Please don’t ask me what I ever did to deserve such a fate. While some aspects of salesmanship might be considered a sin, I’ve never considered the profession itself sinful. And the niche I’ve carved out for myself, while leaning toward the morose, is no less reputable than selling cars or insurance or cosmetics. In fact, I’ve always thought of what I’m doing as a service to the community, if not humankind. Apparently, the powers that be of the netherworld see things differently.
“Would you like to take your glass of water with you?” I ask my latest client as we’re finishing up. I’ve already given him my spiel, of course, that his investment in a prearranged funeral plan will spare his loved ones the burden of making such difficult decisions in their hour of anguish.
“No thank you, Ms. Green,” he says. His name is Clemson and he’s a dapper enough sort. Made a small fortune in the textile business, I believe. We never did discuss what led him down this dark path, but he is taking it with blithe stoicism. “I’ll just wait out in your reception area, if that’s okay.”
“That’ll be fine,” I tell him as I show him to the lobby. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.” Taking the half full glass of water with me to dispose of, I have to admire his sedate approach to all this. It fits with the happy, well-adjusted life he’s led.
But before I can dump his glass, Janice, the parlor’s receptionist, ushers in the next customer. That’s the way my office is in this little whistle-stop on the way to Perdition. This revolving door of patrons of the damned. Some days there’s a full lobby waiting to see me. Today just a steady stream.
“Before you go into your sales pitch,” the next customer says, “I’ll tell you up front I only want the basic package. No frills whatsoever. No gold-embossed coffin, no crushed velvet interior. In fact, no coffin at all. I wanna be cremated. And no flowers. Got it?”
Though slightly taken aback by his brusqueness, I motion him to have a seat in front of my desk, as though his request is perfectly typical. Clients come in all shapes and sizes, each with individual needs. While this fellow is as wretched as they come, I’m still a professional. A pudgy balding little man dressed in gray jogging attire, he probably doesn’t realize I noticed the bulge in the waistband of his sweat pants adding to his ample gut. Most likely he doesn’t care.
“That’s fine, Mr...?” I say. “I’m Catherine Green.”
“What’s in a name?” he grumbles with a dismissive wave.
Nodding, I ensconce myself behind my desk. Reaching for my picture portfolio of samples, I say, “The traditional casket is proving less and less popular nowadays. In fact, we have many nice urns to choose from. From these chased with gold or silver, to earthenware vessels with a more humble presentation. Now--”
“I won’t be needing an urn either,” he says. “Listen, I’m not trying to be difficult, but there’s no one who’ll be mourning good old George. Okay, that’s my name. George Orson. In case you need one to put down on the forms.”
With that I wonder if he realizes the literary near-reference to that famous year and a farm full of allegorical animals. Coincidence of course, and merely my overactive imagination. Poor old George here barely looks like he reads the morning paper. Or perhaps that’s all he reads, which would account for his fatalistic manner.
“I know you’re just doing your job, lady,” he continues, “but I have no living relatives. Both parents dead, no siblings. I never married, don’t have any children. None that I know of anyway.” He lets out a sick chuckle that’s as whimsical as a lapful of guts. “I don’t wanna go into how pointless this whole thing has been, but you sit on that side of the desk everyday, so I’m sure you understand all too well.”
Again I nod. Where I had been developing a small aversion to this little man, suddenly I feel a twinge of compassion. And not just because he’s taken the time to look at the world from my wary lights. I see it everyday. The misery, the suffering. The futility of three score and ten. Even the prosperous Mr. Clemson had that look of life’s emptiness in his eye before he swallowed his kismet and drank his water. My business is supposed to be compassion, but--
“I’m prepared to pay cash,” George Orson furthers. He reaches in the right pocket of his sweats and pulls out a thick wallet. We haven’t even discussed price, but he lays out a stack of one hundred dollar bills on my desk. “Is that enough?”
I pick them up, but before I can count them, he says, “It’ll have to be. Ms. Green, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Thanks for you time.” He then removes the bulge in the front of his sweats, a Saturday night special of a high enough caliber to do the job. Placing the barrel in his mouth, he pulls the trigger and paints the wall of my office behind him with his brains.
Usually, I’m better prepared and my hysteria is more controlled, but this time my screams continue unabated after the report of the gun blast abrades the room. This is my reward for a successful sale. This is my curse. Of course, no one from the parlor comes in to see if I’m all right. Then never do. Janice is most likely out there filing her nails, waiting to send in the next client. Usually two of the parlor’s minions soon arrive to carry the client off, but since poor George has opted for the economy plan, he’s quickly rendered to ashes before my eyes as an impossible wind kicks up and scatters his remains.
Eventually I calm myself and dry my eyes with a tissue. I don’t always scream, of course. Mr. Clemson is a perfect example. As I return to the lobby I see that he’s slumped in his chair, dying peacefully from the poison capsule he took with his water. A gentleman’s death. But then I see the next client Janice has for me. A middle-aged redhead dressed in a smart, maroon pantsuit. Under her jacket, the explosives she has strapped to her chest contour tautly against her sleek blouse. I can imagine the duct tape and wiring all too well. Usually it’s men who choose this method, but as of late women have found favor in it. She doesn’t smile as I show her into my office. Naturally, I won’t die in the blast. My faceless tormentors would never show me that much mercy. But this one will be more horrible than most. I open my portfolio to show her our fine selection of caskets, waiting until it’s time to scream again.
