The following account is real. Names have been changed to protect the living and
the innocence. This journal contains language and content that may not be suitable for
all listeners. Do you know what it means when someone says you've stepped in
it? In a figurative sense? Of course. I don't think you're an
idiot who couldn't comprehend literally stepping into something. I'm only curious because it's a
phrase I've heard for years but never really understood what it meant until I actually
stepped in it myself. If you don't know, stepping in it refers to
getting yourself into a predicament that isn't easily resolved. It can mean different things
to different people, as in, wow, I really stepped in it today
when I criticized my boss at that meeting, Or holy shit, I can't
believe I'm made out with the new funeral director my dad hired. I think
I may have really stepped in it. Yep. I think we all see
where this one is going, but you're going to have to be patient.
This one is a two parter. There's really no need for a long introduction.
Let's just get right into it. My name is Grant and these are
my funeral home stories. Chapter twenty, Stepping in It, Part one,
Thursday, June twenty third, three, nineteen am. I should have been
in bed hours ago, but instead I'm wide awake, laying almost fully reclined
on a chaise lounge in my backyard, staring at the stars while eating my
fourth or fifth Tootsie Pop in about an hour. I came out here with
half a bag left, and now I'm down to two. The one in
my mouth and the one in the bag, both blue. They're my favorite.
I tend to save those for last. You see, I'm eating a
sucker every time I want a cocktail to try and curb my problematic behavior,
but it's not really working. I'm still drinking entirely too much, and now
it seems like I always have a goddamn sucker in my mouth, which can't
be doing much for my physique or teeth. I tilt my head back against
the padded headrest and crunched down on the sucker with my molars and savor the
blueberry and chocolate flavors mingling my mouth. Thus, synthetic sweetness reminds me of
summertime as a kid, a simpler time a time filled with bike rides and
trampoline playdates with friends, long before my days and nights were co opted by
dead bodies, grieving families, and well ned I wish I could remember a
time when I could only imagine what it would be like to see someone's head
blown to pieces by a shotgun blast or smashed all over pavement. But I
can. In fact, I can barely remember what it was like to stay
home unsupervised watching wrestling tapes in my basement before my dad put me to work
the summer before seventh grade. It's a beautiful night, though it was cloudy
and sprinkling earlier in the evening, but it's clear now. Even if it
only lets up for a few minutes, it's a perfect window to enjoy the
stars and decompress. I am totally relaxed and completely uninterested in the rest of
the world in this moment, which is a welcome change of pace from the
hellish beginning of the summer so far. I'm twenty three and realized still a
week or so ago that this funeral home gig I started when I was thirteen
isn't just an interesting part time college job anymore. No, it's what I
do now. There's no more classes to take, and there's certainly no escaping
the grind anytime in the foreseeable future. It's clear to me now that I'm
a lifer at my daddy's funeral home, and I'm just like every other son
of a funeral homeowner I know, never quite able to step out of his
father's shadow, each generation worse than the previous. I am no longer optimistic
about the future. I'm just here, on call every other night, every
other weekend, without escape, without respite. I am officially nothing to write
home about. I swallowed the remainder of the gooey chocolate center of the tutsie
pop that's been soaking up saliva in my mouth and take my cell phone out
of my front left pocket to check the time. Three twenty three. Fuck.
I really should be in bed, but I'm not even remotely tired.
I could blame it on my self diagnosed insomnia, but in all likelihood we
just spinning from all the sugar I'd just consumed over the last hour. Regardless,
I'd rather be out here, wide awake, staring at the tapestry of
stars above me, than to be lying wide awake in an empty bed in
my empty house, watching the ceiling fan due laughs until my body finally decides
to shut itself down right before being startled awake by one of my alarms.
Speaking of, I flip open my phone and make sure my alarms are set
seven seven O five, seven ten, seven fourteen and seven fifteen. I
know it's excessive, but I'm kind of in my head about waking up and
being punctual after my dad ripped me a new asshole in front of the whole
staff for being fifteen minutes late on Tuesday, and he was well within us
right to do so. I had no excuse. I wasn't on call and
had actually gone to bed at a reasonable hour the night before. I just
kept hitting snooze because my room was filled with that chilly summer morning air and
I was just too damn comfortable to be bothered with getting up and going to
work. Full disclosure, I also didn't shave that morning, which I think
was the real reason for the ass chewing for my dad. If he's told
me once, he's told me a thousand times, we don't do facial hair
at our phueneral home. And if I want to look like a fucking hay
seed. I can go work with the real hayseeds at the double wide funeral
home down the street. I won't mention them by name here, but that
was a threat. Needless to say, I hastily ran up the stairs and
shaved my face to avoid any further conflict. There's a flashing light in the
sky, miles and miles above me that cuts through the clouds on the edges
of my eyeline. It's most likely a plane, although I can't rule out
a UFO, but given the hour and its path, I'm assuming it's a
passenger jet headed for Chicago or one of the other bigger cities in proximity to
our small town. It's strobing wing lights are faint but constant, red light,
white light, red light, white light. As bad as it sounds,
there's a part of my brain that imagines how satisfying it would be to
see those small, blank lights transform into a flash and ball of fire,
followed minutes later by parts of the plane and hundreds of bodies excuse me,
pieces of bodies landing around me. Catastrophic air disasters have always been a fascination
of mine, and as fucked up as it is to admit it's always been
a dream of mine to see something like that in person. Unfortunately for me,
but fortunately for those on board, the plane passes through my field of
vision without incident. Everything is still around me. The animals are sleeping,
there's no traffic, and weirdly, there's no bugs chirping, just silence.
I'm the only thing awake right now. I am completely alone and considerably content
in that feeling. No one is calling, there's no bodies to move,
and no one is telling me to shave. Even if it's just for a
few fleeting moments, I can pretend that I'm the only one left on this
planet, and imagining a world without work, cell phones, cars, humans
and their drama comforts me. I'd take a deep breath and close my eyes.
I've been sitting out here a lot lately when I'm finding it hard to
fall asleep. I can't tell you why I started or win exactly, but
if I'm feeling overwhelmed or particularly insomniattic, I just walk outside and look at
the sky. Not sure what the therapeutic effect is, but it levels me
out, and lately I've needed that. Last week, I went on twelve
calls for the funeral home in crematory. It was a lot, even for
a grizzled, jaded vet like myself. It felt like every time I got
off of work and walked into my house, I'd sit down for two minutes
and then my phone would ring. The worst part about it was the calls
weren't even interesting. I just happened to be unlucky enough to be on call
for the first scorching out week of summer. And if there's one lesson I've
learned over and over the last ten summers, it's that old bodies aren't built
for extreme heat. And last week, when the temperature hit ninety six with
ninety eight percent humidity, death rein four. To what I already knew.
It was mostly heart attacks inside and old folks at nursing homes deciding they couldn't
stomach one more nightmarish Midwest summer. And truthfully, I can't say I blame
them. I'm not sure how many more I'm willing to suffer through either.
It never fails. Once there's a major temperature shift in either direction, the
bodies just start rolling in. It's funny how even death can be predictable from
time to time, too, bad. There's no way to accurately predict the
weather. Two nights ago, Missus Hernandez, a seventy three year old pillar
of our community and distinguished former district attorney, shit on me three different times.
How's that for distinguished. The first time she should attacked me was at
her home, a beautiful red brick estate on Westlake Drive. Ned and I
were called around midnight after being alerted earlier in the afternoon that her death was
eminent. Eminent almost always means it's going to be late in the evening or
at the most inconvenient time, and it Missus hernande case it was. I
was in bed watching The Faculty starring Josh Hartnett, the movie about the high
school where the teachers turn into aliens from drinking the water or some goofy sci
fi shit. I would love to give you a proper review, but Missus
Hernandez decided to die about halfway through, so I was unable to finish it
before it was due back. I know, so in considerate. After arriving
at Missus Hernandez's sprawling ranch of state, Nan and I greeted and comforted the
family while setting up a time for them to come in to make in solidify
arrangements for their mother's funeral services. After that, the adult children decided they
wanted to stay in the room to watch us move their mother onto the cod
before wheeling her out of the house for the last time, which, if
I'm being honest, is a little weird for us funeral home folks, But
since we're in the business of helping families say goodbye to their loved ones,
we will generally bend over backwards at most any request, including letting them stay
and watch us work. Note families generally choose to stay in another room while
we make the removal, just in case something unfortunate or embarrassing happens while we
move the body of their loved one. Plus, I just think most people
don't want to see that an audience also puts a lot of pressure on us
to be perfect. I mean, I still get nervous for death calls,
so I don't like the feeling of being watched, more so judged while I'm
doing my job. I personally wouldn't want to watch my parents get bagged up
when they eventually die, but it's part of the gig sometimes, so I
have to live with it. Teach his own I guess, but seriously,
I put a considerable amount of thought into this, so allow me to talk
it through. Why do some people insist on being in the room. Is
it comforting to see your mother covered in a sheet and zipped up on a
gurney before we wheel her out in the caring fashion you've come to expect from
our funeral home over the last one hundred and fifty years. Maybe I mean,
Ned and I are kind of a Shack and Kobe caliber team at this
point, so wanting to sit in the room and watch work would be understandable.
Maybe the reason for staying in the room would be to hold us accountable
somehow, to make sure we're not abusing or fondling their loved one while performing
our professional obligation. I mean, I guess there are some real sickos out
there, but Ned and I aren't those type of sickos. Maybe they stay
in to ensure we don't steal anything like priceless keepsake or an easily concealable ninety
five pound oxygen tank. Regardless of the reasoning, it just leads to undo
awkwardness when something gross or weird happens, like when mom fully unloads her bowels
in bed when her body is moved in even the gentlest of ways, filling
the room with a smell that shouldn't be associated with the memories of your loved
ones last night at home, which is why we generally go in alone to
help shield people from the disgusting, undignified parts of death. Either way,
the Hernandez kids opted to stay in the room with us, so Ned and
I put our heads down and reverently got to work. Since the children are
present and this is a solemn and intimate circumstance, we took an old fashioned
approach to the call and decided not to wear gloves. This practice has mostly
fallen out of fashion unless we're making a removal, where putting on gloves will
dehumanize the body in front of the family. There's something about snapping on gloves
in front of a family that feels callous and reminds them that their loved one
is no longer the person they knew and our actually hazardous biological waste. Ned
and I didn't discuss the decision to go gloveless. I just took the cue
from him after he flipped open the cot cover and made his way to the
body without reaching for a pair of gloves. In typical fashion, Ned had
the head end of the body while I took the bottom half. When I
slid my left hand under missus Hernandez's button legs, I felt a warm,
slimy sensation cover my palm and tips of my fingers, which was followed by
a tremendous waft of hot post mortem shit that will undoubtedly fill the room momentarily.
The smell is comparable to regular shit, but far more pungent and putrid
in nature than a standard living bowel movement. As we're all trained to do,
I did my best not to WinCE or gag at the smell and disgusting
sensation on my hands, since the family was standing near bedside. When Missus
Hernandez's children saw my hand emerge from underneath her covered in the warm and surprisingly
green shit, the smell must have simultaneously hit their nostrils, because two of
the children quickly left the room. This was either out of pure disgust or
a feeling of embarrassment for their poor mother, I bet. When discussing it
later, they told each other their reason for stepping out was because it was
too painful to watch us move their mom, but deep down, unspoken to
each other, they all know it's because of the shit. Are you starting
to see why you wouldn't want to watch us make a removal? Even the
easy calls are gross. Thankfully, the son that decided to stay in the
room went to the adjoining master bathroom while we were zipping his mother up and
brought me a large, wet, soapy hand towel to clean off his mother's
mess from my hand, before telling me I could use the sink to wash
up. This guy didn't have a problem with the side or smell of poop,
so it's safe to assume from his reaction that this wasn't his first time
experiencing his mother's shit, or he's in a profession where he sees a lot
of it. Either way, kudos to that guy. I still can't stomach
it. While washing up, I realized that somehow I only managed to get
a little bit on my suit coat sleeve. Thankfully, my coat was Scotch
guarded at the factory, so the poop wiped right off. And that's why
I wear that black chap suit on calls so much. Now it's fucking indestructible.
On the way back to the funeral home with Missus Hernandez, I realized
I had gotten a small amount of her ship under my index and middle fingernails.
The sight and realization of what was stuck under my nail bed gave me
the willies, I thought to myself, so this is how I get worms,
before raising my fingers to my nose and smelling. The loud, gagging
sound that erupted out of my body startled Ned enough that he asked me if
he should pull over. I told him not to and everything was fine,
before scolding him in a joking manner, this is why we wear gloves,
Ned. The second and third time Missus Hernandez pooped on me took place in
the operating room while we were preparing her body for services. As we were
sliding her body from the cot to the operating table, the cuff of my
white expressman's dress shirt took unreparable damage and was tossed in the trash moments later.
By the time I noticed the poop, it had already soaked into the
tiny threads and stained the cuff with several greenish brown spots that could easily be
identified even after a good dry cleaning. Thankfully, I left a well worn
on Bruce McGhee T shirt at the office for yardwork the week before. Otherwise
I probably would have gone shirtless in order to help Ned finished the task in
hand in a timely manner. I don't think Ned would have been too into
that. The arrest of the preparation and embalming of missus Hernandez's body went swimmingly.
She had great circulation, and the color in her face and body was
restored to a state that actually made her look quite recognizable to the person I
had met in passing several times while she was living side note semi unrelated,
I thought Ned was for sure going to blow up her neck like a balloon
with as much as he was injecting and massaging that area during embalming, but
he didn't. During the cleanup, after we transferred her body to a dressing
table, I felt my foot slip while washing and sanitizing the operating table.
I looked down, and of course I was standing in missus Hernandez's feces.
One might say I had literally stepped in it. At that point, I
was frustrated, but laughed at the idea that this dead body had it out
for me. I cleaned off the bottom of my dress shoe with a paper
towel, but some of the poop had gotten into the stick the leather soul,
so while Ned was finishing cleaning up the prep room, I was standing
outside the garage door in our parking lot scraping the bottom of my shoe with
an old wire brush I found in a junk drawer. Despite my best efforts,
the poop soaked into the leather and was smashed pretty good into the stitching.
I really didn't want to track this shit into my car and taken home
with me, so I left the coal hans next to the dumpster, hoping
they would air out, and drove home barefoot. This wasn't the first time
I had to do this, and I'm sure it won't be the last.
Back in the yard, I have almost fallen asleep in my lawn chair as
a single rain drop lands on my forehead. I opened my eyes to see
that clouds have fully covered the sky above me. A car with loud exhaust
and undoubtedly huge engine accelerates and screams down the road, startling me, ruining
my sense of feeling alone and reminding me how much I hate people, and
more importantly, how much I hate those fucking cars. Nothing screams cool like
blowing out the ear drums of every one and a half mile radius. My
level of annoyance instantly spikes, similar to my desire of witnessing a plane crash
at some point in my life. Someday, I hope to hear a loud
crash an explosion down the road when one of those goofy ass hot rods peels
out in the middle of the night, agitating me and all my neighbors.
It hasn't happened yet, but someday it will, and it will be very
satisfying. That is, until I get called out to scrape the guy's meat
off the inside of his windshield. Another rain drop lands on my arm.
It's cold, but refreshing. I'm actually kind of relieved it started sprinkling,
and that that asshole race past my property because now I know I won't accidentally
sleep in my yard all night again. I say again, because it wouldn't
be the first time it happened. In fact, it wouldn't be the first
time it happened this month. I really have to be careful. Two weeks
ago, after a night of too many cocked. My alarm clock was the
seven am underground sprinkling system turning on. It was quite a shock being blasted
awake with cold iron filled well waters soaking my clothes and body from every angle,
not to mention the sobering surprise of realizing I had gotten so fucked up
the night before I hadn't made it inside my house ten feet away. It
felt very rock and roll when I told Net about it several hours later,
while we were parking cars for the Anderson Service. I figured he'd think I
was cool upon my recounting of the evening's events, but in typical Net fashion,
he was unimpressed and actually made me feel pretty terrible about myself. With
a left right combo of two expertly judgmental questions, He asked, you got
that drunk by yourself, followed by do you do that a lot? Naturally?
I got defensive and lied and said a girl was over. But I
could tell that Ned saw through my fib For as simple and boring as Net
as sometimes, he can occasionally be pretty perceptive, even if it's accidental.
Ned's passive judgment bothered me enough that I thought about it all day and decided
it was time to slow down on my drinking a bit. Hence all those
suckers I've been stuffing in my face lately. But I mean, now's a
bad time to slow down on the drinking because work's really been stressing me out.
Well, not the work itself, more the overwhelming nature of the schedule.
It's grueling. If I've said it before, I'll say it till I'm
blew in the face. This every other night and every other weekend shit is
for the birds. That schedule just isn't conducive for long lasting, healthy adult
relationships. I'm finding it difficult to have friends or date anyone when I have
to be attached to the funeral home like this. No one really understands the
schedule. They say they do, and in the beginning it's kind of quirky
and fun for them to be involved with someone in my line of work.
It's exotic and dare I say sexy to be with someone who deals so closely
with death. But eventually the things they found attractive up the job end up
being the things that annoy them the most. It doesn't feel very sexy or
cool to get stood up because mister Jadario decided to mow his lawn in the
hundred degree heat after being sendary for the last six months, and died while
pole starting as lawnmower. Just to ask Annie, we had a date at
a pizza place so a few weeks back, and that exact scenario left her
sitting alone for an hour before she just decided to go home. I apologized
profusely via voicemail, but she hasn't returned any of my calls. I can't
say I blame her either. Why should I expect someone I'm just getting to
know to put my work before their needs at once. I would cut baton
run too if part of the deal was getting blown off and left to wonder
when the hell I'd be walking in the door every other night and every other
weekend. Mary didn't want this lifestyle, why would any other sane person.
It's safe to say this job is ruined dating for me, or maybe it's
just my personality. Regardless, these little john's in my yard in the middle
of the nine help me forget all that. Today wasn't that bad. The
nine to five went pretty fast, and my nightshift has been a breeze so
far. I got called out alone around eight thirty to go pick up Missus
Dallahanty at Crestview Nursing Home and was home by nine thirty. Missus Dallahante had
an unremarkable death, which if you're dying, is kind of the way you
want to go out. It was a real nothing call, uneventful and predictable
in every way in and out. If you're going to make a solo removal
in the middle of the night, all by yourself, Crestview Assisted Living in
Nursing Home is the place you want to be. If we're comparing nursing homes
to hotels, this place is to Bellaggio and all the other homes in the
area are super eights. They have every amenity imaginable at this place. They've
got tennis courts, a full weight room, rec center, movie theater,
beauty salon, and not to mention, an incredible cafeteria. I only know
that the cafeteria is excellent because both of my grandparents on my mother's side died
at Crestview. It might be surprising to hear, but a good cafeteria can
do wonders for your psyche. When a loved one is dying at a nursing
home, you never think of it, but you end up having a lot
of meals and snacks while you're just sitting around and waiting for someone to die.
Noe. The coconut cream pies must have followed closely by their strawberry rhubarb.
Not saying you should go out of your way, but if you're in
the area, pop by, say hi to an old person and grab a
slice. Aside from the whole grandparent death Association thing, Cressfew is kind of
the ship. If it wasn't a fifty five plus community, I'd fill out
an application to live there in a heartbeat. Residential amenities aside. The reason
for gushing about Crestfuw so much is because it was designed perfectly for making removals
helpful, staff a designated car part, and they make it a point to
make sure I remain mostly unseen by all the other residents. That's not only
comforting for them, it makes me feel a whole lot less awkward while I'm
working. There is nothing in the world like walking past a nursing home cafeteria
in the middle of their lunchtime rush, pushing one of their dead friends out
of the building and reminding them that they too will one day be pushed out
in the same fashion, sooner rather than later. People react in two ways
in that situation. They either pretend not to notice or they stare. At
this point, I just look straight ahead while I'm pushing a loaded cot past
a group of oldies coming down spaghetti. Making eye contact with one of those
folks will ruin your day. But when it does happen, you just have
to nod with one of those It's a shame we lost irma looks on your
face while also not totally creeping them out with your next vibe. Cress View
has it figured out and will never purposefully subject funeral home employees to that.
With a private entrance and a staff equipped with earpiece walkie talkies, you're in
and out like a ghost, or more appropriately, the grim Reaper. This
is all just a long way of saying, Missus Dallahant, the removal couldn't
have been any easier, Like I said, in and out. To top
it off, she already had pre arrangements for direct cremations, so I just
boxed her up and put her in a cooler when I got back. A
majority of the calls we've had so far this summer have been direct cremations,
which has its pros and cons. Direct cremations are nice because ninety five percent
of the time there's no embalming involved after the removal because there won't be services
or visitation where the body is present. Direct cremation is just a slick way
of saying fastest possible body disposal. No bells, no whistles. We pick
up the deceased, place them in a cardboard box, get the death certificate
signed, and within two days you've got mom back home in an eight by
six black plastic box or something more ornate. But you better believe something more
ornate isn't included with the price of a direct cremation. You know us funeral
folks love our up sales. Direct cremations are also considerably easier on the staff.
There's just not as much work involved in a lot less room for fuck
ups. There are so many things you can screw up in a traditional service,
the makeup, the hair, the embalming, the flowers. The list
could go on, but with a direct cremation call, it's simple and transactional.
You pay us, we take care of your hazardous human waste. Over
the last several years, direct cremations have been on the rise, partially out
of ease and convenience, but mostly out of cost. Currently, our price
for direct cremation out the door is right around eight hundred dollars, a price
it's hard to beat, which is why we've seen such an influx and that
type of service lately. People just aren't spending the money they used to on
traditional funeral services. The clouds have almost fully covered the sky above me now,
and I feel a yawn start to creep over my body, telling me
it's time to go inside and go to bed. When my phone rings,
the caller ID says Ned. Of course, the moment I decide to call
it a night, Ned decides to blow up my spot. Maybe he's just
calling to say hi, or tell me he's thinking about me. Doubtful.
I flipped my phone open and say hello, Grant, it's Ned. We
got a police call. Fuck, it's three thirty five. Now I'm on
my way. It's raining, nothing spectacular, just a light dusting enough to
make the roads wet and reflective. There's virtually no one on the road this
time of night, so I was able to set my cruise control down Johnson
at forty seven miles per hour and hit every green light. While totally spacing
out, I popped in my last blue Tootsie Pop and listened to a nineties
playlist I had burned onto a CD last week, It's kind of a Slammer.
While I was driving in I heard Good by Better than Ezra, Molly
Ringwald by Sponge and Possum Kingdom by the Toady's. I ejected the CD and
placed it in my front left jacket pocket so I wouldn't be bored to death
listening to shitty East Coast talk radio for the next hour. Note I just
added to where the indestructible chap suit mentioned earlier when Ned told me it was
a police call. I thoroughly washed the sleeve after the Hernandez incident the other
night, so there is no visible or smellable evidence of the unfortunate mess.
By the time I pull up to the funeral home, Ned already has the
van loaded and pulled out into the parking lot. Even though the rain is
light and the van is parked, Ned still has the windshield wipers needlessly cranked
to full blast. I pull into the spot next to the van tooed my
horn quickly to get Ned's attention. And wave like Forrest Gump at him,
my sucker stick protruding out of my grinning mouth. He looked confused when he
saw me, as he does most every time he sees me, and holds
up his left wrist tapping an imaginary watch. WHOA no way back? Ned
must be in a hurry tonight. I locked my car and walk over to
the passenger side of the van. The sound of the windshield wipers scraping with
every quick pass is grating and almost louder than the sound the running engine.
I grabbed the door handle and pull only to realize it's still locked. Annoyed,
I knock loudly on the window as Ned smiles while reaching down to unlock
the door, knowing full well how much this bothers me. The dome light
turns on as I opened the door and see a tin of skull wintergreen long
cut chewing tobacco next to a full sized piece of notebook paper with two words
written on it, Hillsdale Church. Ned quickly grabs the tin and the paper,
clearing my seat. As I say we got called out to a church
on a police call? Ned says, no, there's an accident right in
front of it. I didn't have to write the address because the Sheriff's department
told the answering service it would be hard to mess. Intrigued, I fastened
my seat belt and pull out the CD from my front jacket pocket without asking.
I stick it in the CD slot on the dash while playfully staring in
Ned, knowing how much this annoys him. Ned hates it when I bring
music for the ride because it's usually something he would categorize less as music and
more as noise. He told me last week that my favorite band, Humphries
McGee, sounds like six people all playing different songs at once. This annoyed
me because it's mostly untrue. The low rumbling of the AM radio goes silent
for a moment before the opening drum fill of Harvey Danger's flag pole set us
sounds throughout the van. Ned, in typical old man fashion, immediately reaches
for the volume knob, turning it down to a barely audible level. I
bite down on my Tootsie pop, breaking the shell, and throw the stick
out the window. Ned pulls away. Ten minutes later, Ned and I
turn onto County Road seven and immediately are greeted by no less than five cop
cars and two fire trucks, all with their lights on. We pull up
to the makeshift blockade of police cars blanketing both lanes of traffic. An officer
gets out of his car and walks toward the van. Ned rolls down his
window and greets him with a Howdy officer. Howdy, I think to myself,
Ned's a dork. The officer nods at Ned and acknowledges me. I
pantomime tipping an imaginary cowboy hat on my head and say howdy officer in a
pseudo Southern accent. Ned shoots me a look of annoyance that I'm very familiar
with after being on call with him for the last several years. The tension
between us is mostly of the ball busting sword, but occasionally our odd couple
pairing wears us boat down. The officer interrupts our tense moment and starts to
fill us in. Just off the road up here, we've got a vehicle
that collided with a tree at an extremely high rate of speed before catching fire
and burning the body inside to an unrecognizable lump of flesh and bone in the
driver's seat. The car is registered too and Allen slay Ball, but there
was no wallet or id inside, or if there was, it was burnt
to a crisp. So currently we're dealing with a John Doe until we verify
an identity from the family. The officer continues by stating, we've got quite
a mess, and if we have shoe coverings or coveralls, we should put
those on, otherwise we're probably going to ruin the clothes we came in.
The officer tells Ned and I, I'll move his car and let us through
to get closer to the accident scene, before walking back to his vehicle and
reversing five or six feet waving us through. Ned inches past the makeshift blockade
and pulls around the first fire truck parked in the right lane, revealing our
accident scene, illuminated by several large halogen worklights set up on the gravel shoulder
of the road. It's a doozy about ten feet off the road. There's
two identical trees separated by as six or seven foot gap, and sitting in
that gap a car that's so badly burned and mangled its make and model is
unrecognizable at first glance. All the windows appear to be blown out, and
the back axle is perpendicular to the front. I think back to about forty
minutes ago when that loud ass car blew past my house, and for a
split irrational second, I think my wish may have come Maybe this is the
same guy. Did I manifest this? Do I have superpowers? The rational
part of my brain flipped on and assured me that the call came in too
quick after I heard the car zoom passed. Logistically speaking, it would have
been impossible for that person to make it to this side of town, crash,
die and burn up. The accident scene of this John Doe we're on
now must have happened well over an hour ago, maybe two, and the
police generally don't invite us out to crime scenes until the investigation is over,
so it couldn't be the same guy. At this point, the rain is
let up, so thankfully it doesn't seem like we'll be getting soaked on this
removal. Ned parks the van and we get out, removing the cot and
putting on our gloves and coveralls. I pull a disaster pouch out of the
back of the van and unfurl it, knowing it will be much easier to
bag this body near the car than it will be to drag the cot through
the grass and mud, given the precariousness of this car's final destination. As
we approach, the wind changes directions, and I'm a little disappointed at the
lack of burnt smell. Don't get me wrong, it definitely smelled like there
was a fire, but it didn't have the hallmarks I was expecting in a
burnt dead body call. I'm mostly missing the burnt hot dog smell I've grown
so accustomed to on these type of calls. I suppose it's still there,
but the smell of burnt plastic, metal and rubber are masking it. We
park the cod on the shoulder near an officer who's standing next to the car,
examining the scene with a high powered led flashlight. The gravel shoulder is
muddy from all the runoff water the firefighters used to extinguish the blaze. Our
white cover all footies are all but covered in mud, and we haven't even
stepped off the road yet. The officer shines a flashlight at us and says,
over here, guys. Ned and I approach, our feet sicking into
the saturated muddy grass. As we get closer to the car, Ned blurts
out of nowhere wall, pointing, look, Grant, there aren't any skid
marks. This guy had no idea he was done for, which I imagine
if you're going to get in a car accident that kills you, it would
probably be better to have no idea it's coming. Those last few seconds of
realizing you're about to die in a relatively empty area in a single vehicle accident
would be agonizing but also potentially embarrassing if your brain could process the information quick
enough. We stop when we get to the officers standing two or three feet
from the driver's side and he says, there is shining his light on the
driver's side door. Excuse me? What was left of the driver's side door.
It's semi accordioned and barely hanging onto its hinges. Slashing closer, I
start to see things in the driver's seat that vaguely resemble a body. I
say vaguely because the catastrophic nature of the accident and subsequent fire have made this
human considerably unrecognizable. But to be honest, I'm not that impressed or grossed
out with what I see because it's all the same color black or shades of
black. This fire must have been intense, but it makes sense given the
condition of the frame of the car. One of the front wheels is broken
off its axle, and the entire front end of the vehicle has been compacted
into a V shape and almost merged with the tree where the primary impact happened.
The car must have been gray or some shade of light blue before the
fire, judging by the small spots of paint that were somehow unharmed in the
blaze. I see a shiny emblem of the car's make that must have fallen
to the ground un impact, and pointed out to Ned it's our axe.
I literally almost bought one of these a few years ago, but settled for
something a little less flashy and honestly, after seeing its performance and this real
world crash test, I'm glad I opted out. The officer shines his light
on us, temporarily blinding me, and says, you guys need anything then?
And I both reply with a pleasant no, thank you, but I
pipe up and ask how fast do you think this guy was going? The
officer looks at the car and looks back at me before saying, I don't
know. Buck fifteen, buck twenty five? Holy shit? He was flying.
I respond. The officer shines his flashlight in my face and ask,
what's going on with you? Did you suck off a smurf? Confused,
I say, laughing what. The officer replies, your mouth and lips are
blue. Puzzled for a moment, I shake my head, trying to decode
what he's saying. When I remember the suckers, I respond, Oh,
yeah, I ate a bunch of tutsie pops before I got called out,
giggling at my lack of awareness for what the dark blue suckers due to a
mouth after long exposure. The officer looks me up and down before responding,
what are you in third grade? I giggle and say no, I'm an
alcoholic. Well aware that my response was no doubt confusing to the officer,
I start to unzip our disaster pouch and place it on the ground near the
driver's Doorfer holds his light over our heads to help better illuminate the body inside
the car. Shit. This guy isn't just burnt to a crisp. His
whole head and upper body are blown wide open, most likely from the impact
on the steering wheel. This guy didn't have a seatbelt on which killed him
instantly and presumably saved him from the suffering of being burned alive. I couldn't
imagine the blood curdling screams that would have projected out of his car into the
open field while his skin bubbled and split off his body. I mean good
on him for not living through the impact. Ned and I waste little time
getting to work. We both squeeze our bodies in front of the driver's door,
each grabbing a part of his burnt body. Ned grabs the legs as
time. I grabbed the meteor part of his arm and pull the top layer
of this John Doe's flesh, which had been fused with whatever clothing he had
been wearing, slips and pulls off his arm, revealing a fresher, less
burnt layer of muscular tissue, a tissue standing out, red, head and
vibrant amongst all the other black around it. I tighten and firm up my
grip, pulling harder, now ignoring the skin slippage. He doesn't move.
He's stuck. Ned had no issue getting his legs out of the car and
looks at me, confused when he sees that half the man's body is still
in the vehicle. Use your muscles, the officer says, snickering to himself.
I pull again, this time harder, with very little movement. As
a result, the man's burnt and broken head and upper body start to slump
out of the car to reveal what's left of his skull and face. His
scalp and hair, or what's left of his hair, is singed and matted
around his skull cap. Some bone and broken teeth are visible where his face
is split wide open. Yuck. I don't know where this guy's nose and
eyes are. I guess they could be burnt up, or they could be
embedded in his dashboard. His chest is completely caved in towards the center,
compressing his lungs and heart, which, if they're visible through the hole,
are hard to make out. Considering the severity of the fire, this must
have been a huge blaze. There's no blood or visible red inside the body.
Everything's a soot written, black, wet mess. I look at my
gloves before readjusting my grip. They're wet and covered in charred human mush.
It almost looks like I was pulling apart a brisket or a piece of meat
that had been smoking for days. I wipe my hands on my coveralls,
hoping it will secure a better grip on his body. For my next attempt,
I firmly placed both hands under his armpit and pull with no resolve.
Thinking quickly, not wanting to be embarrassed by my weakness, I place my
right foot on the car's frame and push. While pulling the man's armpit,
he gives way. The body falls to the ground, perfectly into the disaster
pouch. I moved my foot to step down and hear the shoe covering of
my coveralls rip before placing my foot down with a splash. Shit, I
say out loud under my breath. I just stepped in an indented part of
the grass that allowed a substantial amount of water to puddle, soaking my shoe
and sock completely. I don't want to think about what's in this water,
ned and I zip up and place the disaster pouch onto the cot, loaded
into the van, and proceed to take the body to the hospital for an
autopsy. Uncomfortable, I wiggled my wet toes inside my shoe all the way
to the hospital and all the way back to the funeral home. Friday morning,
seven forty six am, yawning uncontrollably after my marathon of a night,
I pull into the parking lot of a Walgreen drug store on the corner of
Maine and Jackson to replenish my sucker supply. Along with being exceptionally tired this
morning, I'm also moderately irritated after I realized I was going to have to
wear the shoes from the wet mess of a death call last night to work
this morning instead of my usual daily drivers my coal hans, you know,
the shoes that are still sitting by the dumps lightly caked with missus Hernandez's shit.
Since I got home around four thirty, there really wasn't enough time to
air out the shoes and let them dry completely, so I'm currently wearing a
damp sock inside a drying shoe, which bothers me. I'm sure my irritation
will subside the dryer my foot feels, but right now I just feel gross.
I need a sucker. I opened my car door and place my foot
on the ground, and I'm greeted by a familiar cold, wet feeling and
a splash. My shoe, foot and sock are completely soaked again. I
stepped in another puddle. Damn it. Twelve thirty five pm. I'm sitting
at the large roll top desk in the lobby of the funeral home on guard
duty while Ned and the other guys are at lunch. I have my shoes
and socks off, sitting under a small fan in the other room, hoping
they will miraculously finish air drying in the next fifteen minutes or so before my
dad's one o'clock appointment is here A three piece black suit and bare feet is
an interesting look. I feel like Paul McCartney. My dad would kill me
if he saw me sitting in the lobby like this, but he's upstairs doing
paperwork, so he'll never know. The doorbell rings. Shit, it's the
back door, which is about twenty or so feet away. I don't have
time to put on my shoes, so I just stand behind the desk.
I hear footsteps approaching, sounds like heels. A woman with dark hair and
a petite, athletic frame in her mid twenties wearing a slim cut gray pantsuit
walks into my field of vision. I greet her with a smile from behind
the desk, concealing my bare feet. She's cute. I think to myself,
Hi there, how can I help you? She replies, I'm here
for a job interview with Bill job interview. I didn't know we were hiring.
She doesn't really strike me as the funeral home type. She's too pretty
and well groomed to be a funeral director. Well that's compared to the female
funeral directors I know. Smiling at her, I say, hold on,
let me intercom them. I call my dad's office phone directly and tell him
his interview is here. Great, she's I like that. Do me a
favorite, Grant. I'm on a call right now. Why don't you show
her around the office. I'll be ready for her and ten. I say
to my dad, copy that and hang up the phone. I stepped from
behind the desk and say, he's on a call right now. I'm actually
his son, Grant. He asked me if i'd show you around. She
shakes my hand and starts laughing. Hi, I'm Jennifer. You guys are
pretty casual around here, aren't you what I say, confused before looking down
at my bare feet. Oh my god, that's a long story, but
yeah, we like to party here. Give me a second. I run
into the other room and put on my shoes, still damp, leaving my
socks to dry where I left them for the next fifteen minutes. I gave
Jennifer the nickel tour of our funeral home before walking her up to my dad's
office. Right before I walk her in, I asked her not to mention
the barefoot greeting to my father. She giggles and says, don't worry,
grant your secrets safe with me anyway. I like to party two. She
says this to me as she winks. Oh my god, is she flirting
with me? I think she's flirting with me. Semi lustered, I walk
her into my dad's office and say, Bill, this is Jennifer. Jennifer,
this is Bill. I lead the room and head back down to the
lobby, feeling the soggy remnants of the poddle inside my shoes squishing up through
my insul. I can't believe I stepped in two puddles in less than twelve
hours. I'm a mess, but am unbothered in this moment because all I
can think about is Jennifer's wink. She was flirting with me, right.
I hope my dad hires her in this moment. I had no idea that
in a matter of weeks I would truly learn what the phrase stepping in it
means after a long night of drinking with our newest employee, Jennifer. But
that's a story for another day. My name is Grant and these are my
Funeral Home Stories. Hopefully you enjoyed this episode and are intrigued enough to listen
apart two of this story, which will be available a little further down the
road. If you enjoyed this podcast, please rate and review it wherever you
listen to podcasts. It really helps more than you know. Also, please
tell a friend, co worker, podcaster, blogger, whoever about my Funeral
Home Stories. Word of mouth has been how this podcast has been able to
grow so much over the last several years. And I can't tell you how
much it means to me that you share this podcast with your friends. I
have every intention of finishing season four in the next several months, so please
follow me on Instagram for updates and a bunch of other random shit at Pomo
and kitch, or just look up Grant Inman. Also check out my other
podcast, How to Become a Terrible Person, which is the podcast I do
with my fiance and the Ai author a podcast where I let Ai write short
stories that I just get to read. Both of those podcasts are wildly different
than this one, but they're a pretty good time. As always, thank
you for your patience and thank you so much for listening. See you soon.