Saturday, May 17, 2008
A distinct, unsettling scent: Politicking among the undertakers.
Feb 18, 2004 | Three months later, in the middle of the soggiest, most gelatinous of Julys, Rebecca found herself at the Illinois Mortuary Science and Business convention in Urbana, in east-central Illinois, on the campus of Parkland Community College, working the room. She was a good enough sport about campaigning, but it was these people she dreaded. Not because they touched and moved and dressed and applied eyeliner to the deceased, but because they wanted something from her and many of them didn't even know exactly what. They knew they were supposed to want something, and that they were in a position, ostensibly, to get it. But they didn't have the requisite information; for many this was their first time in the presence of a candidate for Senate, and they didn't know what to ask for and how much they'd have to pay for it.
It was a large convention, about 1,500 representatives from the surprisingly healthy number of mortuary organizations located in the state, including the Alliance of Illinois Cemeterians (based in Springfield), the Casket and Funeral Supply Association (Lake Bluff), the Central States Cemetery Association (Rock Island), the Chicagoland Independent Funeral Directors (Evergreen Park), the Illinois Cemetery & Funeral Home Association (Homewood), the Selected Independent Funeral Homes Association (Deerfield), the Cremation Association of North America (Chicago), and the Federated Funeral Directors of America (Springfield). Neither the Flying Funeral Directors of America (Murphysboro) nor the Camping Funeral Directors & Suppliers (Moline) were invited this year, and what they'd done last year was still the talk of most gatherings.
Rebecca, strolling through the Friday night kick-off gala, was periodically waylaid by a pair of conventioneers, with one typically attempting to impress the other with his ability to work some magic -- to do some operating -- on the candidate. But as a whole, they had no clue what they were talking about. Thus far one man had asked for his daughter's admission to Northwestern, he being under the impression that Rebecca had pull at a private college, or that the college was in fact public. Another, an owner of a chain of funeral homes, wanted the "contract" for the funerals of all state employees. He was a man in his mid-50s, dressed in a gray three-piece suit, grinning through a tan he'd applied, it seemed, in great haste, from a tube.
Rebecca asked him to repeat the request, and he did. He wanted the contract for the funerals of all state employees.
"But we can't..." Rebecca tried not to sputter. "We can't tell people where to have their funerals." She was almost amused, and hoped the man was kidding. He was probably kidding. Surely he was kidding. He had the face of... what did his face look like? Some crustacean.
"C'mon," he said, getting closer to Rebecca. "A little 'kid goes pro.'" Now he was holding Rebecca's elbow. He thought himself a very smooth man. A crayfish! Or better yet, a langoustine. That was it! He looked like a langoustine, with his long neck, his distended eyes, and large forearms tapering to small clawlike fingers.
"What?" Rebecca said. "Kid goes what?"
"You know," he said, getting even closer. "A little 'kid goes pro.'" She now noticed the many broken blood vessels on his bloated, whisky-ravaged nose. He was the color of pumice. "You know what I mean," he said.
She was baffled but was afraid that he was trying to say what she thought he was trying to say. And did he have a tail? He seemed to have a tail. He even smelled like a langoustine! Or could she be smelling her own hair? She'd washed it dozens of times since Qingdao...
"You mean quid pro quo," Rebecca said.
"Huh?"
"It's Latin."
"Sure it is. I'm Greek, you know."
Rebecca glanced down at his name tag: George Papadolopsolous.
"Listen," he said now, "you ever hear of prearrangement? People often arrange their funerals many years in advance. It's a good percentage of our work. And states set up 401Ks for their employees -- so why not funeral arrangements?"
Now, Rebecca feared, he was almost making sense. But he was still nuts, wasn't he?
"Have you talked to the union?" she asked, now hoping to get out on a technicality.
"No, I haven't talked to the union. I'm talking to you. I'm looking at you and talking to you."
Rebecca could almost see him patting himself on the back for that one. Patting his own back with one of his large cartilaginous claws.
"I'm afraid," Rebecca tried, "that I just have no say in this kind of thing."
Now his face pinched.
"But you can bully pulp it!" he barked.
"I can what?"
"You can bully pulp it!"
Could she smell something on him? It wasn't booze, it was something less optimistic. Could she actually smell the stench of death on this man? She was certain she could. What was that smell? She tried to place it: There was silk there. And the distant fragrance of flowers, lilies maybe. And then -- it had to be -- the whiff of decomposing flesh. The men in the room -- and they were almost entirely men -- might try to disguise the smell, with their clean suits and their cologne, but it came through their pores, it spiraled through their breath. And some of the young men! What brought them into this profession? They seemed so decent, not a bit dour -- almost all of them clean-cut, with faces so innocent and without guile--
"Rebecca," came a voice to her left, "I have to introduce you to Kevin Schlepsnik, who does the most fascinating thing with corpses."
She turned to find the wide and wonderful face of Giacomo Skinputty, his hand outstretched. She gave a quick apologetic smile to the crayfish-man and backed away, pulled by Jeff to safety. God love him, he had rescued her again.
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