He picked me up the following Saturday in his frosted mocha Dodge minivan.

"Fifty-five cubic feet of storage," he said with a wink. A small placard sat in the window, facing out. It read: Funeral Director Attending Funeral -- Do Not Ticket. I appreciated the implied threat. Give me a ticket, officer, and I'll come looking for you.

As I sat, the power locks on the doors shut. I checked to make sure the knobs were still there, that the door could still be unlocked manually. One does not want to encounter customized car doors on a blind first date with an undertaker.

"The name Pogo mean anything to you?" I asked.

"Huh? Who?" He had a very nice smile.

Pogo the Killer Clown, aka John Wayne Gacy. Serial killers often admired each other's work. Though seldom did they wear Hawaiian shirts. "Never mind. Nice shirt," I commented.

He looked pleased. "Thanks. It'll look great on the boat."

"Boat?" I asked, as he pulled away from the curb.

"Uh huh," he mumbled as he made a right on Ninth Street. "I got a little mail-order business on the side. Small-space ads in the National Enquirer, that kind of thing. Last Christmas I sold 20,000 units of 'Trixie the Christmas Pixie.' She had illuminating wings and a glow wand."

I noticed he wore boat shoes and no socks.

"Yup. One more hit like Trixie and I'll be behind the wheel of a 30-foot Sea Ray with twin MerCruiser diesel inboards."

I fingered the red, green and white tassel that hung from his dashboard. He didn't need to see my face; the disdain emanated from my fingers. "I'm an Italian from da Bronx," he said in a Guido voice. "Gimme a friggin' break."

"No, I like it. I like that your people have such pride."

He stopped at the light and shot me a dirty look and a Hmpf. "Here, I brought you a present." He pulled a plastic bag out from under his seat and dropped it on my lap. He smiled like a cat with fresh chipmunk blood on his whiskers.

I reached into the bag and pulled out an ice pick from K-Mart. The price was still stuck on it: $2.99.

"Wow," I said. "This is cool."

"There's something else," he said.

I peered into the bag but it was empty.

"Oh, I forgot." He reached under his seat again and brought out two brochures. They were for Batesville Caskets -- "Committed to the Dignity of Life."

I flipped through the stiff, glossy pages. There were bronze caskets, wood caskets, caskets with glass tops like coffee tables. The former seemed ideal for the visiting dignitary who finds himself accidentally and fatally sideswiped by a cab.

He made a left on Second Avenue and headed uptown. "Hypothetically," he began, "which would you choose?"

I examined the models more closely. "The post-cornered Hanover in cherry."

This surprised him. "Really? I would have pegged you as a stainless steel sort of guy." He spoke this out of the corner of his mouth, leading-man style.

I was charmed.

Recent Stories