Coffin-shopping.

Identities, past and present.

I did not want to shock people. I wanted to disturb them. There's a difference.
Ever since I was a child I had enjoyed making people feel uncomfortable. From eating nettles for money to screaming rape jokes on the bus, I had never failed to feel satisfied at the horror and anger of old and young alike as they grunted and tutted at my obscene antics. At school I was awarded with mass laughter due to my immanent need to be alienated.
But the more I was hated, the better I felt. One summer I had tourettes and endlessly spouted out terms to passing strangers like 's**t fuckers' and 'nose molesters.' And the stunned reactions of these strangers as they peeked their darting eyes at me in an effort to assimilate understanding, sustained my weird hunger for awhile but soon I needed something harder, something authentic and disgusting. And that's when I saw it.
 
1
 
Now I was, as always, extremely stoned but despite this I knew I had an epiphanic notion. So I crossed the road in the last bask of the evening sun, checked the time, realized I had at least fifteen minutes before my tablets would be ready so I strolled between two nudging vehicles and arrived in the surprisingly bright display window. For a few moments I pondered, in fairly astute detail, the approach I would take for the encounter and when I was reasonably confident I had figured the most likely enquirys I transformed my expression into a sullen, dismal, darkened mask and shuffled slowly, miserably inside.
   The charming stench of pine and mahogany. A little beech, stacked oak out the back and the tiny whispers of widows somewhere unseen discussing fun times and numbers.
On either side of the long 'shop' floor were coffin after coffin, some opened with their jewelled lids beside them like unwanted bikinis. And some were upright with signs on sticks informing of prices and origin. Some of the coffins were actually gorgeous. One or two had more ameneties than the bedsit I was living in.
   My stoned daze made me accidentally roam the huge room blandly and without aim. A lot of the coffins were shiny, explicitly garnished with outrageous colours and my focus could not break away from the often dazzling pieces laid out on either side of the wide aisle. But when I heard a man's whiny croak of assistance behind me I suddenly remembered my reason for being there and smiled with my back to him. But by the time I turned around I was glum faced, empty - looking, lost and, because I was stoned, red eyed which had the same effect on my face as prolonged crying. By the reaction on the clerk's round and neutral face I knew immediately that he had bought it. With slow, embittered words I spoke, so slowly,
"My wife, she........she......"
The clerk, who was, because of the very nature of his job well acquainted  with the art of condolences, just stood there mousefaced and grave. With a grimace I muttered,
"Parachute."
I glared bleakly around. After a moment he said, "Accidents can happen to anyone, I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Oh no," I huffed glumly, "She died due to complications during surgery on two of her toes."
I left it at that. I didn't bother to elaborate because as I said, I was fairly stoned and didn't want to trip myself up later on, so I went ahead with my search for amusement by asking which of the coffins were in fashion.
"Fashion," he coughed, "if you mean our most popular then that'd be our teak finish, this way."
Before he could lead me, I stated, "Very good, now which is the cheapest."
He eyed me, then pointed and moved to the left toward the back of the place.
There were a number of coffins back there, all decent enough.
"yeah," I huffed, "one of these will do."
He gave a slight smile thinking the deal was done but I had only started.
"Now about the parachute," I said completely earnestly. The clerk figged his brows, smile diminished, said, "Excuse me?"
"Yes my wife was an avid skydiver and it was her wish to arrive at the gravesite by air."
"By air?" His whole face dropped.
"Yes," I said firmly, "She is very adamant in her will and I can't disappoint her family, how long will it take to fit all the necessary equipment?" My tone was so dry, so neutral and honest, that the clerk actually began scratching his temple, glaring at the concrete floor as if attempting to calculate the odd process. Although it was more than likely he was trying to decide whether I was an immoral prankster or someone genuinely in the depths of grief. When his gaze met mine I sighed, blurry eyed and solemn. He said, discretely, "Just give me a second, I have to....eh.......call head office and find out for you."
He gave a fairly honest eye, turned and pattered off down the galling hallway of coffins toward the scant little office at the neck of the building. But I had achieved enough amusement and there was a good chance he was gone to call the police so I slipped out and strolled leisurely, east, toward the cool, smiley darkness.
I laughed shamelessly because I knew at that moment of earned satisfaction that I had stumbled onto a new and wonderful hobby.
 
2
 
I perfected my technique. I stopped sleeping so I had a look of authentic despair. And I had rehearsed a whole gang of answers to questions perceived or otherwise. So I left Waterford on the bus and went to a small place on the inner city of Carlow and stepped inside the cool and quiet establishment. An old woman with hair dyed slightly purple for some reason, waddled over from behind an ancient table.
I made a strong sad face and slinked over. She nodded politely at my sadness, and asked, "Can I help you?"
In a moment of genius, I blurted out,
 "My daughter killed herself." Somehow I had tears. She kept her gaze dutifully at me.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said and then, rigidly, "Would you like to view some of our items?" That's what she said: items. Excellent. "Yeah." I replied.
   I followed her through a door behind a desk which led to a surprisingly vast warehouse with coffins of all sizes. She showed me a few fairly respectable pieces but I frowned discernibly
"No, it'll have to be much smaller."
"Oh," she said with gloom,"how small?"
I looked around and located a coffin sufficient for my aim.
It was less than a metre.
She eyed me.
"Oh, okay." She paused, professionally, but then let her curiosity to manifest.
"Do you mind me asking how old she was?"
Without flinching or even blinking I replied, "She had just turned six weeks old."
Her eyes widened then loosened. "I'm very sorry," she said. I stiffened.
"Would it be possible to have an engraving on the main panel?"
Of course."
"That's great, means a lot, she wrote the most beautiful poem the week before she died."
She paused, turned, smiled, said, "Just give me a moment and I'll work out the prices."
I nodded damp eyed but I knew she had realized what I was doing so as soon as she was out of sight I slinked out the side door and grinned the whole way to the bus stop.
 
3
 
This was okay for awhile. But then having to constantly go from town to town became troublesome.
Up and down Ireland on just my dole. From Kerry to Derry, Cork to Limerick, Wexford to Belfast. Always smoking, always changing my story. And sometimes I slept in the park. But I knew it was only a matter of time before they all ran in to each other at some annual coffin manufacturers conference or Morgue Association charity ball and I knew there was no other option but to relocate in order to continue indulging myself with these brilliant humours.
So I moved to England.
Bury. Get it?
Outskirts of Manchester and a coffin shop every seven miles in all directions.
I made a map, a list, a timetable, financial summations and estimations in general.
 
From the day I have arrived, I have lost over a six hundred loved ones in a variety of ways.
Some of my families burned. Others drowned. A lot were victims of thunder or food poisoning. Cot death. Malaria. Planes, trains and hotchkins  Lymphoma. Bad cheese. Random chipmunk abuse leading to genital mutilation. Ironing on the toilet. Pervert - related accidents involving trees and Tramadol. Wealth - proof cancers. Standard old age and ailments. Unforeseeable events involving volcanos. Rare,unpronounceable animals, escaped and aggrieved.
One time my son was a victim of Somali cannibals.
A lot of my children were victims of online bullying. On rare occasions I'd let them kill each other. Often around celestial events for some reason. And all that was grand. I wasn't getting bored and I had a fresh feeding ground in which to roam. To my elation, one day after working out the logistics of the operation I concluded that with the amount of targets within reasonable distance, I could circulate with confidence undetected once every 429 days. More than enough time. I was in my own private version of heaven. And as the weeks went by, my stories became more dramatic. Sometimes they were killed abroad as tourists or obscure political impersonators. Once I enquired as to whether they could bury me cat by ancient Sumerian customs. My schizophrenic twin killed himself thinking it was me. Ha! That was a good one.
And there was even one occasion on a Rochdale sidestreet where I implied I had strangled my own daughter to death for asking what the time was. The clerk blushed and asked for my credit card number.
But then, one day, on a long, cold road in Longsight, my life was literally transformed forever.
 
4
 
   I stepped inside and knew immediately this place was different. For a start, the elegant harmonies of Fats Waller lulled throughout the broad, warm interior. It was unique because there was no tension, no expected gloom or stress. a desk complete with empty chair surrounded by pictures of Saturn and Neptune and Jupiter and Uranus. An opened door leading to a slim carpet hallway that continued, (I could see from reception), to an area of stacked coffins.
An old man was in there. leaning over a coffin working on something, whistling.
I coughed, he turned around, smiled toothlessly and made his way over. When he reached me his eyes had no colour, his face a bland but tender glow. Alive in the deadliest fashion. I gave my greatest display of bereavement and he stood there emphatically saying nothing, studying me. I muttered, "Do you work here?"
He smiled and looked tragic doing so.
"My name is on the door, so I hope so." The statement was without expression.
So I began the process of the prank. I explained that none of my children had faces. I informed him that this was due to a rare genetic disorder that led to their communal suicides. However, when  failed to get any joy from this I added, "It's actually devastating... and poignant, as my wife has four."
"Four children?" He sighed desperately.
"No," I said, "faces."
 
   It was at this point that instead of appearing confused or doubtful, his face bore a smile, broad and hairy.
"Yeah," said he, "I went through something similar myself a few years ago."
My heart dropped. He went on, grinning dumbly, "My son was born with four arms," he huffed, almost genuinely, "The papers called him The Human Swastika."
In a moment of synchronized instinct we both burst out laughing.
"Do you really work here?" I sniggered. He responded honestly, "My name is on the door, so I hope so."
Without changing expression, he said, "I know why you're here."
It took me by surprise. Before I could manage a word, he said, "How many times have you done this?"
I pretended not to comprehend but he saw right through me, fairly painfully, and stated, "The shock, the heavy sensation of bliss when somebody hates you, thinks you're gruesome, external, somehow bewildering."
He narrowed his eyes, "Because if they hate you, it proves, you're not one of them."
I was literally astonished because somehow, he knew.
He dug further.
"But why do it like this? You could just go and write Lolita fiction for some outrageous magazine, or paint Jesus porn, or do any of the countless other ways but you've chose to do it this way, to come to places like this."
"How?" I think I said it. May have whispered or just thought it, but he answered regardless, "Because I've been there and I know how you feel and you need to listen to me."
For the first time in years I felt real tears growing in the welts of my eyes. The odd faced stranger continued,
"There's nothing wrong with being intrigued by the concept of death."
I went to interrupt, like a convict talking over the announcement of his own execution. But he asserted, "you really have to listen to me, I know what I am talking about, my name is on the door, you are not a freak because you are obsessed with infinity, death is the only true destiny. They are the ones who are weird or wrong because they pay no attention to certainty. They ignore forever and pretend that their sports and girlfriends will save them from a hard and complicated afterlife. You keep coming back here for the same reason I kept coming here, to be near The Ones of Eternity, our future comrades, those that breath once and live forever."
He narrowed his eyes once again. My lips were literally trembling. My heart beat roughly because my soul had been molested. He had assaulted the very essence of my being with just a few vivid words. I genuinely had no idea how to act or talk. I was dumb, drawl and amazed. After a glancing moment, he stated, "My name may be on the door...now, but it wasn't always."
Without a warning he took from his pocket a bunch of keys and raised them up to eye level.
"I've been here long enough." His cold eyes warmed slightly, "It's somebody else's turn to attempt existence."
I was utterly dumbstruck by the statement and also by the calm way he handed over the keys. It was surreal to say the least. Wide eyed, I received them and without a further word, he turned and slinked off whistling serenely, out the main door and off toward Sirius.
I stood for awhile in awe. The music still lolled gently from a distance. I leaned on a nearby table in silence with questions and conclusions roaming through my mind like wildfires. And then, in an instant, a curious feeling filled me at the recollection of the old man's words.
"My name is on the door, so I hope so." Who was this man?
I paced along the aisle back toward the front of the facility where the door remained swung to the side. When I reached it and went to grope it over I saw a reflection of myself in a pristine mirror.
My face was mushy and grey, hair gone, just tufts of white above the ears. Neck sagging, eyes barely concealing indifference or torment.
Heart trembling, skin shivering, I darted my eyes down at the placard spread across the wood panel and
 
my name was on the door.
 
 
                                     END

kealan coady 2014

Reviews

[Roland Petrov]

I think I read this one on Jottify, but I had a good time reading it again. This story sucked me in, kept me entertained, and although the ending became obvious some paragraphs in advance, it would have been disappointing for it to have ended differently. Good read!

[Sasheera Gounden]

Rather sinister ending yet extremely entertaining.