From: pez@manhattan.com (Gizmo) Subject: The Adventures Of Smacks Past (Part 33) "Funerals Are Us" Date: 1996/10/26 newsgroups: alt.drugs.hard THE ADVENTURES OF SMACKS PAST (PART 33) "FUNERALS ARE US" After I took the "big bust," in 1975, I went to work for a taxicab company for a while, but a couple of years later, my dad got me a job in, of all places, a New York Funeral Home!!! He had been semi-retired and did some part time work driving hearses and limo's for this company. Well, perhaps it was appropriate, hell I'd done a number of years slowly killing myself. So getting to see all these dead people may have been a little sobering. Maybe. Well, I did stay clean for a while when I worked there. This was a major New York Funeral Home. Actually it was part of chain, just like McDonalds, Blimpy's etc., except their business was...dead people. You gotta admit, you're not likely to run short of the needed product. The funeral home where I was "stationed," as an administrative and part time assistant to the funeral directors was a pretty interesting place. We were non-denominational, so we catered to every religion, nationality, creed, etc. Rich and poor, sane and insane alike would find their way to our doors. I'll never forget this one woman who would come in once a week or so, and ask to speak to the manager. Each week, she'd ask the same question. She wanted to know if she could secure her death certificate because she wanted everything to be in order when her time came. The manager would gently try to tell her that, "you had to already be dead before a death certificate could be issued." She seemed to understand, but she'd be back in a few days to ask again! What a place. The manager was always drunk. The funeral directors were mostly gay. And they all had a wry sense of humor. Weird place. I'd get hit on by some of the gay brethren. If only they were gorgeous woman! Before I get to the main part of this story, I'll throw in a few bits of trivia. In 1980, my dad called to tell me something unusual. "What's up dad," I asked. He said, "you're never gonna guess who's body I'm taking to the cemetary tomorrow." "Who's," I asked. "John Lennon," he said sadly! As the whole world knows, John Lennon was shot outside his apartment on West 72nd Street. One of our branches was right on the same block. And that's how we got the funeral. It ain't worth much, but out of six billion people in the world, I hold the unique distinction of being the son of the one person who drove John to his final resting place. I used to kid my dad about not having takin something memorable, like a "toe tag," or a copy of the death certificute. It would have been worth a fortune today. More trivia? Well, just as an aside, the best funeral I ever saw was a "gypsy funeral." The Gypsy's were pretty big in New York. They plied their trade doing Tarot Cards, Psychic Readings, etc. Most of them were not very wealthy, but they did have their "Kings." A King was a big deal. These guys had bucks. So one day, that's what we got. One of their Kings died of a heart attack, and the family made arrangements to come in and view the remains in our big room on the first floor. There were going to be over a thousand people showing up from all over the world to pay their last respects. Most funerals are quiet, sad, respectful and mournful. The Gypsy funeral WAS NOTHING OF THE KIND. This was party time. For three days and three nights the funeral directors had their hands full. Lots of alcohol, lots of loud music, lots of partying. These guys knew how to send someone off. The highlight that happened more than once over that three day period was when they would start cooking food in hibachi's right in the main viewing room! The smell of sausage, hamburgers, pizza, you name it, permeated the air. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't stop, as the funeral directors on duty would gently try to convince them that they were violating city ordinances about "cooking in a funeral home!" All around the viewing room, were baskets of fruit, melons, cookies, cake, bottles of beer, rum and wine. There was no stopping them. Plus you couldn't get them to leave when the place was supposed to close. So we were there sometimes until two in the morning. But the piece de resistance was the way they "prepared" their king for his final journey to the cemetery. Each day, family and friends would put valuable things in the casket. They would pour money, jewelry, whatever, into the folded hands of the deceased king. And every night we would have to take that stuff and lock it in the safe until the next day. On the day of the funeral, there was over $5,000 in cash in the hands of this dead king. Yup, you guessed it. The money, the jewelry, oranges, American Express Cards, all went with the king to the cemetery. The idea was that he might need all this stuff in the next life. It's not an original idea, hell the Egyptians did it too, but seeing it up front and center was a blast. So what does all this have to do with smack, you're wondering? Well, I'm getting to that. By 1979, I started using again. I would go to work stoned. I would work overtime stoned. Sometimes I would take the night phones until 8 A.M., stoned. Someone had to be there, because people died at all hours of the day and night. When someone died at 3 A.M., who you gonna call? Not The Ghostbusters. So I'd take the night shift at the "home," by myself. What are you gonna do when you're all alone in a funeral home at night with several dead people on display. Well, I know what I did. I got stoned. Kind of helped to pass the hours, if you know what I mean. It's nice and quiet there. One night the phone rang. I was totally smashed. I was supposed to take the call, get the name and address of were the dead person was, and call a "remover" to get the remains. Well, I took the call, wrote down the information, and then promptly nodded out for another hour. "Ring, ring, ring," they called back. "Hey, where are you guys, Mrs. O'reilly is starting to smell." "Sorry," I said, "I'll get on it right away." And another hour of nodding would happen. Hmmmm., maybe I should do a little more dope before I make the call. And so it went. But the main story line here was when I was on night duty and a call came in to "remove" someone from a high rise on Central Park West. Sometimes, when these calls came in, and the "removers" were short handed, they would need my help. I'd done this dozens of times. I had to wait until they got there, lock the place up, and go in the station wagon to help carry the body back to the car and back to the funeral home. I know what you're thinking, "he's got to be making this shit up?" But it's what was going on at the time. So, I wait until the funeral director shows up and off we go to Central Park West. There on the living room floor is the dead guy. After putting him in the body bag, we carry him down the elevator to the station wagon. And back to the funeral home we go. When we get back, it's necessary to "prepare the remains" as quickly as possible, to avoid decomposition, unless the family said otherwise. If the family didn't want the body embalmed, you had to put him in a sealed casket. So the embalmer would need my help to remove the dead man's clothes. He would then do his thing and embalm the remains as soon as possible. On this particular night, after getting all the clothes off, I took them into the other room to put them in a plastic bag. Removing his personal effects, I find something really interesting. Attached to the inside thigh of his pants, I find a large plastic bag, folded over several times and wrapped with a rubber band taped to the inside of the trousers. Of course I had to know what that bag contained. I had a gut reaction, that it had to be drugs. Heroin or Cocaine, I hoped? It had to be one or the other. Unfortunately it turned out to be coke. Over two ounces of the stuff. And although it was not my main drug of choice, it was good strong stuff. Figuring the dead guy didn't need it anymore, I took it and sold it to a friend of mine, and kept a little for myself, just to spice up the heroin from time to time. Who was this dead guy? Who the fuck knows. Maybe he was a dealer. But he was dead. And lucky for me, whoever called us, did not pat him down too well. Dope life in the funeral industry. What a trip. Friendly funeral advice. Use all your drugs before you die! Also, please don't ever say to the family and friends of a deceased person who's body is on display at a funeral home, "Jeeez Marge, he looks so good. Hell, he looks better than he ever did!" Fuck, the guys dead. How the hell can he look better than when he was breathing? It's the dumbest line I ever heard there, even if it's true. Final funeral advice. Don't die yet. Copyright Gizmo 1996