Hot Tea

by Sheila Horgan

  “According to you and Mom, I have no business endeavors. According to what you said this morning, you have no love life. You said you guys hadn’t even gone out on a real date yet. How does that qualify?”

  She wiggled her eyebrows and said, “Do you think AJ is my only admirer?”

  “Heavens no. I’m an admirer. I just don’t think that there are any other guys in the pipeline right now.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “You’re here.”

  She pulled back both sides of her mouth at the same time. When I do it, I strongly resemble a duckbilled platypus. When she does it, she just looks cute. I wonder if I could surreptitiously swab the inside of Mom’s mouth for a covert DNA test.

  She said, “Good point. Shall we start looking for information on Mrs. Rosenbaum?”

  “It’s Mrs. Lily Ivy-Rosenbloom, and I’ve decided that although that was a lovely plan, and probably would have worked, it is time to go to Plan B.”

  “I thought there was no Plan B.”

  “There is now. I found it on the Internet. I told you you could find anything on the Internet. I found the perfect way for me to make money.”

  “Oh Lord. Did you find one of those get rich quick schemes? ‘I made $250,000 last year working two hours a week, while having my feet rubbed’.” She really did a great impression of the girls on one of those infomercials. She really should start a stage act. I can see it all now; Teagan Shannon O’Flynn stars in impersonations of all things annoying.

  She droned on, “Cara, those things never work. They aren’t real people, they’re actors paid by the day. Truth be told, they have extraordinary talent as actors, don’t know for the life of me why we don’t see them on the big screen.”

  Exasperated, I huffed, “You think of me as an idiot. I’m not going to get involved in some quasi-pyramid scheme where the only one getting rich is the one at the top of the food chain.”

  “Mixed metaphor.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Pyramid. Food chain.”

  “What about the food pyramid?”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  I shrugged, “Maybe, but it makes me interesting.”

  “Interesting is a good word for you. Are you going to share Plan B with me?”

  I took a calming breath, “I’m going to start an online business writing eulogies.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Writing eulogies.”

  “For who?”

  I plopped down on the chair, no fight left in me, “What do you mean for who? For dead people.”

  “Why would the loved ones of dead people want you to write their eulogies? You don’t know these people, unless there has been a terrible run on the family that I don’t know about. Cara, a eulogy is a very personal thing. Nobody is going to want a perfect stranger to write about the most personal moments in the life of someone they’ve just lost.”

  “Well, you’re wrong on several points.” I counted them off on my fingers, “First of all, there’s been no run on the family. Thank you, God. Everyone is fine. Secondly, there is no better time to hire someone to help you, than when your mind isn’t working quite clearly; and your mind won’t be working clearly when you’ve just lost someone you love.”

  I pulled out a cinnamon roll, put a light coating of oleo on the top and put it into the microwave. I hit the buttons for a 15-second zapping, and let it do its thing while I grabbed a Pepsi from the fridge. “Lastly, have you seen the new trend in baby-boomer funerals? Teagan, these people have control issues. They’re planning their funerals long before passing. They are these huge grand celebrations; the likes of which have been seen only for movie stars and heads of state. They’re spending a fortune. I can sell to the dead person directly. Pre-death!”

  “And why would they do that? Why not just write the document themselves?”

  “Because if they’re planning their own funeral, they can always frame it as a comfort for their family. Taking care of the details so their death isn’t a burden for those they love.” I grabbed my roll and put it on a plate.

  I continued, “If they write their own eulogy, they’re gonna look for all the world to see, as a pompous ass. How can they write something grand about themselves without looking like a fool?”

  Bless her wee little heart, she was trying to be supportive, “I’m listening.”

  “If they hire a professional, that would be me, they can say that I was suggested to them by the funeral director. They could say that they had relinquished complete control of the eulogy to me. That I asked factual questions. That they answered all questions fully and truthfully, and chose the option not to see the finished product. Maybe I could charge more money and interview loved ones. We’ll make that one of the options available on the website so they have something to point at. Of course, they’ll read it, approve it, and supply their funeral director with a copy. I’m done with my job long before they ever pass. They look like a considerate relative and I make lots of money.”

  Eye roll, “Lots of money?”

  “How much would you pay to know that your eulogy was just what you wanted? No embarrassing childhood stories. No work related guffaws. No Uncle Phinnaeus coming in after one too many vodka and lemonades, explaining awkward teen antics. Just how much would you be willing to pay?”

  She stole my cinnamon roll and my Pepsi, “Well, actually, I don’t have to pay for that, I just have to make sure that you die first, but I can see your point. I’m confused, are you going to work through funeral parlors or online?”

  “Both. We can create a web site. If people pass without the benefit of working with us first, then their bereaved loved ones can contact us, and we can write a customized eulogy for them. And we network with the local funeral homes.”

  She talked around the food in her mouth, “But you don’t know them. I’m stuck on that. How do you write a eulogy for someone you’ve never met?”

  “Simple. Most people know what they want to say; they just don’t know how they want to say it. Best case it’s just too hard. Worst case it’s just like walking up on your old high school friend with the ugly child in the buggy. You need a way of telling the truth in a kind way. With one of our eulogies, loved or despised, the deceased can have a beautiful tribute to send them on their way. Most people don’t have the skills to do that.”

  “And you do?”

  “I’ve written a eulogy or two in my day, Teagan.”

  “Yes, and you do a lovely job.”

  “See?”

  “I’m still not certain of the process, or how it’s going to actually make you money, but it seems like a much more reasonable plan than your others.”

  “Then why do you look so concerned?”

  “Think about it Cara. If writing beautiful words for the dead, and the planning to be dead, is the best of your plans, what does that say about your other plans?”

  I pushed away from the table and started to pace. I explained, “It says I’m a thinker. I think out of the box.” I whipped around, “Do not make a coffin comment Teagan or I swear by all that is Holy, you will find yourself in one.”

  In a calm voice I continued with my original thought, “I am creative. I have an entrepreneurial spirit. I am unique. I am profound success on the precipice. I am…”

  She cut me off and gave her own analysis, “Nuts?”

  “Be careful Teagan or I won’t share this wonderful opportunity with you. I won’t let you be rich and famous with me.”

  “That would be a shame.”

  “I’m just sayin.”

  TWELVE

  I’m the first to admit that my apartment is far from fabulous. I took one up front by the parking lot because it is fifteen dollars less each month, you don’t have to lug the groceries far, and I can spy on my neighbors. All these factors are very important aspects of the home selection process.

  When you come into the apartment complex you wend your way to the right, and I’m the front c
orner apartment in building seven, floor unit.

  My door is about twenty feet into a corridor, where the front door of each of our four units is housed. I have a plain gray welcome mat. My across the hall neighbor has one that says, “Wipe your paws here.” My next-door neighbor has one that says, “Took my big blue balls and went bowling.” His across the hall neighbor doesn’t have a mat at all.

  Open the door to my apartment and you’ll see a coat closet to your immediate right. A few steps in is a door to the left, the laundry room, a dining area to your right, the kitchen is directly in front of you, and is open to the living room on your left. Beyond the living room, two bedrooms, each with a bathroom, and an office alcove. That’s it. Not too exciting, but it is in a safe neighborhood, with a bit of cultural diversity, and it’s convenient.

  Close enough for me to bop over to Mom’s for dinner or a cup of tea, far enough away that she doesn’t like to come over without calling first. Balance. It’s important in all things in life.

  Teagan is the only person in my family that comes over without calling first, and she’s after AJ, so she’s at my mercy. Balance.

  I decided the first thing to do on my way to prosperity in my new found calling, was a wee bit of research. I need to know if there is competition out there. I need to know the going rate. I need to know if there is an outcry for talent and maybe I should just work for someone else instead of creating my own business, at least until I get my feet wet.

  Basically, I need to know everything there is to know about the eulogy writing business, I’m certain there’s a need, people do die, and where there’s a need, there is income.

  I also need to get organized. If a person is in need of a eulogy, it is something that must be done quickly, correctly, with no screw ups. The facts of one client’s life can’t inadvertently be attributed to another client. Information has to be handled with care.

  I rummaged through all the charming hatboxes I have stacked artistically next to my bookcase. In them I hide everything from pads of paper, to ink cartridges, to my sister’s first bathing suit. It’s so cute. It has all the neon colors in stripes with a little peek-a-boo cutout in the back. I think she wore it when she was about nine months old. I’m not sure how it came to be in my care, but I intend to give it to her at her first baby shower. She’ll cry. It’ll be great.

  Anyway, I got out pads of paper and sticky notes and pens and everything else that looked official and office-like. I decided a trip to the local office supply house was in order.

  Once there, I got a cart, reminded myself that all things office supplies are expensive, and not to over do it. I started up the first aisle. Amazing what they have in an office supply store these days. I kind of got lost in the flotsam of modern day business paraphernalia for a while there.

  The good news is that I only bought about six things. The bad news is that those six things cost me a couple hundred bucks.

  I was just walking in the door when Teagan appeared.

  I had to ask the obvious question, “Aren’t you supposed to be back at work?”

  “Nope, I worked so much overtime that my boss gave me a bunch of comp time.”

  “I thought they outlawed comp time.”

  She shrugged, “I have no idea, but they outlawed smoking in my building a long time ago, and he still does that.”

  “Good point.”

  “So, what’s in the bags?”

  I lifted the bags and shrugged. There was a time, lifting $200 worth of stuff would put your back out, now it doesn’t even take muscles, I said, “Supplies.”

  “For?”

  “My new business.”

  “So, you’re going ahead with it?”

  I waltzed my bags over to the desk, “Yep.”

  “Good, cause I’ve already told some people about it. Including Mom.”

  “You told Mom?”

  “Yep.”

  I dropped everything next to the desk; it could all live on the floor for a little while.

  I turned on Teagan, “Why? Why are you doing this to me? Are you trying to kill me, or more accurately, have me killed? You aren’t the beneficiary on my life insurance; it’s evenly split between the nieces and nephews, so why do you have a death wish for me? Why would you tell Mom?”

  “Cause she asked about my love life, and since you were the one that turned her toward me, with your comments about a new guy, I figured I’d turn her back toward you. Just what did you expect me to do?”

  “But finances don’t trump potential grandchildren Teagan.”

  “But morticians do.”

  “You pulled the mortician card?”

  She looked quite proud of herself, “Yep.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “Yep, I resemble that remark.”

  I couldn’t very well argue with her if she was going to agree. I changed my approach, “You can earn back my love and respect by fixing me a cup of tea.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Fine, you can put this stuff away too. I’m gonna take a quick shower. It’s really yucky out there today. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “Take your time.”

  I whipped around, “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “In the history of you, you have never told me to take my time in the shower. Growing up in a house with 10 people and only one shower, created life-long habits. We do not take our time in the shower, especially not me, you always took over my extra minutes. Again, what’s up?”

  “Nothing!”

  I didn’t believe her, but I wasn’t going to argue the point until I had a few minutes to focus and wash the humidity off of me.

  While I was in the shower I relaxed and laughed about my sister pulling the mortician card. I’d never let her see me laugh about it, that would be giving away a card that could be pulled out later, but even I have to admit, she was pretty quick on this one.

  When Mom was young, my grandmother told her dozens of stories about her best friend. Grandma’s best friend was the daughter of a mortician. Mom would tell stories of the entire goings on, as she always put it.

  Some of the stories were devastatingly sad. Like when the brother shot his little sister by accident. They buried her in her First Communion dress and veil. The veil pulled down over her face making her look so soft and lovely, with just a little band-aid where the bullet struck her neck.

  Other stories were hysterically funny, at least as Mom retold them. There was the time Grandma was late coming home. Her friend’s father offered her a ride. That day, nothing sounded like as much fun as riding home in a hearse. Driving her home in a hearse hadn’t been the original plan but the father was a good sport and acquiesced.

  My grandmother was thrilled. She and her friend laughed the whole way home. As the hearse pulled up in front of my grandmother’s house, her mother happened to walk out onto the porch.

  A very solemn man in a very dark suit got out of a hearse, walked to the rear of the thing, opened the door, and hit a button. Out come my grandmother and her friend, sitting cross-legged on the platform that usually supports a coffin. They were thrilled. My great-grandmother was not.