I even told my new girlfriend the truth about what I did. I’d lied to the last two girls I got with. But this one seemed so open and understanding. I met her online two months ago. My profile still says penny stock trader, which was actually four careers ago. I haven’t held down a job long enough to bother changing it. And this isn’t really a job you want to write on a dating profile. But I told her, and she was pretty nice about it. She knew that Heath Ledger had been embalmed here and even thought that undertaking was an admirable profession. Maybe next week I’ll tell her that I’m not really five-foot-nine.
I tried to skip out during the embalming process, but my boss caught me and asked me to assist. One of our top embalmers had cut his hours and it was a scheduling nightmare. My boss was always pushing me to go get my embalming license, saying he would even pay for it if I signed a long contract with him. But there’s no way I was ever going back to school. This really was a dead-end job.
I told the embalmer, a really strange guy named Gus, that I was in a big rush. I had to shower and pick up a gift for my girlfriend’s birthday tonight. He said he would help me dress and casket too. This was good, except it meant that I had to listen to his endless stories. By the time we were ready for my part it was after five. If I hurried, I would still have time to pick up something for my girlfriend but not to shower. I guess that’s what Drakkar Noir is for.
I made the mistake of commenting on the dead lady’s casket outfit as I pulled it out of the Bloomingdale’s bag. It was a new black designer dress with the tags still on. “What a waste of a new dress,” I said. This led to Gus rattling off death fashion trivia—an endless list of who wore what to the grave.
“Princess Diana was also buried in a black dress that she had recently purchased,” he said, sounding like a walking, talking Wikipedia page.
I nodded and tried to keep us moving.
“Whitney Houston was buried in so much jewelry that she still needs a bodyguard!” He waited for me to laugh. I didn’t.
Just as he started in on whether or not Michael Jackson was buried with his white sequined glove, my boss interrupted, holding a pair of black pumps and an emerald-green suit.
“The family dropped off her clothes…Great Scott, what are you two doing?”
“His name is Seth, sir,” Gus answered, like an idiot.
“Two morons,” my boss said, shaking his head.
I wasn’t being put in a category with Gus. I defended myself. “Someone already dropped her clothes off, right there in that Bloomingdale’s bag.”
“I told you, that bag was one of her personal effects at time of death. The whole city knows this woman died with a bag from Bloomie’s.” He held up the suit. “This is what the family is expecting.” He put it down and left, still shaking his head and mumbling curses under his breath. I, on the other hand, spent the next hour cursing out loud so everyone could hear except the dead lady in the wrong dress.
CHAPTER 34
’Tis the Season
By Ruthie, Third Floor, Ladies’ Dresses
The store was extra-bustling, even for the week before Christmas. Probably on account of the view of the giant sinkhole in the ground out the west-side windows. We hadn’t been this much of a tourist attraction since the 1970s, when some marketing genius made Bloomie’s ladies’ undies a must-have NYC souvenir. Today it was so crowded I didn’t see Arthur Winters walk quite purposefully through the dress department, but Tomás certainly did. He nearly crawled inside a rack of dresses. We hadn’t seen Arthur since Tomás pulled the switcheroo with the dress, and we had no idea how it had all turned out. Obviously Tomás feared the worst. I rushed over to help iron out anything that might need ironing out. Tomás reluctantly followed behind me.
“Hi, Arthur, how are you?” I greeted him, a little too upbeat.
“Very well, Ruthie, thank you. I’m not being disloyal, but I came to see this fellow—Tomás, right?” Tomás barely nodded his head while diverting his eyes to all available exits. Arthur added, “My fiancée sent me.”
His fiancée? I met Tomás’s eyes, and we both assumed the same thing—he was talking about Sherri. We silently commiserated with each other as Arthur continued.
“She said that you had the best fashion sense of anyone she’s ever seen and was hoping that Ruthie would let you slip away to the men’s department to help me pick out a suit for my wedding.”
But this had to be Felicia! I remembered that Tomás had spent hours styling her for their first date. I was so happy. Tomás was bursting with enthusiasm. He grabbed Arthur’s shoulders and practically shook him.
“You’re marrying Felicia? You’re marrying Felicia?” he shouted, losing all semblance of professional composure.
Arthur nodded and we both hugged him. He looked utterly confused, and Tomás explained. “The mix-up with the packages was kind of my fault, and, well, let’s just say I’ve been a bit worried about it ever since.”
“That mix-up with the packages was the best thing that’s happened to me in quite a long time.” Arthur smiled.
“It wasn’t really a mix-up! We’re your fairy godmothers!” Tomás exclaimed. “Tell us everything…please!”