 | | | | | | | | |
| Laugh yourself to death |
EXCERPT
A Tricky Undertaking
CHAPTER ONE
For the record, I didn’t mean to grab his penis.
One minute I was standing there, apron coated in cheap cosmetics, fingers deftly fixing a baseball stitch above
the clavicle while James Blunt crooned through the stereo system that I was — contrary to popular opinion — beautiful.
The next minute I’d high-stepped into a puddle of brown slime lurking in the cabbage rose pattern of the 1972 vinyl flooring. Before James could bellow any further words of tender admiration, my feet were scrambling beneath me like Scooby Doo’s paws in a cartoon blur. My right leg went forward, my left leg went backward, and my crotch began a hopeless plummet toward the sticky vinyl rose. I let out a pitiful yelp and grabbed for the closest handle. Such as it was.
“Willie!” a voice shrieked from the doorway.
To someone unacquainted with me, it might seem my apprentice was commenting on my chosen handhold. Actually, she was shouting my name. Born Wilma Clarice Rising, I’ve been known as “Willie” since childhood — for reasons devoid of any connection to the object in my grasp.
“Ohmygod!” I panted in reply as I felt the inseam split on my brand new Banana Republic khakis — $9.99 at the Value Village thrift store, thank you very much — as my unmentionables touched down on the floor.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to pull my left leg forward, narrowly avoiding an impromptu performance of a scene from Olympic Sports Bloopers.
Unfortunately for the owner of the penis in question, I did not have the foresight to let go. Down came Gerald Bortsman, all 200 pounds of him, squashing me against the vinyl like a weevil beneath a sack of moist flour. I heard the sticky smack of footsteps as my apprentice hustled to my side in her flowy black skirt.
“Willie, what are you doing?” Paulette cried, crouching down next me in a pose that revealed the answer to an unasked question concerning her preference in undergarments (green thong, in case you’re wondering).
“Would you please get this body off me?” I grunted, straining to shove Mr. Bortsman’s bulk off my shoulders. His right hand slid over my face, tickling my nose with fingertips that felt like shriveled sausages. I released my hold on his penis to swat the clammy hand aside.
Paulette’s skin went pale behind the smear of pink arterial conditioner across her left cheek. Her dark hair was pulled so snugly in a prim chignon that I could see every bone in her face.
“Willie! One of the first things you taught me is that we never refer to the deceased as, ‘the body,’” Paulette whispered in a tone a parent might use with a child caught screaming fuck in the library. “It’s disrespectful.”
I took a deep breath and tried to remember why I’d allowed Paulette to do her apprenticeship under me. I knew the reason had something to do with a lack of opportunity for women in the field, but the details were hazy to me at the moment.
“Right now, I’m pretty sure Mr. Bortsman isn’t offended by my lack of respect,” I growled, wriggling myself free from an arm that reeked of formaldehyde. “Now help me get him back on the table.”
For once, Paulette was at a loss for words as we struggled to heft Mr. Bortsman’s considerable bulk back onto the stainless steel slab. We accomplished the task with minimal cursing, and I was feeling downright proud of myself as I rearranged an eye cap that had come loose. It wouldn’t do to have Mr. Bortsman winking at his widow from the blue satin nest of his casket.
“What did you want, Paulette?” I asked when we finally had Mr. Bortsman settled.
Paulette looked at me blankly for a moment. She drew her hand up to her mouth in the same gesture she’d used once when she belched during an embalming. Wordless, Paulette looked over her shoulder at the door.
That’s when I saw the reporter standing there. Make that the hot reporter. Make that the hot reporter who was scrolling through photos on his digital camera, looking quite pleased with the selections glowing on the viewfinder before him. His smile couldn’t have been broader if his CompactFlash card held celebrity porn. I stifled another curse and peeled off my gloves.
“Brad Johnson, I presume?” I said, adopting a haughty tone as I straightened to my full height of 5’3” and strode confidently toward him. Remembering the split in my inseam, I took the striding down a notch and offered my hand.
Brad eyed my outstretched palm with a look of mild alarm. If we’d been on the playground, I imagine he would have accused me of having cooties. He probably wouldn’t have been too far off. Dropping my hand, I made do with dusting cosmetic powder off my sleeve.
“What brings you here, Mr. Johnson?” I asked, still not ready to abandon all hope of having the upper hand in this exchange. “I thought we weren’t scheduled to meet until 2:00.”
A lazy shock of blond hair fell over his right eye, and I watched him shove it back with his free hand as he swallowed hard and fished for his voice. “Right, but you said I could come by earlier and scope things out for
photos. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I said you could do that if you called first.”
“I did call,” he insisted, tilting his wrist just far enough so I could see the photo in the viewfinder. My eyes settled on a glowing image of me floundering beneath a naked man whose backside was coated in so much white hair it looked like two piles of fishing net. Fantastic.
“I don’t remember any phone call,” I said, biting back the urge to snatch the camera from his grasp.
“I spoke to someone who answered the phone. A Jody something?”
I sighed and tried to refrain from gritting my teeth. “Joni. Joni Pierce. That would be our receptionist.” And that would explain the lost message, I amended silently. This day was getting better by the moment.
Undaunted, I tried another tack.
“May I see the photos?” I asked sweetly.
Brad eyed me with the same look my neighbor’s dog gives her when she tries to slip a thyroid pill in a spoonful
of peanut butter, but he held the camera toward me. Keeping a protective grip on the device, Brad flicked the button to scroll through the images.
“You know, you already gave permission for me to shoot here, and health privacy laws don’t apply to funeral homes in the same way they apply to, um, living patients,” he answered, nudging the button to scroll through a
selection of photos even worse than the first as his fingers gripped the camera like a vice. “The readers of
Feminine Edge magazine enjoy real-life glimpses into other women’s jobs. These images are a candid look at a
side of the business most people never have the opportunity to see.”
“That they are,” I said, drawing my hand up as if to steady the camera. Sliding my thumb around the side, I felt for the little lever beside the battery hatch. With a quick flick of my thumbnail, I popped the media card out of the slot, snatched it from the camera, and stuck it down the front of my blouse.
Classy, Willie, real classy. But hey, I had the card. Brad stared at me with a look of disbelief.
“You can’t do that!”
“Oh yes I can. And unless you want to learn firsthand how a hydro-aspirator works, I suggest you move along, Mr. Johnson.”
“But my article —"
“I’m still happy to help you with an article on women in mortuary science,” I said, my voice steadier by the
minute. “But these photos will appear in print over my dead body.”
Brad paled a bit at that, and I saw him cast a wary glance at Mr. Bortsman. I folded my arms over my chest. It wasn’t so much an effort to look tough. I was trying to keep the media card from sliding down the front of my pants.
“Are we done here for now?” I asked him.
Brad looked away from the embalming table and gave me lazy smile, augmented by a shrug. He met my eyes again with a look halfway between annoyance and amusement. “For now.”
Want to read more? Stay tuned to this date for details about upcoming releases.
To read an excerpt from the next book in the series, click here
A Tricky Undertaking
CHAPTER ONE
For the record, I didn’t mean to grab his penis.
One minute I was standing there, apron coated in cheap cosmetics, fingers deftly fixing a baseball stitch above
the clavicle while James Blunt crooned through the stereo system that I was — contrary to popular opinion — beautiful.
The next minute I’d high-stepped into a puddle of brown slime lurking in the cabbage rose pattern of the 1972 vinyl flooring. Before James could bellow any further words of tender admiration, my feet were scrambling beneath me like Scooby Doo’s paws in a cartoon blur. My right leg went forward, my left leg went backward, and my crotch began a hopeless plummet toward the sticky vinyl rose. I let out a pitiful yelp and grabbed for the closest handle. Such as it was.
“Willie!” a voice shrieked from the doorway.
To someone unacquainted with me, it might seem my apprentice was commenting on my chosen handhold. Actually, she was shouting my name. Born Wilma Clarice Rising, I’ve been known as “Willie” since childhood — for reasons devoid of any connection to the object in my grasp.
“Ohmygod!” I panted in reply as I felt the inseam split on my brand new Banana Republic khakis — $9.99 at the Value Village thrift store, thank you very much — as my unmentionables touched down on the floor.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to pull my left leg forward, narrowly avoiding an impromptu performance of a scene from Olympic Sports Bloopers.
Unfortunately for the owner of the penis in question, I did not have the foresight to let go. Down came Gerald Bortsman, all 200 pounds of him, squashing me against the vinyl like a weevil beneath a sack of moist flour. I heard the sticky smack of footsteps as my apprentice hustled to my side in her flowy black skirt.
“Willie, what are you doing?” Paulette cried, crouching down next me in a pose that revealed the answer to an unasked question concerning her preference in undergarments (green thong, in case you’re wondering).
“Would you please get this body off me?” I grunted, straining to shove Mr. Bortsman’s bulk off my shoulders. His right hand slid over my face, tickling my nose with fingertips that felt like shriveled sausages. I released my hold on his penis to swat the clammy hand aside.
Paulette’s skin went pale behind the smear of pink arterial conditioner across her left cheek. Her dark hair was pulled so snugly in a prim chignon that I could see every bone in her face.
“Willie! One of the first things you taught me is that we never refer to the deceased as, ‘the body,’” Paulette whispered in a tone a parent might use with a child caught screaming fuck in the library. “It’s disrespectful.”
I took a deep breath and tried to remember why I’d allowed Paulette to do her apprenticeship under me. I knew the reason had something to do with a lack of opportunity for women in the field, but the details were hazy to me at the moment.
“Right now, I’m pretty sure Mr. Bortsman isn’t offended by my lack of respect,” I growled, wriggling myself free from an arm that reeked of formaldehyde. “Now help me get him back on the table.”
For once, Paulette was at a loss for words as we struggled to heft Mr. Bortsman’s considerable bulk back onto the stainless steel slab. We accomplished the task with minimal cursing, and I was feeling downright proud of myself as I rearranged an eye cap that had come loose. It wouldn’t do to have Mr. Bortsman winking at his widow from the blue satin nest of his casket.
“What did you want, Paulette?” I asked when we finally had Mr. Bortsman settled.
Paulette looked at me blankly for a moment. She drew her hand up to her mouth in the same gesture she’d used once when she belched during an embalming. Wordless, Paulette looked over her shoulder at the door.
That’s when I saw the reporter standing there. Make that the hot reporter. Make that the hot reporter who was scrolling through photos on his digital camera, looking quite pleased with the selections glowing on the viewfinder before him. His smile couldn’t have been broader if his CompactFlash card held celebrity porn. I stifled another curse and peeled off my gloves.
“Brad Johnson, I presume?” I said, adopting a haughty tone as I straightened to my full height of 5’3” and strode confidently toward him. Remembering the split in my inseam, I took the striding down a notch and offered my hand.
Brad eyed my outstretched palm with a look of mild alarm. If we’d been on the playground, I imagine he would have accused me of having cooties. He probably wouldn’t have been too far off. Dropping my hand, I made do with dusting cosmetic powder off my sleeve.
“What brings you here, Mr. Johnson?” I asked, still not ready to abandon all hope of having the upper hand in this exchange. “I thought we weren’t scheduled to meet until 2:00.”
A lazy shock of blond hair fell over his right eye, and I watched him shove it back with his free hand as he swallowed hard and fished for his voice. “Right, but you said I could come by earlier and scope things out for
photos. That’s what I’m doing.”
“I said you could do that if you called first.”
“I did call,” he insisted, tilting his wrist just far enough so I could see the photo in the viewfinder. My eyes settled on a glowing image of me floundering beneath a naked man whose backside was coated in so much white hair it looked like two piles of fishing net. Fantastic.
“I don’t remember any phone call,” I said, biting back the urge to snatch the camera from his grasp.
“I spoke to someone who answered the phone. A Jody something?”
I sighed and tried to refrain from gritting my teeth. “Joni. Joni Pierce. That would be our receptionist.” And that would explain the lost message, I amended silently. This day was getting better by the moment.
Undaunted, I tried another tack.
“May I see the photos?” I asked sweetly.
Brad eyed me with the same look my neighbor’s dog gives her when she tries to slip a thyroid pill in a spoonful
of peanut butter, but he held the camera toward me. Keeping a protective grip on the device, Brad flicked the button to scroll through the images.
“You know, you already gave permission for me to shoot here, and health privacy laws don’t apply to funeral homes in the same way they apply to, um, living patients,” he answered, nudging the button to scroll through a
selection of photos even worse than the first as his fingers gripped the camera like a vice. “The readers of
Feminine Edge magazine enjoy real-life glimpses into other women’s jobs. These images are a candid look at a
side of the business most people never have the opportunity to see.”
“That they are,” I said, drawing my hand up as if to steady the camera. Sliding my thumb around the side, I felt for the little lever beside the battery hatch. With a quick flick of my thumbnail, I popped the media card out of the slot, snatched it from the camera, and stuck it down the front of my blouse.
Classy, Willie, real classy. But hey, I had the card. Brad stared at me with a look of disbelief.
“You can’t do that!”
“Oh yes I can. And unless you want to learn firsthand how a hydro-aspirator works, I suggest you move along, Mr. Johnson.”
“But my article —"
“I’m still happy to help you with an article on women in mortuary science,” I said, my voice steadier by the
minute. “But these photos will appear in print over my dead body.”
Brad paled a bit at that, and I saw him cast a wary glance at Mr. Bortsman. I folded my arms over my chest. It wasn’t so much an effort to look tough. I was trying to keep the media card from sliding down the front of my pants.
“Are we done here for now?” I asked him.
Brad looked away from the embalming table and gave me lazy smile, augmented by a shrug. He met my eyes again with a look halfway between annoyance and amusement. “For now.”
Want to read more? Stay tuned to this date for details about upcoming releases.
To read an excerpt from the next book in the series, click here
Home About Me Writing Contact Favorites