HAROLD knocked on the door and a female voice called, “Come in.”
He entered a small office and saw a middle-aged woman doing some paperwork.
“How may I help you?” She spoke as she worked.
“I’m Harold Canterbury and I applied for a job here,” he said.
She put the papers aside and began paying full attention.
“Please sit down, Mr. Canterbury.”
Harold sat on a hard wooden chair and put his bag on the ground beside him.
“The only vacancy we have remaining is for a security guard.”
Harold was quick to jump at this.
“That’s fine. I’ll take it.”
He smiled broadly trying not to show his desperation.
“The pay is only $12,000 a week. One day off,” she said.
In the last four months, Harold would have been lucky if he got that amount per month. He wasn’t going to miss out on this.
“I’ll take it, Mistress. I come prepared to start now if you want.”
She smiled and shook Harold’s hand.
“I’m Mrs. Douglas, owner and manager of Sleep Sweetly Funeral Home.”
“F..F…Funeral Home?” He asked in a shaky voice.
“Yes. Don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking. There is nothing to fear.”
She laughed loudly and Harold began to relax. If a woman didn’t have misgivings about corpses why should he?
She stood up.
“Let me show you around,” she said.
It was a large three-storey building. On the ground floor was the holding area. All corpses were kept there. They were frozen, thawed, washed, dressed, made-up and otherwise prepared there. There were four dressing tables and four wash bays with the necessary toiletries.
On the second floor were two chapels and a viewing area where three different bodies could be laid out. On the top floor was the owner’s living quarters.
At nine each night the gates were locked. Harold’s job was to guard and protect the property. There had been recent incidents where people had tried to steal the property of the dead. On a few occasions, they had even attempted to move the corpses. He would have to stay alert.
Harold returned at seven that night ready for work. His black bag was well packed; flashlight, food, coffee and rum. Yes, rum. There was no way he could manage to stay so close to dead people without a few drinks under his belt. If he were sober he could never do it. His station was downstairs close to the holding area. He put his bag on the table and checked the premises. All seemed intact.
At nine o’clock Harold locked the gates, made another round of the building and retired to his station. An hour later he ate then began taking a few drinks. He took shot after shot. The rum felt warm in his belly and the fear of being among the dead seem to retreat more after each drink. By the time he had worked his way through half of the bottle, he was drunk.
After several attempts, he finally corked the bottle and put it on the table. He then put his head on the table and, like most watchmen, went to sleep. His, however, was a drunken slumber. In his checks, he had not dared to enter the washing and dressing area because he had been told that two bodies were being thawed for dressing early the next day. This meant that they were laid out on the dressing tables.
Someone tapped him on his shoulder. He looked around and straight into the pale, ugly face of a corpse. The face had a blank haunting expression.
“Do you have any water? I thirsty,” it rasped.
Harold had plenty of water but he was fighting to keep it from running down his pants. He tried to speak but no words came. He tried to get up but couldn’t. Harold went into total panic. He started kicking and fighting trying to get up and run.
His voice returned and he began to cry and beg. “Help! Oh, Lard help! Spare me!”
Falling to the ground, he tried desperately to get back up. He felt weak and completely freaked. He was flailing around on the ground and crying in fear. His eyes popped open and he looked around him in terror. The lights had been turned on and a gentleman was standing over him admonishing him sternly.
“Pull yourself together man. You’re disturbing the bloody neighbourhood.”
The speaker was middle-aged and quite muscular. He was dressed in expensive brand name clothes and shoes and looked to be well off.
“Sorry skipper. I fell asleep and had a bad dream. He got up and sat shakily on the wooden chair. It’s my first time so near to dead people.”
Harold tried to apologise. This was probably Mr. Douglas and he might just fire him. Instead, the man threw his head back and laughed heartily.
“So you ‘fraid de dead?” He enquired with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“A little,” Harold offered cautiously.
The man looked at the half empty bottle of rum and Harold wished he had been sober enough to pack it away in his bag. He waited for the inevitable.
“XM 10 year Old. Nice.”
Harold looked into the grinning face and began to relax. All was well. He pulled out his glass, threw himself a generous drink and handed the bottle to his friend. He drank straight from the bottle, Harold sipped his glass and they chatted.
“How long you working here?” he asked.
“My first night,” Harold replied. His tongue got freer with each sip.
“Boy, you does drink hard and sleep hard,” the man said and smiled broadly.
“I’m going to watch that from now on.”
Harold was taking no chances. After this drink, he might get together with his wife and still fire him.
“Don’t stress about it. A little drink won’t hurt anybody.”
“But what about yo wife?” Harold enquired.
The man looked puzzled. “My wife?”
“Mrs. Douglas,” Harold came straight to the point. “Will she allow drinking on the job?”
His eyes lit up in understanding. “You mean the woman who was trying to wake you up. You fell off your chair and didn’t even wake then.”
Harold seemed to be hearing all this from a distance.
“She’s not my wife. Wish she was.”
He winked wickedly at Harold.
Harold was totally confused. The rum, this situation and this guy were not helping the case.
“Who the hell are you man?” Harold demanded a bit irritated.
The man’s smile never wavered. “Oh, I’m the new corpse. Nice to meet you Watchie.”
With a shriek that would put a siren to shame Harold raced out of there; destination unknown.
The End