that folks paid a lot of money for you to do what you
do, so the show must go on. If I'm being one hundred percent
honest, dealing with the living is much more of a pain in the ass
than the dead when you're sick as a dog. There's literally nothing worse than
having to work a visitation with a fever that makes you forget who you are
and what you're doing every five minutes, while still having to feign interest and
compassion for the hordes of grieving people. Walking into your building, so you
just have to smile and pretend you don't feel like shit. You'd be surprised
how a good or bad greeting during a visitation can shape a person's entire visit
to the funeral home. A good greeting can put visitors at ease, making
the funeral home feel warmer and less spooky, while a cold and unwelcoming greeting
will only re solidify whatever stigma or stereotype the visitor has about funeral directors and
the industry at large. Now, with that being said, friendliness and caring
compassion can be hard to fake when you're exploding out of both ends of your
body most of the time. If I'm not feeling well during a visitation without
my father present, I'll abandon my post and lay on one of the couches
upstairs for ten or twenty minutes until I'm feeling a little bit more like my
healthy self. But I need to be careful because it is possible to accidentally
sleep through an entire visitation. Trust me, I've been there. None of
my coworkers have ever made a comment on my absence at the door in these
situations, as they're usually considerably empathetic for my plight, But don't tell my
dad. He wouldn't be happy to hear that I go a wall At work,
he has little patience for weakness during illness, as he's worked through every
cold and flu season for forty years without taking a single sick day, or
at least that's what he tells his staff. Plus, he's constantly lecturing me
on the importance of customer service in our industry, saying things like, you're
the face of the funeral home. Most people don't want to be here,
and it's your job to make sure they feel welcomed and or put at ease
before uncomfortably walking into a room with their dead family member or friend. He's
not wrong, but he doesn't need to tell me so often. I've been
here ten years. I should know this by now. This year, Ned
and I got sick at the same time, and it was awful. We
had eight or nine house calls that week and we were both barely able to
stand by the end of it. I'll never forget the night I picked up
Missus Wilson from the hospital. Morgan stayed to assist Ned to speed up the
eumbombing process, and it ended up turning into a six hour ordeal. This
was mostly because of missus Wilson's shitty circulation, but our inability to complete the
simplest task without stopping to rush to the bathroom to expel our insides made for
a more complicated evening. We ended up having to do a six point injection
that night, and I'm pretty sure Ned had to throw out his underwear when
he got home. I mean, I know I did, running my fingers
through my wet hair alone in my living room, my mutter. I hope
I'm not sick again. This vacation was supposed to be a time to recharge
my batteries and fix whatever cognitive dissonance I had with life and work. But
I'm afraid I'm actually work sot than when I left. Still coming to from
my surprise marathon nab, I placed my feet on the floor and rotate my
necks side to side. There's a loud thud at the base of my skull
and a jolt of pain shoots through my entire body, waking me up A
bit more confused on how I ended up falling asleep on the couch, I
frantically look around the room for clues before my eyes land on three empty pine
glasses sitting on the coffee table in front of me. Ah, that's right,
I had three long Island iced teas today at one o'clock. I'm not
sick at all. I'm just hung over. What was I thinking. I
barely ate anything today. I only remember having half in everything bagel with cream
cheese. This morning. My almost broken toaster burnt the other half, so
I put it on the squirrel feeder in my backyard. It was gone within
in minutes. I always forget about that feeder. It was a gift from
missus Anderson after we buried mister Anderson, who had a massive heart attack in
his backyard during his granddaughter's fourteenth birthday party. She gave Ned and I both
squirrel feeders after the service as a thank you for picking up her husband from
their house in such a caring and compassionate manner. Those were her words written
on a thank you card she sent with the package. It was a nice
sentiment on her part. I guess mister Anderson made bird and squirrel feeders,
so she probably didn't want to just throw them away after he died, but
needed to make room in the basement for her treadmill or something. Ned's feeder
is still in the box she brought it in, sitting below the time clock
in the stairwell at the funeral home. My dubt will ever take it home.
My stomach gurgles loudly in an angry, boozy fashion. Next to the
pine glasses on the coffee table, there are two pink Powerball tickets and a
half eaten box of butterfinger Bebes tipped over on its side. Now even more
confused, I pick up one of the lottery tickets and squint to see that
it was purchased at five twenty six pm today, I went to the gas
station to buy lottery tickets and butterfinger bebes, and I was drunk enough that
I don't remember. Holy shit, I must have been a mess when I
walked in. I had to have been slurring my words in a dramatic fashion
because my long island iced teaser strong. Obviously. I just hope I didn't
make an ass out of myself or do something stupid like knock over or display
and get banned for life. It wouldn't be the first time. But I
like the layout of this gas station, and it's close, So I'm just
gonna wait a few days before I go back there. There's nothing worse than
alcohol amnesia fading away and then not in your stomach feeling it produces when you
start to remember all the poor decisions that led you to where you are.
In the current moment, a panicked feeling washes over me. God, I
hope I didn't drive. I stand up quickly and walk over to the window
to make sure my car is in one piece in my driveway. It is.
The ground is wet. Apparently it rained again, like it has all
week. It's just missing. Now the central heating kicks on with a loud
bang and startles me. I see something move in my peripheral vision on the
other side of the window. I turned my head and move closer to the
window to investigate, bumping my nose against the wooden blinds. My fine motor
skills aren't all fantastic right now. I can feel my heart beating through my
eyes. I exhale deeply, hoping it will relieve some of the pressure in
my head. It doesn't. Through the haze the persistent drizzle has created,
I see a person that appears to be an adult man standing in shadow near
the edges of the orange glow from the loud Halagen street lights placed sporadically throughout
my neighborhood. He can't be any further than twenty five feet away from where
I'm standing inside my house. I don't think he sees me, though,
at least I hope he can't. This is kind of creepy. What the
hell is he doing? And why is he just standing in front of my
house in the rain? No, less, he's got to be freezing,
I tell myself it's probably nothing. But if there's anything I've learned from years
of watching TV and movies, it's that a man meandering in the shadows in
front of your home, ignoring the rain never ends with something cool or neat
happening for the person watching through the window. In fact, it almost always
ends in a homicide. I literally just watched a movie that started all almost
this exact way, So excuse me if I seem a little paranoid. Earlier
this week, I rented The Strangers on DVD from Hollywood Video. It's a
new release about a couple who's randomly terrorized and eventually murdered by three massdnair dwells
in the middle of the night for virtually no reason. I watched it alone
around two am Wednesday morning, and I have to tell you it was quite
an experience in terms of American psychological horror films. It has all the bells
and whistles. I was constantly looking over my shoulder or pausing the DVD to
investigate every unexplained sound coming from in or around my house. I even slept
with the lights on that first night, which, as we all know,
is the hallmark of an expertly crafted horror film. I've watched it three times
since my initial viewing, and it's still sitting on top of my DVD player.
I'm fairly certain it was only a one day rental since it just came
out on Tuesday, so I'm going to get hammered with late fees. Totally
worth it. The shadowy man steps a little closer to the street light.
I can make out more details. Short hair, smaller frame, and hands
in pockets. He stops before stepping directly in the light, pausing for a
moment, swaying back and forth, just looking around. This is unsettling.
I look over my shoulder to make sure there isn't someone standing behind me with
an axe or a butcher knife in hand, there isn't. The man's bizarre
behavior continues for another forty seconds or so before the unknown figure takes a step
forward into the light. I breathe a sigh of relief. It's just Steve,
the guy that lifts two doors down. Nothing to be afraid of here.
He's total wallpaper. I've talked to Steve twice a week for two years,
and I have no idea what he does, where he's from, or
what he likes to do to cut loose, other than being a total weirdo
loitering through the neighborhood at all hours of the night. He's about five six,
a buck twenty, with an oddly shaped head and dresses how I imagine
Bill Gates dresses on a pontooning trip or at a barbecue casual doorkware. If
Steve wasn't so wimpy and soft spoken, I might have a little more fear
for my life. But based on our interactions, I don't think Steve is
capable of anything seriously dubious, like killing his neighbors on a whim. He
might shoplift a pocket protector or a miniature tree for the trainset village he probably
has in his basement, but other than that, he's basically harmless. But
so was Jeffrey Dahmer. You know, actually, now that I'm thinking about
it, Steve is the exact type of wimpy, soft spoken, hypothetical trainset
owner that would kill his neighbors. No one would ever expect it. It's
the perfect crime. I quickly double checked the front door next to the window
to make sure it's locked. We're good. Not tonight. Steve walking away
from the window to restlessly pace around my living room in the dark to try
and figure out what to do with myself, I'd take in the full scope
of my headache. My head feels like it's about to split open from the
top, like someone's driving the pointy side of an axe directly into my skull,
but very fair slowly. Sorry that may have been a little over the
top, but the strangers have made axe murders top of mine this week.
No pun intended there. I've never been to a home invasion, multiple murder
scene on a death call before, and I can honestly tell you that's a
true disappointment. The closest I've come to anything like that was that fellow who
stabbed his family and lit himself on fire in his basement. But I was
just a kid who lived with his parents when I went on that call,
so I wasn't able to fully comprehend how scary that situation would have been for
the wife and child and how I would have reacted in that predicament. The
strangers really made me think honestly about what I'd actually do if confronted with a
home invasion homicide scenario, and realistically, if I were faced with a stranger's
style attack, I'd either panic and hide in the closet hoping the killers wouldn't
find me, similar to what happened in the movie, or alternatively, I
could see myself going full Last House on the Left and becoming fully unhinged,
hunting down and dismembering each one of the home invaders with things like weed whackers,
drill bits, and various serrated cutlery, ultimately placing one of the home
invaders heads inside a doorless microwave while standing over them saying a cool movie catchphrase
like I'm about to blow your mind, right before their brain explodes through their
eye sockets, forcing me to repaint my ceiling. Can you tell I've spent
some time thinking about this. Hopefully I never have to find out how I'd
actually respond in that sort of crisis, but in the event it does happen,
I truly hope I'd take the unhinged microwave route, but in all likelihood
I'd probably be killed almost immediately without any fanfare, leaving whoever's in the house
with me to vent for themselves. It's a good thing I live alone.
Now I need a tie on all. I walk to the kitchen and instinctually
open the door to the refrigerator to be greeted by bright light and cool air
flooding out. I squint from the brightness, but the cool air feels nice
on my skin. I'm not even hungry, but if I were, I
don't have anything to eat other than a jar of year old pickles and a
half pound of salami. I don't remember buying. That's right, I need
to go to the store. Correction, I needed to go to the store
three days ago, but just haven't gotten around to it. I shut the
refrigerator door. Don't get me wrong, I may not have food in the
fridge, but I've still been eating. It's just not well. I've been
working my way through the pantry to try and get rid of some of the
old stuff. I'm pretty sure all I had to eat yesterday was a bowl
of grape nuts mixed with a yo play yogurt that's been sitting in the back
of my fridge for months, and a can of bushes baked beans that I
warmed up in the microwave. You could say I'm really living it up on
vacation this week. I can't believe I fucked around this hard and wasted an
entire week. How did you go buy so fast? It's not like I
was busy aside from the occasional five or ten minute errand I haven't left the
house in six days. I've just been sitting in the dark, rotating from
chair to sofa, to bed, to floor to chair. A thrilling vacation.
When I requested this time off last month, I had big plans for
this week, but like all the other plans I've made this year, they
didn't quite shake out how I expected. You see, I took this week
off because I was hired to play drums for the band Occasional Heroics on a
five gig stint, hitting all the big East Coast cities while their drummer dealt
with some ongoing drama at home caused by his lifestyle. I heard through the
grapevine he had gotten his second DUI right before I got the phone call,
gauging my interest. Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity. The band's music
is okay. It's very of the moment, meaning their genre is somewhere between
weird post rock and ambient stoner shit think Tortoise or Magwa, but less interesting,
nothing I'd ever listened to personally. But the drum parts are nasty and
fun to play, so I can't really pretend like I wasn't excited to perform
in some good sized clubs supporting bands I'd actually listened to, and I'd get
a week away from the tedium that is the funeral home. I had four
weeks to prep and as of last Thursday, I was ready. I was
fully packed, waiting for the band to come pick me and my equipment up
at my house. When the phone rang. It was the band's manager calling
to tell me that the band had decided to go with a less talented drummer
for these dates, who was charging them a much cheaper day rate. What
a kick in the mouth, right. The manager actually said, this guy
isn't as good as you, but he's charging us a hell of a lot,
less hoping I would change my rate and decide to donate my services to
the band. Fuck that noise. I don't learn all your music and haul
all my shit around for free and opting out of their agreement the way they
did was dirty, so I hope their van and trailer end up at the
bottom of the Hudson River. Once I unpacked and my anger subsided, I
actually told myself a week of doing nothing is exactly what I needed, seven
full, uninterrupted days of me time, no dead bodies, no visitations,
and most importantly, no late night phone calls NET, allowing me to rest
and recalibrate. But obviously that didn't happen. I went a little too hard
in the paint with the drinking, and I'm more anxious and uncalibrated than I've
ever been. I don't want to do what I've been doing anymore, any
of it. I want to go somewhere new and be someone else, not
just that guy that works at a funeral home who occasionally plays drums and appropriately
loud at restaurant gigs while diners ignore me eating their fourteen dollars steaks. I
think the first step of fixing my life is slowing down on my alcohol consumption,
but that's proving far more difficult than I had anticipated, since I've been
relying on it so heavily to calm my nerves and elevate my mood after work.
I gave up the whole Tootsie Pops instead of booze plan when I stepped
on a scale a month and a half ago and realized I had gained ten
pounds. Needless to say, my vanity didn't allow me to continue down that
path. I believe my exact thought while looking down at the inflated numbers on
the scale was I'd rather destroy and poison my insides alcohol than be forced to
walk around with a spare tire from eating fucking suckers all day and all night.
The extra weight fell off almost immediately when I stopped eating all that sugar,
but the drinking has increased to a level which I would classify, with
no healthcare education or training, as problematic, if not potentially alarming. Headache
pounding, I pulled the top off the bottle of tile and all. I
pulled from the medicine basket next to the fridge, without looking, grabbed two
pills with my fingers and pop them into my mouth. I reopened the refrigerator
to grab a soda to wash the pills down, and realize the only beverages
available are a gallon jug of iced tea I made three weeks ago, and
the last Budweiser Select of an eighteen pack I purchased on Wednesday. Squinting again
to dim the bright light coming from the fridge that seemed to elevate my headache
to migraine status, and understanding my current condition is caused by alcohol, I
make the only reasonable decision and grab the Budweiser Select Hair the Dog, I
tell myself, twisting the cap off before taking a large gulp, feeling the
tile and all capsules slide down my throat. I put the cat back on
the tile and all sitting on my counter and realized I had grabbed the wrong
bottle. It was tile in all PM. I look at the clock,
seven to twenty three. Well, worst things have happened this week. We
still get to bed early. I walk my beer into the living room and
sit down in a well worn divot on my brownish gray fabric couch. Aside
from two dimly lit night lights, the room is completely dark. I drink
the rest of my beer in one drink and set the empty bottle next to
the pint glasses and the butterfinger bebes on the coffee table. Don't mind if
I do, I say to myself. Picking up the box of butterfingers,
I stick my nose in the opening to smell the container, and the peanut,
butter and chocolate smell makes me gag, so I placed the box back
where I found it. For the first time in almost a week, I
see my phone light up from across the rooms, sitting on an end table
on its charger. It's on silent, but since the room is so dark,
the two inch color led screen lighting up is hard to miss. I
watch it ring, debating whether or not to be bothered by whoever's on the
other end of the call. I'm immediately anxious, thinking of an excuse to
have queued up to get out of whatever this is. I walk over to
the phone and look at the caller. ID it's Jennifer, remember her,
the girl that caught me with my shoes off? Who I thought was flirting
with me the day she came into interview. Well, she's my coworker now,
and for the record, there has been zero flirting on either of our
parts, leading me to believe our initial interaction was just her being friendly and
nervous on the day of her big interview. And even if she was flirting,
my dad would not be stoked to find out there was any fraternizing among
his employees. So I've been Johnny professional and, as my dad would say,
keeping it in my pants. Other than the normal pleasantries and general work
stuff, Jennifer and I have barely talked. We're both just too busy doing
whatever it is need to do on any given day to sit down and chat
about anything. Really, Alan and her are teamed up for removals, so
I have no idea how she is on death calls or dealing with families.
But from Alan's account, she's detail oriented and good at her job. Why
would she be calling me. She knows I'm off till Monday. Everyone knows
I'm off till Monday because they're all forced to cover for me. A thought
pops into my head. Maybe she's calling to ask me out. Intrigued now
and less anxious, I pick up my phone. The screen goes dark.
I miss the call, staring at the phone for a moment, debating calling
Jennifer back. The led screen lights up. It's her again. Feeling that
beer kick in and getting some relief from my headache. I flip my phone
open and answer Hello, Hey, Grant, it's Jennifer. Hey, what's
going on? Not much? I need a favor. Why is Jennifer calling
me for a favor? Okay, I say, interested, but pensive.
She makes her pitch. So Ned and Alan are four counties away on a
cremation call and we just got a sheriff's call in high Rise Park down the
street from the funeral home. So the answering service called me as a backup,
and I figured i'd see if you were home and could help me out.
A damn. I am home, but I just took talin o PM
and was bet ready to go to bed. I start to say, before
being interrupted, Oh, well, I'll see if I can get somebody else.
Sorry to bother your Grant. She sounds disappointed. There's a pregnant pause
on the phone line before I break the silence and say, you know what,
fuck it, I'll go I maybe dozing off on you, but you're
in a pinch, so I got you awesome. I owe you a big
time, Jennifer responds excitedly. You know I'm on the east side with the
van right now, so I can come pick you up. Those six words
make me anxious in most cases, because it almost inevitably means I'm going to
end up being held hostage by whoever's driving. But for some reason I didn't
even think before responding that works for me. Jennifer tells me she'll see me
in fifteen minutes, and we get off the phone. Feeling the rush of
suddenly having something to do for the first time in a week. I take
a two minute shower before walking into my closet to see my only black suit
that isn't at the dry cleaners, wadded up and thrown into the corner of
my closet. Fuck, of course, Roughly twenty minutes later, after steaming
my suit and getting dressed, I hear two quick beaps of a car horn.
She's here. I grab the Stranger's DVD, knowing we'll pass the video
store on the way to or from the funeral home, and figure i'll save
myself a trip I go out the front door, locking it behind me,
being sure to double check it three times before I walk away. Note my
OCD won't allow me to walk away from mini door until I turn the handle
three times. It's a pain. As I turn and begin walking, I
feel a wave of sleepiness wash over me. I feel it mostly in or
around my eyes. It's been about twenty five minutes since I took the tile
on all PM, but it's mixing with the beer nicely, so even though
I'm a bit sleepy, I actually feel pretty good. It's raining more steadily
now. It's much colder than I thought it would be tonight. I suppose
I should have worn my trench coat, but I wasn't really thinking about the
weather when I got dressed, and I really don't want to run inside,
So it looks like we're getting wet tonight in a strictly professional manner, of
course. Now that I'm acclimated to the outside world, the cold rain and
breeze feel refreshing and add a little extra pep in my step. I look
around to see if my neighbor Steve is still outside, being a weirdo.
He's not outside, but I'm sure wherever he is he's probably still being a
weirdo. I walk around the front of the van, smiling and waving at
Jennifer before grabbing the passenger door handle. A giant gust of wind pushing against
the van adds resistance as I open the door, and my whole face contorts
as I let out a giant yawn before saying hello, Hey Jennifer, Oh
my god, you look so tired. She says, thank you so much
for doing this. Mildly insulted by her observation, I laugh and say,
yeah, no problem. What you got there, she asks. I hold
up the DVD case and say I rented the Strangers and need to return it.
You think we can pop by the video store? Of course, we
can stop on our way back. Is that movie good? I really want
to see it. Yeah, it's pretty great. Jennifer reaches behind her and
pulls out a brown paper bag while I'm closing my door and fastening my seatbelt.
She holds it up and says, I'm a couple of minutes late because
I stopped to get you with thank you present for bailing me out. Oh
you didn't have to give me anything, I say as I take the thank
you gift and pull it out of the bag. It's a glass handled bottle
of schmir Nav vodka. Oh shit, thank you, I say, Surprised
you didn't have to do this. Yes I did. You're on vacation.
Plus I heard somewhere that you like to party, she says, putting the
car in reverse and pulling out of my driveway. I yawn again loudly and
apologize. Don't apologize, Jennifer says, you took sleep aid for God's sakes.
How about we stop by the gas station and get a couple of red
bulls? Yes, I say, without hesitation. But do you mind if
we go to a gas station a little closer to the funeral home. She
flips on the turn signal to pull out of my neighborhood and says, why
don't they carry red bull I laugh and decide to tell her the truth.
They do carry red bull. I just don't really want to go back there
tonight. Oh you were just there, she asked, glancing over at me.
Yeah. Well, believe it or not, I blacked out a few
hours ago and ended up walking over and may or may not have caused a
scene. It's a whole thing. I just don't want to have to talk
to the same cashier and feel judged. Right now, Jennifer nods and smiles.
Well hit seven to eleven on Adams. We're on our way now,
feeling the red bull. I'd chugged on my way to the park, kicking
in. I'm no longer tired, and my headache is virtually nonexistent. Was
I hungover or just undercaffeinated? Honestly, I think I'm just excited not to
be alone anymore. I took for granted how six days of isolation would make
me feel. Jennifer's pretty good company on a death call. She's fun,
easy to talk to, and her laugh is contagious. Her only downfall is
her atrocious taste in music. She listened to a mixed TV she made of
simple plan songs the entire way to the call, which would be cool if
we were both thirteen. But all things considered, her music taste didn't ruin
the ride at all. It's actually pretty charming that she's obsessed with such a
terrible band. Jennifer pulls into the entrance to the park and drives towards the
bandshell. It's pouring now, and I'm really regretting not bringing a raincoat,
but Jennifer doesn't appear to have a jacket either, so I don't feel so
bad about it since we're both in this together. An officer with an umbrella
and a weird condom over his hat waves us over with a flashlight and points
out where to park. Jennifer and I get out of the car, and
the officer walks to a tree and stands under its huge, half filled branches
as a makeshift shelter from the elements. We quickly pulled a cod out of
the car and speed walk over to the officer, both muttering to ourselves about
how cold and wet it is out. Hey guys, beautiful night. Huh,
the officer says with a smile, before telling us why we're here.
We got a nineteen year old female, Jane Doe, drug overdose this evening.
We don't know who she is yet, so you're just gonna take her
to the hospital Morgue until we figure out who she is and where she's going.
She's out there, the officer says, pointing to the large grass mall
between the banshell and clubhouse. I can faintly make out a mass laying on
the ground, but it's too dark to see clearly. Jennifer and I walk
the cot out, rolling it under the police table. The rain is let
up a bit in the minute since we got here, but it's still soaking
us. With every step, I watch the rain drops beat up and roll
off the scotch guarded cot cover as it bounces through the grass. We pull
up and park the cot next to a body fully exposed to the elements in
the field. The officer is holding his flashlight above his head and points it
at the body, revealing a petite blonde woman wearing sweatpants, a plain black
T shirt, and low top Doc Martin's. She appears to be laying on
a jacket or a hooded sweatshirt of some sort. It's weird that they didn't
cover up her body with a sheet and just left her out here in the
rain like this, But no one hangs out in the park on cold,
rainy nights like this, so I guess they didn't really see a need to
conceal the body. Jennifer and I dropped the cot to its lowest position,
and she unzips the cover and pulls out a disaster pouch. I squat down
next to the girl to take a closer look at the body and laying on
its back in front of me, ignoring the downpour for a moment. Poor
girl, I think to myself, life was just getting started for her,
and somehow, some way, she made a series of poor decisions that led
her to where she is now dead. Was it heroin, I asked the
officer. Yeah, she had a whole bag of paraphernalia with her when the
park supervisor found her a few hours ago. I look at the woman's arms,
and as I suspected, there's track marks everywhere. She must have been
left handed, because her right arm appears to have way more tiny holes and
dark bruise. We've seen a real uptick in Od's at the funeral home lately.
It's sad and it affects every demographic. It's not just young folks taking
a ride on the White Horse anymore. It's everyone. And it's not just
scary illegal drugs. More often than not, it's the safe prescription drugs that
are killing these people. Thankfully, opiates make me itch, so I've never
really been all that interested in experimenting with them, which is probably a good
thing, because from what I know about myself and my inability to moderately partake
in anything I enjoy. If I'd tried heroin, I'd probably end up just
like our Jane Doe. Here. I take a look at her face,
which has virtually no color and one of her eyelids is slightly open. Her
skin is smattered with pock marks and sores, perhaps from bad acne, but
it's far more likely it's from the heroine or whatever else she was doing.
The woman's long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and it appears to
be tucked into her t shirt. Jennifer taps me on the shoulder and says
gloves. I look up at her and say no, shaking my head,
only because I know how hard it is to put on wet gloves with wet
hands, so I'd rather just bypass that dog and pony show. There's no
blood, so I think we're good without gloves on this one, I say,
smiling at Jennifer. She puts the four gloves she got out in her
pocket. The officer's flashlight is casting an interesting shadow on Jennifer's face from this
angle. From my perspective, Jennifer's wet hair laying flat on her head and
running eye makeup kind of makes her look like Nev Campbell from the Wild Things
movie poster. Jennifer puts the unfolded and unzip disaster pouch next to the girl's
body and we proceed to move her into the bag. She's so light and
frail. As I zip up the disaster pouch around her head, I take
one last look at her face and think what a waste she could have been
anything. I wonder if she knew she had a problem. Didn't she have
any friends or were they all junkie enablers too. It makes me sad to
know that a substance can do this to someone, destroying a young life before
it's even started. Why on earth would you do this to yourself? My
compassion for this girl turns into judgment, and I think about ever Clear song
Heroin Girl and its last lyric. I heard the policeman say, just another
overdose. It's like that song was written specifically for this occasion. That's all
this girl will ever be to us and the officer, just another overdose.
I finished zipping the disaster pouch up around her head, and I realize my
thoughts and judgments are completely hypocritical, because I've been on an alcohol bender for
the better part of a year now, But I shake then negative thoughts out
of my head, lying to myself repeating the mantra, I don't have a
problem. I don't have a problem. Jennifer and I fasten the body to
the cod and flip over and zip up its cover. We squat on either
end of the cod and I pull the release lever as we stand to extend
and lock out the legs in place. I push on one of the wheels
with my foot to make sure the legs are locked. It clicks. We're
good. No. It's always important to check and make sure the legs are
locked when moving a loaded or unloaded cot, especially on uneven surfaces like grass.
If you don't and they're not, the cock will collapse, making a
huge ruck ass and will cause you much embarrassment in front of a family and
your coworkers. Turning toward the van and grabbing the foot end of the cot,
I accidentally put my hand on the release lever without knowing and pull instantaneously.
The accordion legs of the cot collapse to the lowest position, making the
cot under the weight of Jane Doe's body hit the ground with a loud thud
and bounce, almost tipping over. Jennifer and the officer laugh loudly while I'm
panicking to make sure I didn't just accidentally hurt Jennifer's hand or arm. Thankfully
I didn't. What a dumb rookie move. I haven't ever collapsed a loaded
cop publicly before. I've seen it happen a few times, and it's always
scary in the moment, but is immediately hilarious once you're allowed to laugh about
it. Alan dropped the stretcher on a house call one time, and it
may have been the funniest thing I've ever seen, but couldn't laugh at because
the family was standing right in front of us. I'll tell you what they
found nothing fun about that loud crash. After a peaceful removal, we weren't
even out of the house yet and we already made a terrible impression. But
it was totally worth it when I was able to belly laugh at Allan's expense
all the way back to the funeral home. Thankfully, tonight, the cot
didn't tip over. That would have been bad in this weather. I can
feel my face flush with embarrassment as we picked the cot back up and extend
its legs. I double check it with my foot once again, we're locked.
Jennifer is still laughing uncontrollably. The contagiousness of her laugh makes me giggle
a bit before saying I'll fuck off, Jennifer. I grab the stretcher again
to move it forward, and making sure this time not to touch the release
lever. We loaded the stretcher into the van, drove away, and dropped
Jane Doe at the hospital without any further incident. We're headed back to the
funeral home now. Jennifer and I arrived back at the funeral home having to
redress the cot. We're both soaking wet, and make our way to the
prep room via the elevator to restock the cod with fresh sheets and rubber gloves.
Ned and Allen's cars weren't in the parking lot. They must have made
pretty good time on their out of county removal. They're probably already at home
in bed. I'm a little jealous, but I've woken up quite a bit
from the cold, rain and red bull, and could imagine myself staying up
at least another hour, maybe two. When I get home. All I
can think about is getting out of these wet clothes. I can feel a
starch or whatever the dry cleaner uses to press my shirts, soaking through and
making my skin feel slimy and disgusting. As Jennifer redresses the cod I slip
into the walking closet attached to the prep room, closing the door behind me
to put on a pair of running shorts, an oversized crew neck sweatshirt,
and a pair of sambas with those socks that I had left at the funeral
home for yard work. I walk back out to the prep room, not
mentioning my outfit change to Jennifer. When she sees me, she says,
yes, good thinking. I totally forgot. I brought extra clothes here too,
up so I can change, of course, I say. She takes
off her soaked pantsuit jacket as she enters the closet, leaving the door open
behind her so she can continue our conversation. From my vantage point, I
can't see anything but the door. Don't worry, I wasn't trying to be
a creep. She's my coworker. Speaking of creeps, I wonder what my
neighbor Steve is doing right now. He's either at home playing with his trains,
or he's broken into my house and is waiting to ambush me. After
I fall asleep this evening, I zip the cot cover up and place a
handful of extra gloves in its front pouch. Jennifer asks loudly from the closet,
can you grab me a towel? My hair is so wet. Thinking
nothing of the request, I walk over to one of the cabinets and grab
a large white towel and walk it over to the closet, announcing my presence
as I approach so she doesn't think I'm trying to sneak a peek or something.
Okay, bringing it in now, thanks, Grant. Just put it
on the shelf. Breaking the threshold of the closet, I see Jennifer standing
with her back toward me. She's standing there shirtless, with her pants and
shoes still on, wringing her hair out on the carpet. I'm surprised by
what I see, but not by what you think. Sure, I never
would have imagined that Jennifer would be so comfortable changing in front of her coworker.
But what absolutely blew my mind was the full sized back tattoo that Jennifer
has of a dream catcher running from her shoulder blades to her butt. Oh
my god, I think to myself, what an ugly tattoo. I keep
that thought to myself and say, here you go, putting the towel on
the shelf next to her before scurrying out. Don't ask me about my tattoo.
She says, it's stupid and way too big. Oh no, it's
cool, I say, my voice getting higher as I respond, while pushing
the cot out of the operating room, hoping she can't tell that I agree
with her. A moment or two later, Jennifer steps out of the closet
wearing yoga pants, flip flops, and a faded Simple Plan T shirt.
I can't contain myself when I see her laughing loudly. I say, you
like Simple Plan enough to own a T shirt? She smiles and tells me
to shut up. In a Patrick Bateman moment, I suddenly remember I need
to return the copy of The Strangers on DVDs, sitting in the front seat
of the van to Hollywood Video. When Jennifer takes me home and I remind
her of that, that's right, I forgot you have that? Do you
want to watch it? Again, she asks, like right now, I
say, confused by the question, looking at the clock in the operating room.
It's nine pm. Now, Yeah, we can watch it in the
chapel and the big projector you know, I've never thought to do that,
but yes, saying enthusiastically, thinking about how much scarier the Strangers would be
inside an empty funeral chapel. Cool, go put the cop back in the
van and grab it. I'll turn the lights on in the chapel. As
I walk away, Jennifer ads, grab that bottle of vodka two. We
should have a cocktail. About seven minutes later, Jennifer and I are sitting
in the dark on two large wing backed chairs with our feet up on a
casket beer, watching the opening scene of The Strangers on the wall at the
front of the chapel. I rated the basement fridge for dia pepsi and made
cocktails and two large coffee tumblers I found under the sink in the break room.
I don't think my dad would approve of this, but fuck it,
I'm on vacation and I'm sure he's asleep and none the wisers, so I
don't have to worry about him or anyone else for that matter, crashing our
makeshift screening. Fifty minutes and three drinks each later, I'm drunk and honestly
pretty freaked out. Even though I know all the beats from seeing this movie
four other times this week, it's still scary. Jennifer hasn't said a word
in about twenty minutes. I glance over. Her eyes are glued to the
screen. She's terrified. I stand up until Jennifer, I need to use
the boy's room. I set my drink on the casket beer and make my
way to the restroom. While standing at the journal, I think to myself,
Wow, after six days of being utterly alone with nothing to do,
it feels nice to have a new friend, someone to hang out with that
I'm not trying to sleep with, because we're coworkers and we respect each other's
professional boundaries enough to not be inappropriate. I smile at myself in the mirror
after splashing water on my face, realizing how drunk I am. I think
I can have another drink, I think to myself, before moving to the
door, quickly excited to see the end of the movie again. It's my
favorite part, just thinking of the line because you were home send shivers down
my spine. As I drunkenly shuffle around the corner and enter the hallway leading
to the chapel, I see a shadow figure that startles me. Standing in
the threshold where the chapel and the hallway meet, I jump and feel my
heart skip a beat. This is it. It's time. I'm being funeral
home invaded. For a moment, my adrenaline spikes and I feel myself slip
into fight mode. Hello, who's there? I say, timidly, standing
still a stone in the hallway. The shadow figure moves towards me and says,
grant, it's me. I got scared and didn't want to be alone.
Oh my god, you scared the shit out of me, I say,
giggling and slightly out of breath. Jennifer walks towards me, and before
I have time to process what's happening, she puts her hand on my face,
moving closer to me, and our lips touched. What the fuck is
happening, I think to myself, leaning into the kiss. Now it would
be ungentlemanly me to elaborate any further on what happened next, but I certainly
don't want to imply anything more happened than it did, because, as flawed
as I may be, I'm not really the kiss and tell type. But
if I were into tasteful sharing and felt so inclined to use baseball terms to
describe what happened that night, I would say the evening was spent mostly on
first base, but we might have snuck in a double on the green leather
couch and the lobby. But again, I'm a gentleman and a consummate professional,
so I would never share something like that. All I know is ned
and I have had a lot of crazy nights on call, but nothing like
this. Don't worry. We finished the movie and I only owed seventeen dollars
in late fees. Totally worth it. Monday, twelve fifteen pm. It's
my first day back from vacation and it's slow, no services, no visitations,
a perfect way to ease back into work. I was a little worried
that it was going to be awkward between Jennifer and I this morning, but
it wasn't at all. In fact, when Jennifer came in today, she
made it a point to tell me she had a really nice time on Friday
night with a wink, so I guess she was flirting that day she came
in for her interview. Who knows. The whole making out with the coworker
thing felt wrong, but Jennifer didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest by
it, so I figured I wouldn't be either. Ned Jennifer and I are
the only ones here at the moment. Everyone else is out to lunch.
They're both upstairs deep cleaning the prep room while I'm getting ready to shampoo the
back porch carpets before closing it down for the winner. The back doorbell rings.
I drop what I'm doing and briskly moved to the lobby. Standing there
waiting for me is a slender, handsome looking, dark haired man in his
early to mid twenties. He smiles when we make eye contact and I say,
Hi, how can I help you? The man smiles back at me
and says, hey, is Jennifer around? Hang tight? Let me intercommer
Jennifer to the lobby. Please Jennifer to the lobby. Knowing it will take
a minute or two for Jennifer to come down, I asked gentleman if he
wants a bottle of water or anything. He politely declines, and has a
seat on the green leather couch in the lobby. The green leather couch,
We talk about how crummy the weather has been for the last couple days before
hearing the sound of heels walking quickly down the stairwell. The door opens and
Jennifer pops out and says, hey, guys. The man stands up when
he sees Jennifer. She looks at me like a deer in the headlights,
as if sending me a message telepathically. What's that look for, I think
to myself, Grant, I want you to meet my boyfriend Andrea. Almost
unable to speak, I raise my hand to shake his. I'm in shock,
but I don't let it FaZe me. Just like being sick at a
visitation, I feign interest and excitement. The show must go on, right,
So I overcorrect and, with too much enthusiasm, say, oh,
so you're the Andre. I've heard so much about pleasure to meet you.
We all love having your girlfriend around the office. Andre smiles and says,
good to meet you too, man, I've heard a lot about you.
Oh I bet you have, I think to myself. Andre kisses Jennifer on
the lips and says want to go to lunch. She smiles and says yes,
quickly grabbing her purse and walking down the ramp to the exit door.
Before she steps out, she looks back and we make eye contact for a
brief second. She mouths the words I'm sorry to me before walking out,
letting the doors shut behind her. Standing alone in the lobby, I look
up at the chandelier above my head. There's a cobweb dangling down from one
of the light bulb covers. I try to reach up and grab it,
but it's too high. Defeated, I sit down on the green leather couch.
I'm not sure how to feel right now. My name is Grant and
these are my Funeral Home Stories. Hopefully you enjoyed this episode. If you
did, and you liked the podcast, please rate and review wherever you listen
and consider telling a friend. The podcast keeps growing every day and I couldn't
be happier. If you'd like to support my Funeral home Stories directly, head
over to my funeral Homestories dot com and get Collection one or the epilogue episode.
They're commercial free and all the money goes directly to me, which fucking
rules. And if you're interested, check out my other podcast, How to
Become a Terrible Person. It's incredibly different than this podcast. It's hosted by
my beautiful fiance and I and most of the people that listen to this podcast
that try it out, well they don't like it, but maybe you will.
Anyway. The next chapter of My Funeral Home Stories will be a premium
only podcast and it will drop on November seventeenth of twenty twenty three. More
to come on that later. Thanks for listening.