informed of all developments. At this hour, these are the facts as we know them…
Jeffrey rushed across the loading area, which was an open space that had once been a garage. At the far end was set a large roll-up door. The space was used so that employees could have enough room in which to "casket" the prepared bodies for upcoming services. A "ship-out container," which was nothing more than a flat piece of wood covered by a cardboard box designed to protect coffins while shipping them via airline or train, sat with an occupied casket sealed inside.
He quickly walked past and entered the office proper. He snatched up the handset of the phone just before the answering machine clicked on. As he lifted the receiver to his ear, he leaned over and twisted the volume button on the top of the radio to quiet it.
There have been rampant reports of the de—
As the radio fell silent, he subconsciously noted that the clock on the radio read 1:37 A.M.
"Howard, Fine and Howard Funeral Home. This is Mr. Adamson speaking. May I be of assistance?"
"Jeff!" said the voice from the other end. "This is Marshall…"
"Heya Boss, what’s up?"
"I’m home, buried up to my ears in taxes since I got here. I managed to lock myself in my study with no distractions: no TV, no kids, no wife, no nothin’. Just me and Uncle Sam, all alone with his finger up my ass," and the tinny voice laughed in Jeffrey’s ear. "I just wanted to call and make sure you were doing all right. How are the cases coming?"
"Marshall, you’ve called me every night since I started here a year ago, no matter if there were cases or not. Are we sure there isn’t the word "micro" in front of your title of "manager," Buddy?"
Again the voice on the phone laughed. "Ok… you’re right. I’m mothering you."
"The cases are going great. Mr. Lodene and Mrs. Harvey are pretty much done and I only have Mr. Robinson to do," Jeffrey said, reaching over to switch the coffee on to start a fresh pot. "Now, providing we don’t get any new First Calls, you guys should be OK for the morning."
"Ok, that’s just great. I have some death certificates to get filed in the morning and…"
A loud metallic clatter interrupted the man’s next thought. The sound came from outside the office, somewhere deep inside the funeral home.
"What the hell was that?" asked Marshall.
"I have no idea," Jeff said, leaning back and looking toward the loading area. "I was working with the trocar, maybe it fell from the table. Let me call you back."
"No, don’t. I’m heading to bed in a while. Me and the wife are gonna have some quality time, if you know what I mean. You check it out and leave a shift report on my desk."
"Okay. You give my best to the Mrs."
"I will… right after I give her my best," again he laughed. "Oh, by the way, before we hang up, I need you to look on the Case Board and give me Rabbi Feldman’s telephone number. I need to give him some information first thing in the morning about the Jacob service."
Jeffrey strained, phone cord dragging, until he got to a point in the room where he could see the large, white board where all of the particulars of each case were posted. He scanned the board, found the rabbi’s number, and repeated it into the receiver. After a perfunctory good-bye, he hung up. Taking a quick look at the progress his pot of coffee was making, he made it a point to reach over and turn the radio back up. If there was one thing he hated, it was to feel like he was alone in the silent mortuary. It didn’t matter what the sound was—music, commercials, or even talk radio—but it was important for him to know he wasn’t by himself in this oftentimes creepy place. Given the tricks one’s mind could play on itself, a mortuary was not the place to let it run wild.
Satisfied that everything was ok and going according to plan in the office, he walked back across the loading area to investigate the source of whatever that banging had been. The medicinal smell of
Jeffrey rushed across the loading area, which was an open space that had once been a garage. At the far end was set a large roll-up door. The space was used so that employees could have enough room in which to "casket" the prepared bodies for upcoming services. A "ship-out container," which was nothing more than a flat piece of wood covered by a cardboard box designed to protect coffins while shipping them via airline or train, sat with an occupied casket sealed inside.
He quickly walked past and entered the office proper. He snatched up the handset of the phone just before the answering machine clicked on. As he lifted the receiver to his ear, he leaned over and twisted the volume button on the top of the radio to quiet it.
There have been rampant reports of the de—
As the radio fell silent, he subconsciously noted that the clock on the radio read 1:37 A.M.
"Howard, Fine and Howard Funeral Home. This is Mr. Adamson speaking. May I be of assistance?"
"Jeff!" said the voice from the other end. "This is Marshall…"
"Heya Boss, what’s up?"
"I’m home, buried up to my ears in taxes since I got here. I managed to lock myself in my study with no distractions: no TV, no kids, no wife, no nothin’. Just me and Uncle Sam, all alone with his finger up my ass," and the tinny voice laughed in Jeffrey’s ear. "I just wanted to call and make sure you were doing all right. How are the cases coming?"
"Marshall, you’ve called me every night since I started here a year ago, no matter if there were cases or not. Are we sure there isn’t the word "micro" in front of your title of "manager," Buddy?"
Again the voice on the phone laughed. "Ok… you’re right. I’m mothering you."
"The cases are going great. Mr. Lodene and Mrs. Harvey are pretty much done and I only have Mr. Robinson to do," Jeffrey said, reaching over to switch the coffee on to start a fresh pot. "Now, providing we don’t get any new First Calls, you guys should be OK for the morning."
"Ok, that’s just great. I have some death certificates to get filed in the morning and…"
A loud metallic clatter interrupted the man’s next thought. The sound came from outside the office, somewhere deep inside the funeral home.
"What the hell was that?" asked Marshall.
"I have no idea," Jeff said, leaning back and looking toward the loading area. "I was working with the trocar, maybe it fell from the table. Let me call you back."
"No, don’t. I’m heading to bed in a while. Me and the wife are gonna have some quality time, if you know what I mean. You check it out and leave a shift report on my desk."
"Okay. You give my best to the Mrs."
"I will… right after I give her my best," again he laughed. "Oh, by the way, before we hang up, I need you to look on the Case Board and give me Rabbi Feldman’s telephone number. I need to give him some information first thing in the morning about the Jacob service."
Jeffrey strained, phone cord dragging, until he got to a point in the room where he could see the large, white board where all of the particulars of each case were posted. He scanned the board, found the rabbi’s number, and repeated it into the receiver. After a perfunctory good-bye, he hung up. Taking a quick look at the progress his pot of coffee was making, he made it a point to reach over and turn the radio back up. If there was one thing he hated, it was to feel like he was alone in the silent mortuary. It didn’t matter what the sound was—music, commercials, or even talk radio—but it was important for him to know he wasn’t by himself in this oftentimes creepy place. Given the tricks one’s mind could play on itself, a mortuary was not the place to let it run wild.
Satisfied that everything was ok and going according to plan in the office, he walked back across the loading area to investigate the source of whatever that banging had been. The medicinal smell of
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