DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter
downtown were damaged so severely they remained boarded up. I’d heard through the grapevine that a lot of black merchants grumbled that members of the ever-expanding Chinese community were using Hong Kong money to buy the quake-damaged buildings at fire sale prices.
My sister Tiffany claimed she’d heard of investors arriving from Hong Kong with suitcases stuffed with hundred dollar bills to invest in Bay Area real estate. As San Francisco real estate cost top dollar, smart investors gobbled up Oakland’s cheaper properties on spec. The cash might be buying title, but it wasn’t doing much rebuilding as far as I could see.
Everywhere I looked, I saw only hard-luck black folks shuffling along in front of boarded up or heavily grilled storefronts. At each corner liquor store, young blacks with no work or prospects waited for a handout, a slug of “gorilla juice” from a malt liquor bottle in a brown-paper bag, or a mark to hit on. Things were not much improved when I arrived at the mortuary at Twenty-Second and Broadway.
The Simmons Family Mortuary stood out from its surroundings primarily because it was nicely landscaped. It was a little oasis in a desert of early twentieth century wood, brick and stucco buildings. The mortuary was situated on a small rise of land and could have been mistaken for one of the many churches sprinkled through the neighborhood if its signs had not been so garish.
The roof of the funeral home looked like a large A-frame structure. The row of French windows upstairs on the left side probably housed the administrative offices. The roof on the right side sloped into a covered breezeway to allow the mortuary’s fleet of Cadillac limos and hearses to turn around the building to pick up the casket and the decedent’s family from the side door of the chapel.
I parked in the lot to the left near the crematorium and walked back to the front of the building and along the curved brick walkway leading to the front door. I had slipped on a tatty tweed jacket I keep in my car to upgrade my jeans, polo shirt and sneakers. I was wearing my darkest shades to hide my eyes and my role as an aggrieved relative I would play to learn how the mortuary operated.
I was just about to pull the handle of the front door when it suddenly opened as if on command. The dude on the other side must have seen me coming. He was tall, coal-black and slick looking in his double-breasted sharkskin suit. His Fifties’-style threads must have set him back a bundle of C-notes. His designer shades were darker than mine.
“My name’s Brother Thomas. What can we do for you in your time of sorrow, Little Brother?”
His sudden appearance caught me off guard and I stammered something unintelligible while I stalled for time. My confusion didn’t seem to faze him. He must have been used to soft-pitching scared relatives in the midst of personal grief who were faced with funeral expenses they most likely couldn’t afford. Brother Thomas looked more like someone’s bodyguard than an undertaker.
“Uh, it’s about my Auntie. She’s had a bad stroke and the doctor says she ain’t about to make it much longer. I gotta see about making some preparations for when she passes. Could be any day now.”
“Not to worry, Little Brother. You definitely come to the right place. We gonna take care of all your Auntie’s needs in a way she be proud of you. Y’all don’t need to do nothin’ ’cept decide on which plan you want for yo’ special Auntie. We a full service funeral home an’ we gotta credit plan for every budget. Juss follow me into the office an’ we gonna check out how ta make your Auntie’s limited time on earth peaceful an’ serene while she waitin’ for the Lord to claim her for His own.”
I dutifully followed Brother Thomas into a spacious reception room. He sat down behind a big mahogany desk and motioned me to one of several matching blue velour chairs facing him. The chairs looked liked they belonged in a rich man’s mansion. They were big, plush and designed to let even the biggest fanny settle right in.
I caught the glint of light from overhead spotlights on the fancy hardware on a row of caskets raised on a special platform encircling the room. The one behind Brother Thomas looked like it had been customized in an auto body shop. It was metallic silver with gold trim; it only needed wheels and some detailing to pass for a street rod. You’d probably need one of those suitcases stuffed with cash to buy one of these boxes.
I could feel Brother Thomas’ eyes behind his shades sizing up my reaction to my new surroundings. He’d probably seen me arrive in my old Chevy and knew I couldn’t afford anything more than a simple pine box. That wouldn’t stop him from trying to sell me a box beyond my means. His next move surprised me.
“Why don’t you juss take yo’ time, Little Brother. Have a look at our fine selection of caskets and think hard ‘bout which one your dear Auntie’d choose for her trip to the Promised Lan’. This here book gotta summary of all our different burial plans and fun’ral services,” he said pointing to a large folio on his desk. “An’ if yo’ Auntie ain’t got no burial plot, they’s a list of real estate prices at the cemeteries at the end.”
I picked up the large, loose-leaf bound book and quickly skimmed through it while Brother Thomas excused himself to let me absorb the shocking cost of being buried in style. “Be back in a few minutes to discuss how we gonna take care of yo’ Auntie.”
The overhead spots now reflected the glimmer of Brother Thomas’ big gold pinkie ring off his spit-and-polish black patent leather shoes as he exited. He must have pressed a hidden button because speakers somewhere in the ceiling now softly murmured the sound of Bobby Bland singing, “Feel So Bad.”
As soon as he was gone, I got up and checked the price tags on several of the customized coffins. Prices ranged from $1,500.00 for the simplest one which wasn’t much more than the proverbial pine box to twenty-two grand for the most ornate model with gold-plated hardware. A quick glance through the book revealed that the basic plan included pick up at the hospital or morgue, embalming, dressing for the memorial service in the mortuary’s chapel, and a trip to a local cemetery. The coffin was extra; so were the services of a preacher for the chapel and graveside service. The mortuary could hire a preacher for a hundred bucks a hit and even provide a church choir to sing your favorite spirituals for an extra grand.
It would take at least $6,000.00 to get my fictional Auntie in and out of the doors of the Simmons Family Mortuary with no extras and a cheap coffin a couple of grades above a pine box; it would have removable handles and cheap velveteen lining. What did poor folks do? Most folks would be shamed into buying a coffin and services well beyond their means. For ten percent down, the mortuary would finance your burial provided you could put up a house, had other valuable collateral, or an acceptable guarantor for the loan. Finance charges were at the going rates for major credit cards.
Up to now, no one had ever clued me in on how expensive dying was going to be. As soon as I got the figures straight, I marked them on a pad and then snuck a look outside the room. Another door not far down the hall was open, so I scampered down the corridor and copped a look. It was a carbon copy of the one I’d just left. They probably watched the newspapers for drive-by shootings and had two salesmen working during busy periods. From my vantage point I saw stairs leading up to another level; a side door to the parking lot, and another door leading to the chapel I’d glimpsed on the way in.
I was tempted to hop up the stairs to confirm where they kept their business records, but knew it would blow my cover. I ducked into the chapel instead.
The chapel was like most local churches except for a big double door on the right. By guessing at the distances to the choir seats and raised platform for the pastor’s lectern, I surmised that the cold storage and embalming facilities must be located behind the chapel on the right. That meant the business offices and records were up the stairs on the left overlooking the parking lot.
While I was trying devise a plausible ruse to sneak upstairs, Brother Thomas caught up to me in the chapel. “Sorry to keep you waitin’ so long, Little Brother. Had to do some call backs to arrange for this weekend’s services. How you comin’ along wid yo’ plannin’ fo’ yo’ Auntie?”
“I’m startin’ to get the big picture. I do got some questions.”
“That’s what I’m