Mortuary Confidential: Undertakers Spill the Dirt

Contributed by a “Proud” undertaker

People assume that because I’m gay I must naturally be good at makeup. That’s not the case. I’m reasonably proficient at makeup because I do it everyday. Before I joined the venerable ranks of the undertaking profession I had never done makeup before, ever. Some homosexuals—we call them fems—do wear makeup, but most of us don’t. In fact, unless you got to know me well, I doubt you’d even realize I’m gay. I didn’t even do makeup on a live person until three years ago.

It was St. Patty’s Day. Jamie, a girlfriend of mine, was hosting a pre-party and then we were heading to a local Irish watering hole called, ironically enough, McEnery’s Wake, for what was, for them, the Holy Grail of the year. They were putting on some extravaganza: all you could eat and drink and ten bands for a hundred bucks, or some deal like that. I’m a pseudo-Mick, last name is Flannery; my great-grandfather came over on the boat, and all that good stuff, so de facto, it’s a holiday for me.

I showed up at Jamie’s house in the early afternoon, mixed up the green beer and green jungle juice, polished the bottles of Jameson and Bushmills, and set out the shot glasses. We finished setting everything up by four o’clock, and with nothing left to do, started drinking. By the time Jamie’s boyfriend came home from work we were already, as the Irish would say, half sozzled.

“What? You two not even planning on making your own party?” he asked when he found us giggling like a pair of schoolgirls on the couch.

“Oh shit, I almost forgot. I have to take a shower!” Jamie exclaimed.

So wrapped up in gossiping and drinking, Jamie hadn’t even gotten ready yet. Sometimes when I drink heavily a little of that limp wrist comes out, and this was one of those times. “Oh, honey,” I said, checking my watch, “you have plenty of time. People aren’t even coming over for another two hours. Let’s have another beer and then you can go up and get fresh.”

“All right,” she said not too reluctantly.

I stood up and went over to the pony keg of Guinness. “Sam? You want one?”

“Hell yeah, I’ve been dreaming about this all day,” he said.

Needless to say, one Guinness begat three and by the time the guests started arriving Jamie still hadn’t gotten ready. I threw on a couple of the Dropkick Murphys’ CDs and the party got cranked up. An hour into the party it looked like an Irish Pride event, there were so many decked-out queens swilling green beer and shooting whiskey. That’s when I found Jamie doing a keg stand. She kicked her feet, the signal to be let down, and everyone cheered.

I pulled her aside. “Honey, why haven’t you gone and gotten ready yet? We’re leaving for the bar in an hour and you’re still wearing your sweats!”

She looked at me with big glassy eyes. “John, good to see you!” she said as if I was just arriving. “You know, you’re right.” She stabbed a finger in my face and squinted. “You’re always right. I need to…” She hiccupped. “Shower.”

“Come on,” I grabbed her arm and escorted her through her house. I knew she wasn’t in any shape to do this mission solo and I had found Sam a few minutes earlier puking his innards out—the lightweight.

“Where are you taking me?” Jamie asked in a little girl voice, and then giggled, as I dragged her up the stairs. “I thought you didn’t like girls.”

“Oh girl, stop it. You know I’m not interested in any of that.”

“You might.”

“Oh stop! I’m taking you to get ready.” I dragged her into her bathroom and turned the shower on. I tested the water temperature and pointed her in the direction of it. “Strip and hop in,” I commanded. “I’ll guard the door so you don’t get disturbed.” I slammed the door and could hear laughing and a couple of loud thumps. She took twenty minutes but eventually teetered out wearing a towel. I dragged her into her room. “What do you want to wear?”

“I don’t care,” she sang and flopped onto her bed.

I rolled my eyes. “This is why I’m gay,” I muttered under my breath. “Women!” I picked out a pair of black sex pants and a dark green camise.

I turned around and said, “How about these?”

Jamie was sound asleep.

I shook her some and she came around, clearly confused. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“You need to get ready. There’s a party at your house and we’re leaving to go out,” I explained as I put the clothes in her hands. “Put these on.”

She slung the towel off and put on the clothes I had gotten out without bothering with underwear. I steered her to the bathroom. “Do your hair or whatever and then we’ll leave,” I said. She seemed to understand and started rummaging around in her drawers. I went downstairs to help myself to a well-deserved beer and was talking to a really cute guy when Jamie stumbled downstairs crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her. Her mood had gone from happy drunk to crying drunk. Not a good sign.

Makeup was smeared all over her face. “I can’t go out!” she wailed. “I can’t do it.” She pointed to her face. She looked like a bad abstract painting.