A New Dwelling
“And you can always upgrade to the Deluxe Weather-proof, Skid-proof, Warp-proof Package if you change your mind.”
I’ve never quite understood why a casket needs so many customizations or why it needs to be dressed in “proofs,” but I smile and nod my head, acting as if I will consider his proposition.
“Have you looked at the ones over there? They’re part of a special new series, and they come in anything from brass to cherrywood,” he gushes. He seems to be almost singing, delighting in all the different ways a corpse can rot. It feels sick to me, but I smile and follow him anyway.
“So tell me, sir,” he pushes, “You seem rather quiet. Does the whole business frighten you?”
Why can’t I just pick my box and leave? Hell, just throw me in the ground and toss some dirt on me for all I care. But that need to be cordial bubbles up again and chokes away any sarcasm or bluntness I might muster.
“Well, I’m just picking out my own coffin, that’s all. It makes me feel...strange. Like I’m planning to die.”
“But alas, we all must plan to die! It’s inevitable, my friend. Don’t you want to be prepared?”
“I guess I don’t really have an option, do I? Life doesn’t seem to care what we are and are not prepared for. Sometimes I think we don’t even realize something has happened until it passes us by. So that’s why I came here. Forgive me for the confusion; as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s all just a bit...unnerving.”
“Yes, yes, it can be. But it can also be rather exciting! The choice is yours. How will you dwell once you are done living? It’s up to you, and we have the options. You can rest like a king or you can simply sleep in a box. Unlike many things we do while we are living, we get to choose what life will be like when we die.”
Interesting. I’ve never thought of it like that. I can’t decide if the man in front of me is morbid and twisted or just cheerful and dedicated to his job. It doesn’t matter, because he’s talking so fast that I don’t have time to decode him. In a matter of minutes, I’m actually reaching my hand into one of the boxes, this one made of pine with plush interior, and testing its cushion with my hand as if it’s a new couch or a special mattress.
“Isn’t it just to die for, sir?” He laughs at his own joke, but I don’t think it’s funny. I have taken my hand away from the casket’s lining, but its imprint remains. It’s so clear that I almost think I can see my fingerprints embedded on the fabric, but he cuts me off once again.
“You’ll be safe in here. Nothing will harm you.”
“I should hope not,” I add, “I’ll already be dead.”
The corners of his mouth stay at their constant upward lift, but unlike every other time I have spoken, his smile rises no higher.
“Yes, well the time is drawing near, my friend. I’ll leave you to choose your future dwelling for a few moments, but please remember that I have another customer at the top of the hour.” And with that, he walks away. I’m not sure what to make of his sudden abruptness, but honestly, I’m relieved. His smile and his mannerisms were beginning to chill me; they were almost too warm and friendly, as they were regarding a very cold and unfriendly subject.
I continue to mill around the showroom floor, though I’m still not sure exactly what I’m looking for or why it matters so much, and I begin to feel like I’m in a maze. Every box looks like same and it’s as if the cheerful little man that was leading me around has ducked down behind one of the “dwellings,” because I can’t see him. I keep walking, thinking I have made it back to where he left me, but I’m only turning around another corner. I don’t know where the door is and this is getting strange. How are there so many caskets; better yet, how does it seem like there are so many more of them than I realized? I keep walking and walking and walking until I feel like they’re piling up on all sides of me, but I think I hear the man’s footsteps behind me.
“Ah, yes, I noticed your connection with that dazzling pine.”
I jump, shocked that he got to me so fast, and turn around to see that I’m standing right beside the casket at which we parted ways, my handprint still clearly defined like I never removed it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he chuckles.
I ignore the eeriness that I now notice more profoundly in his crooked smile, and reply as casually as I can, “Yes. I think this is the one.”
“Can I try, one last time, to interest you in our Weather-proof, Skid-proof, Warp-proof package? Nothing beats it, and you’ll never be wet or cold or bothered,” he asks.
It disturbs me that he’s talking about a dead body as if it will actually be me. I’ve noticed it all along, but now it seems to hold more weight. The bones and the flesh that will one day be surrounded by walls of pine and memory foam will not be me, right?
“No, thank you. I think I’d like to reserve it as is. With all due respect, I don’t much see a point in protecting something that’s already dead.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” He’s still laughing with everything he says, only now I don’t sense any kindness behind the chuckles. “Are you all set to go, then? As I told you, I have another customer arriving very shortly, and you wouldn’t want to share your choice with him, now would you?” he urges as he looks at his watch and then back up at me.
“Um...No, I suppose not. I’m ready.” I wait for him to guide me to the front desk and out of this labyrinth of boxes, but he doesn’t move.
“Pardon me, sir, but you’ll have to lead the way. I don’t remember the direction we came from,” I suggest, but I’m starting to feel as if he has no intention of leading me back.
“But I thought you said this was your choice?” he adds with that condescending air of someone who is waiting for you to discover something you should have known long ago. I turn around and look at my handprint, which now seems deeper and more firmly imprinted than ever, and I put my hand up to my eyes. It’s cold in the showroom and my palms are dry, almost cracked. I just want to get into the heat and away from here. I try to put my hand back down, but my bones won’t move and my hand is frozen in the same position as the imprint on the inside of my very own pine box.
“Step in,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
My lips freeze and I can say no more. My body goes numb and I can’t control the way it’s moving. My head tilts down towards the box, and my face refuses to show the emotion I feel. I’m screaming, but my vocal chords will not vibrate. I’m running, but my legs are still.
“Step in,” he repeats.
And I do. Maybe I should have paid for the extra package. I can’t feel the rain and I can’t hear the dirt or the rocks skidding against the lid, but I do feel warped. And cold, so cold. You’ll be safe in here, he said. Nothing will harm you, he said. But what I am is beyond saving. Beyond harm. I feel frozen and dry, alone in my new dwelling.
I’ve never quite understood why a casket needs so many customizations or why it needs to be dressed in “proofs,” but I smile and nod my head, acting as if I will consider his proposition.
“Have you looked at the ones over there? They’re part of a special new series, and they come in anything from brass to cherrywood,” he gushes. He seems to be almost singing, delighting in all the different ways a corpse can rot. It feels sick to me, but I smile and follow him anyway.
“So tell me, sir,” he pushes, “You seem rather quiet. Does the whole business frighten you?”
Why can’t I just pick my box and leave? Hell, just throw me in the ground and toss some dirt on me for all I care. But that need to be cordial bubbles up again and chokes away any sarcasm or bluntness I might muster.
“Well, I’m just picking out my own coffin, that’s all. It makes me feel...strange. Like I’m planning to die.”
“But alas, we all must plan to die! It’s inevitable, my friend. Don’t you want to be prepared?”
“I guess I don’t really have an option, do I? Life doesn’t seem to care what we are and are not prepared for. Sometimes I think we don’t even realize something has happened until it passes us by. So that’s why I came here. Forgive me for the confusion; as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s all just a bit...unnerving.”
“Yes, yes, it can be. But it can also be rather exciting! The choice is yours. How will you dwell once you are done living? It’s up to you, and we have the options. You can rest like a king or you can simply sleep in a box. Unlike many things we do while we are living, we get to choose what life will be like when we die.”
Interesting. I’ve never thought of it like that. I can’t decide if the man in front of me is morbid and twisted or just cheerful and dedicated to his job. It doesn’t matter, because he’s talking so fast that I don’t have time to decode him. In a matter of minutes, I’m actually reaching my hand into one of the boxes, this one made of pine with plush interior, and testing its cushion with my hand as if it’s a new couch or a special mattress.
“Isn’t it just to die for, sir?” He laughs at his own joke, but I don’t think it’s funny. I have taken my hand away from the casket’s lining, but its imprint remains. It’s so clear that I almost think I can see my fingerprints embedded on the fabric, but he cuts me off once again.
“You’ll be safe in here. Nothing will harm you.”
“I should hope not,” I add, “I’ll already be dead.”
The corners of his mouth stay at their constant upward lift, but unlike every other time I have spoken, his smile rises no higher.
“Yes, well the time is drawing near, my friend. I’ll leave you to choose your future dwelling for a few moments, but please remember that I have another customer at the top of the hour.” And with that, he walks away. I’m not sure what to make of his sudden abruptness, but honestly, I’m relieved. His smile and his mannerisms were beginning to chill me; they were almost too warm and friendly, as they were regarding a very cold and unfriendly subject.
I continue to mill around the showroom floor, though I’m still not sure exactly what I’m looking for or why it matters so much, and I begin to feel like I’m in a maze. Every box looks like same and it’s as if the cheerful little man that was leading me around has ducked down behind one of the “dwellings,” because I can’t see him. I keep walking, thinking I have made it back to where he left me, but I’m only turning around another corner. I don’t know where the door is and this is getting strange. How are there so many caskets; better yet, how does it seem like there are so many more of them than I realized? I keep walking and walking and walking until I feel like they’re piling up on all sides of me, but I think I hear the man’s footsteps behind me.
“Ah, yes, I noticed your connection with that dazzling pine.”
I jump, shocked that he got to me so fast, and turn around to see that I’m standing right beside the casket at which we parted ways, my handprint still clearly defined like I never removed it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he chuckles.
I ignore the eeriness that I now notice more profoundly in his crooked smile, and reply as casually as I can, “Yes. I think this is the one.”
“Can I try, one last time, to interest you in our Weather-proof, Skid-proof, Warp-proof package? Nothing beats it, and you’ll never be wet or cold or bothered,” he asks.
It disturbs me that he’s talking about a dead body as if it will actually be me. I’ve noticed it all along, but now it seems to hold more weight. The bones and the flesh that will one day be surrounded by walls of pine and memory foam will not be me, right?
“No, thank you. I think I’d like to reserve it as is. With all due respect, I don’t much see a point in protecting something that’s already dead.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” He’s still laughing with everything he says, only now I don’t sense any kindness behind the chuckles. “Are you all set to go, then? As I told you, I have another customer arriving very shortly, and you wouldn’t want to share your choice with him, now would you?” he urges as he looks at his watch and then back up at me.
“Um...No, I suppose not. I’m ready.” I wait for him to guide me to the front desk and out of this labyrinth of boxes, but he doesn’t move.
“Pardon me, sir, but you’ll have to lead the way. I don’t remember the direction we came from,” I suggest, but I’m starting to feel as if he has no intention of leading me back.
“But I thought you said this was your choice?” he adds with that condescending air of someone who is waiting for you to discover something you should have known long ago. I turn around and look at my handprint, which now seems deeper and more firmly imprinted than ever, and I put my hand up to my eyes. It’s cold in the showroom and my palms are dry, almost cracked. I just want to get into the heat and away from here. I try to put my hand back down, but my bones won’t move and my hand is frozen in the same position as the imprint on the inside of my very own pine box.
“Step in,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
My lips freeze and I can say no more. My body goes numb and I can’t control the way it’s moving. My head tilts down towards the box, and my face refuses to show the emotion I feel. I’m screaming, but my vocal chords will not vibrate. I’m running, but my legs are still.
“Step in,” he repeats.
And I do. Maybe I should have paid for the extra package. I can’t feel the rain and I can’t hear the dirt or the rocks skidding against the lid, but I do feel warped. And cold, so cold. You’ll be safe in here, he said. Nothing will harm you, he said. But what I am is beyond saving. Beyond harm. I feel frozen and dry, alone in my new dwelling.