Dua Lipa is never going to write a love song about a funeral director. Our only hope is Björk, but where even is she anymore?
This post is dedicated to the fellas who *made* my first year of death care. You could have laughed at my baby bird arms, dismissed my sudden interest in funeral work, been 1000% less cool about my wiener jokes…but here we are, Tetris-ing the dead from their homes and singing West Side story in the prep room.
Something new has butterflied out of my soul, and there are four reasons why.
NORVIN
People might call my friend Norv neurotic, but he just deeply, deeply cares. His “DO NOT CREMATE!!!!!” Post-It notes are a MasterClass study of human expression. Catholic school teachers would swoon over the point of his #2 pencils. A brilliant embalmer, relentless family man, and the only 50-something I know who still says the word “poopy,” you can’t help but adore Norv.
If Norv’s notes continue at this rate, he’ll have 14,098 notecards 
The original funk soul brother 
Discovering Norv’s soft spot for JLO was a life moment
ERIC
“Great, my tie is in a dead guy’s mouth.”
Eric gives me total laugh armor. Every 5 seconds I wonder if I’m going to fuck something up, look stupid, offend a family member (yes, of course, probably)…and Eric takes all of that nervous energy away. As my on-call buddy, he’s the Paul Walker to my Vin Diesel.
Probably saying something about boobs
Typical gripey text 
The perfect asshole
JAKE
If you give a Labrador crack, you get Jake. Eternally “zoomies” prone, Jake will fix, build, transport, mow, cremate, embalm, eat a t-bone for lunch and destroy a toilet in the most endearing way. He will also pulse his pecs to the beat of any tune, on demand. But not even in a bro way!
Jake carrying a typical ash haul
A hulk in the street but a total movie softie 
Queens smell the straight on Jake a mile away
MATTEO
If you wrote your ideal boss down on paper, they would still fucking suck in comparison to Matt. Show me a funeral home owner who quotes Kevin Malone. Who brings you cold drinks when you’re sweating your tits off in the crematory. Who springs for drag show brunch tickets. Who doesn’t flip out when you STILL CAN’T RAISE AN ARTERY. Who sells antique first edition books yet crushes T-Bell like a frat boy. Who actually answers emails with the subject line: “I am not a body snatcher.”
Casually sharing a priceless work of art
100 years of making Falcore wish he was a Malcore
My dream team, my die-and-rides, my favorite people to wade through maggots with. What if it hadn’t been these four? How quickly might I have written off this entire magic industry?
