So we work around the corner from a crematorium. Yesterday, I had lunch at “The Border,” and in line right behind me was a guy wearing a uniform from the crematorium. He looked a little depressed, and I started to talk to him. Since he had a name tag that read “Jim,” I assumed that his name was Jim.
“Hey, Jim,” I began. “How’s life over at the crematorium.”
“It’s a living.” Obviously, he was either a genius in the art of conversation or really depressed. In an effort to cheer him up, I asked if he had any fun stories about the crematorium.
“Well,” his face lightened up a bit, “last week I was preparing Mr. Schwartz for cremation. Now I’m not one to look, but I noticed that he had the largest…Waboo-Daboo that I’ve ever seen.” I’m astonished that he said this in a restaurant, but he continued. “So I cut it off to show my wife. I mean, this kind of thing doesn’t come around all that often.”
I nodded in a half-hearted effort to keep him talking and not commit suicide right there in the lobby.
“So when I went home, I showed my wife. I said, ‘Honey, you have to see this. It’s astonishing.’ She looked at it, and screamed, ‘Oh, no! Shwartz is dead!’”
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This post was tagged with crematorium, depression.
