Ha-ha-ha, all around. Eventually that became “Are you
still
seeing that undertaker?” As if I were still laughing uncontrollably at a joke to which the punch line had been delivered twenty minutes ago. “But isn’t it . . . depressing?” I told them about the T-shirt with the garish hula girl emblazoned across the front. I told them about his smile, one of his best features. They nodded suspiciously.
One night, I went to his office to fool around. We’d never done it there before. His “office” was a large brownstone. He was wearing red boxer shorts when he answered the door. “Got the whole place to myself, all five floors.”
I hesitated briefly before stepping inside. “Are you . . . alone?”
He gave me a puzzled look, like
What do you think, dickwad
?
“No. I mean
alone
, alone.”
He pulled me inside and closed the door behind me. “Oh, that. No, we got a full house tonight.”
I cringed slightly and took a peppermint from the bowl near the door. The idea that we were not alone was one thing. The idea that we were not alone yet were the only ones alive was quite another.
We went at it on a sofa in a viewing room on the third floor.Afterward he said, “I think this is the room where we held one of the Kennedys’ funerals. I forget which one.”
Rose Kennedy instantly appeared above my head shrieking and brandishing her rosary, attorneys on either side of her.
“Wanna go downstairs to the refrigerator?” he asked.
Normally, two boyfriends might “go downstairs to the refrigerator” and grab a beer after sex. This refrigerator was not that kind of refrigerator.
“Ready?” he asked as we stood in front of the large steel door.
I nodded.
He opened the door and turned on the light. Four bodies lay on steel gurneys, covered by sheets. I stepped inside the room.
He walked to one of the gurneys and lifted the sheet to peer at the face. “This fella was in the prime of his life. Thirty-two. Drug overdose,” he said. There was pity in his voice but not real sadness. It was almost like he was looking at a beautiful sports car that had been totaled on the interstate. And I thought,
Maybe that’s just how all these dead bodies become after a while, like so many wrecked cars
.
I, however, had not had the numbing luxury of seeing a career’s worth of dead bodies, and I felt queasy at the thought of starting now. “I don’t want to see him,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. Instantly, the novelty of dating an undertaker vanished in the frigid air.
“You should,” he said. The undertaker does not drink or do drugs, and I have a long history of doing both. The undertaker does not want me to become one of his clients.
I approached the body.
“It’s okay,” he said as he pulled down the sheet.
He was a very handsome, athletic man. He looked to be sleeping. I followed the contours of his face with my eyes. It felt wrong for me to see him like that. It felt like theft.
“Maybe he thought he’d do just a line or two,” the undertaker said. “Or maybe he did so much that it seemed normal. But see how his muscles are? This guy worked out. He was probably at the gym the day before yesterday.”
All I could say was “That’s amazing,” because it was. It was somehow almost holy, seeing the man like that, naked and gone.
“That’s just life. Only this one ended too soon.”
“Great,” I said. “A profound undertaker.”
“Who gives great head,” he added.
“This is so twisted.”
“Welcome to the world. Ain’t it a pisser?” We left the room. And we kissed for a long, hungry time.
A ND N OW A W ORD FROM O UR S PONSOR
A
fter work today I went to Daphnia, my usual barber at the Astor Place barbershop. Astor Place is the geographical region in New York City where the West Village intersects with the East Village. Somehow in the late eighties, Astor Place became trapped in time. As a result these few blocks are filled with people who
still
seeing that undertaker?” As if I were still laughing uncontrollably at a joke to which the punch line had been delivered twenty minutes ago. “But isn’t it . . . depressing?” I told them about the T-shirt with the garish hula girl emblazoned across the front. I told them about his smile, one of his best features. They nodded suspiciously.
One night, I went to his office to fool around. We’d never done it there before. His “office” was a large brownstone. He was wearing red boxer shorts when he answered the door. “Got the whole place to myself, all five floors.”
I hesitated briefly before stepping inside. “Are you . . . alone?”
He gave me a puzzled look, like
What do you think, dickwad
?
“No. I mean
alone
, alone.”
He pulled me inside and closed the door behind me. “Oh, that. No, we got a full house tonight.”
I cringed slightly and took a peppermint from the bowl near the door. The idea that we were not alone was one thing. The idea that we were not alone yet were the only ones alive was quite another.
We went at it on a sofa in a viewing room on the third floor.Afterward he said, “I think this is the room where we held one of the Kennedys’ funerals. I forget which one.”
Rose Kennedy instantly appeared above my head shrieking and brandishing her rosary, attorneys on either side of her.
“Wanna go downstairs to the refrigerator?” he asked.
Normally, two boyfriends might “go downstairs to the refrigerator” and grab a beer after sex. This refrigerator was not that kind of refrigerator.
“Ready?” he asked as we stood in front of the large steel door.
I nodded.
He opened the door and turned on the light. Four bodies lay on steel gurneys, covered by sheets. I stepped inside the room.
He walked to one of the gurneys and lifted the sheet to peer at the face. “This fella was in the prime of his life. Thirty-two. Drug overdose,” he said. There was pity in his voice but not real sadness. It was almost like he was looking at a beautiful sports car that had been totaled on the interstate. And I thought,
Maybe that’s just how all these dead bodies become after a while, like so many wrecked cars
.
I, however, had not had the numbing luxury of seeing a career’s worth of dead bodies, and I felt queasy at the thought of starting now. “I don’t want to see him,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. Instantly, the novelty of dating an undertaker vanished in the frigid air.
“You should,” he said. The undertaker does not drink or do drugs, and I have a long history of doing both. The undertaker does not want me to become one of his clients.
I approached the body.
“It’s okay,” he said as he pulled down the sheet.
He was a very handsome, athletic man. He looked to be sleeping. I followed the contours of his face with my eyes. It felt wrong for me to see him like that. It felt like theft.
“Maybe he thought he’d do just a line or two,” the undertaker said. “Or maybe he did so much that it seemed normal. But see how his muscles are? This guy worked out. He was probably at the gym the day before yesterday.”
All I could say was “That’s amazing,” because it was. It was somehow almost holy, seeing the man like that, naked and gone.
“That’s just life. Only this one ended too soon.”
“Great,” I said. “A profound undertaker.”
“Who gives great head,” he added.
“This is so twisted.”
“Welcome to the world. Ain’t it a pisser?” We left the room. And we kissed for a long, hungry time.
A ND N OW A W ORD FROM O UR S PONSOR
A
fter work today I went to Daphnia, my usual barber at the Astor Place barbershop. Astor Place is the geographical region in New York City where the West Village intersects with the East Village. Somehow in the late eighties, Astor Place became trapped in time. As a result these few blocks are filled with people who
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