It was a Sunday morning and I was thumbing through the newspaper, pondering picking up a little more cash to pay some bills faster.
Looking over the newspaper’s classifieds I stumbled upon what I thought was the perfect job for someone who works mornings at a radio station, afternoons at a bicycle shop, then writes newspaper columns when he can: Night receptionist at a funeral home. I was excited. I burst into the bedroom of The Stucco Hacienda and woke The Lady of the House.
“Look, look,” I said rattling the paper around. “I found the perfect fourth job.”
“You woke me up,” she said from under the blankets.
“They want a night receptionist at the funeral home.”
She peeked over the covers. “A what?”
“A night receptionist. It’ll be almost like that time I worked the front desk of a hotel. Same clothes too; a nice sport coat, khakis, nice shirt, tie.”
“You’re not really serious, are you?”
“Sure, you know, people would walk in and I’d smile and say, ‘Good evening, welcome to the funeral home…yes he’s right down the hall’ and I’d escort the visitors down to the parlor. I’d answer phones and make sure the coffee is made and all that stuff.”
“You? Working in a funeral home?”
“Sure. You know, if someone says, ‘She looks like she’s asleep’ or ‘He looks like he could sit right up and talk to ya!’ I’d say, ‘Yes, here at the funeral home we do a mighty fine job.’”
“When do you plan on sleeping?” asked The Lady of the House as she disappeared back under the covers.
And so my part-time career as a night receptionist at the funeral home was over as quickly as it had begun.
But it was interesting while it lasted.
All 10 minutes of it. In my mind.