“They'll probably give your body to the vivisectionists!" he said viciously.
“Fine. As long as I'm dead, what difference does it make?”
“But how can you be sure you'll be completely dead?" he asked nastily. “Think of it! Them cutting you up when you're only sleeping!"
“It's no worse than suffocating in one of your fancy coffins six feet under the fertilizer!”
“You attitude—!” he sputtered. “You people—! You're an atheistic Communist! That's what you are!" He turned on his heel and left me, shaking with indignation as he went.
A moment later I started to follow him out. But the fellow was triplets. The third of the trio filled the doorway before I could get through it.
“Ahh, I see you've been looking over our caskets, sir." He rubbed his hands together, squeezing a little unction over his shoe tops. “And now, you’ll be wanting to discuss your final resting place."
“I will?”
“Of course. Now, what did you have in mind? A mausoleum, perhaps? Something in marble with a suitable inscription? A place where your loved ones may visit comfortably without regard to the weather? There are three different styles available on our easy payment plan—"
“Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Gothic. Baroque. And Ante-bellum."
“That's not quite it. We also have a very modern mausoleum available. Free-style with stained glass on all four sides. The interior lighting is neon so that there's an ethereal effect of sunlight shining through the glass even when there is no sun."
“And a perpetual-motion stereo record playing ‘The Ballad of the Green Berets’," I guessed.
“Of course." He beamed. “If you'd like. Although we do have other selections available. All inspirational, of course. Such patriotic hymns as ‘God Bless America’-the Kate Smith rendition, of course. Or something more religious -- ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ perhaps. But then you're not limited to one selection. You can have a variety if you like."
I closed my eyes. “I can hear it now. That heavenly choir."
"Yes." He beamed.
“And a good thing, too," I continued. “Because I sure as hell won't be hearing it then!"
“But those who wish to visit with you -"
“Had damn well better do it while I'm alive!" I told him. “If they come around bugging me after I'm dead, I'll haunt them, I swear.”
“Well, perhaps not a mausoleum then, sir," he said hastily.
“No perhaps about it!”
“Yes. A crypt, then? Something private and underground, yet accessible? We have those available in sculptured marble, too.”
“Sounds gloomy.”
“Not at all, sir. Why, our catacombs are as cheerful as Disneyland.”
“Just a barrel of fun, hey?”
“Well, our belief is that sadness need not be a part of the process of passing over if the rites are handled correctly. We like to think of our park as a joyous place filled with those who have attained a happy Eternal Life.”
“I see what you mean about Disneyland.”
“If not a crypt, then a simple plot, sir? There is a long waiting list, but—"
“So I've been told.”
“But you are still a young man, sir, and if I put your name down on it, I’m sure something will open up in time.”
“I'm not sure I’d care to be buried in a cemetery where graves open up.”
“I didn’t mean that, sir. Oh, I see. You were only having your little joke. Now, even with a simple grave, you'll be wanting a monument. Have you anything in mind?”
“How about a giant phallus?"
“I think not, sir. I'd strongly advise against it. Might I suggest instead something more in keeping with your life.”
“Offhand I can’t think of anything that would be more in keeping with my life. It would suit my vocation, my avocation, and my leisure periods.”
“Perhaps an angel, sir."
“Male or female?”
“Angels have no sex, sir.”
“And they call that heaven?”
“Perhaps a military design? Crossed rifles in bronze? A small cannon? A nuclear warhead?”
“A nuclear warhead?”
“We try to keep up with things, sir."
“No. No nuclear warhead. I’m afraid not. I think I'll just have to manage to make it through Eternity without a memorial statue.”
“If that’s your preference, sir. We never push people into anything.”
“Except maybe an early grave,” I murmured.
“I beg pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh. Well, then just a simple bronze tablet with an inscription. Would that suit you, sir? Of course you’ll lose your priority for burial space if you don’t make statuary arrangements—”
“It's nice there's no pressure,” I observed.
“Yes. Well then, a simple memorial in bronze. And the inscription? How would you like it to read, sir?”
“How about ‘Give Me Lechery or Give Me Death,’ " I suggested.
“Upon consideration, I think you might agree that would be a bit too frivolous, sir. Might I suggest some thing more in keeping with the spirit of our memorial park.” He nettled his brow. “Death Is Only Another Way of Life.” He nodded approval at himself. “How does that strike you, sir?”
“Like a limp marshmallow,” I told him. “How about something a little closer to the truth. Like; ‘Of All Sad Spots I Ever Did See/This Is The Spot I’d Rather Not Be.’ “
“I’m afraid our directors would never allow that. They lean more towards homilies like ‘The Right Path Is -”’
“- A Dead End.” I finished it for him.
“—The Path To Salvation!” he insisted grimly.
“Let's just say ‘When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go’,” I offered wearily. I was tired of the game.
He recognized my apathy. “Perhaps we should wait until the proper frame of mind occurs before deciding,” he said smoothly.
“Yeah. Anyway, right now I have to go to a funeral.”
“Well, remember, we’re here to consult with you at any time. And there’s no obligation. Our motto is ‘Your Only Obligation Is To Yourself’.”
“I’ll buy that,” I shot back over my shoulder as I left the room. “And the best way to oblige myself is to stay alive.” I continued on my way to the East Chapel.
The mourners were already gathered and the services were about to begin. There were a lot of people I didn’t know there, most of them Chinese friends of Louis, I surmised. But there was also a small group of people I did know which included Winthrop Van Ardsdale, Misty Milo, Happy Daze, Voluptua, Dwight Floyd Rank, Donna Carper, and Prince Juv Satir. Of our clique, only April Wilder was conspicuous by her absence.
A professional eulogizer was evidently part of the service provided by the funeral park. Louis’s Chinese friends watched with a stereotyped impassivity for which I couldn’t blame them as the eulogy painted a picture of a Chinese Albert Schweitzer with overtones of Abe Lincoln. I hadn't known Louis that all well, it’s true, but somehow I couldn’t help wondering how I’d missed his reverence for motherhood, his love for little children and small dogs, and his dedication to the American Way of Life as defined by William Jennings Bryan and re-interpreted by Ronald Reagan.
After the pro had finished, an aged Chinese gentleman took the floor and spoke a few words. He managed to rehumanize Louis a bit before the coffin was sealed and the pallbearers toted him out. It had been Louis’s wish, it seemed, to be cremated. Now there would be about an hour’s wait until the crematorium was free for the next ceremony.
I paired off with Winston, and we killed time by wandering into the souvenir shop run by the memorial park. Here funeral knickknacks abounded gayly. There was an ingenious table-lighter which was a replica of the crematorium. There was a dolls’house mausoleum, complete with casket and eternal flames. There were authentic gravediggers’ shovels for ambitious tots. There was a sandbox staked out like a portion of the cemetery, complete with miniature coffins to be buried and headstones to mark them. There were necklaces designed to look like funeral wreaths.