Lucky Stiffs

by Rebecca Nazar

Lucky Stiffs was no fable. Merle Jenkins, the proprietor, was an innovator, and yes indeedy, he ran a drive-thru funeral business right here in Madawaska, Maine, a straightforward village due true North. You couldn't miss it--if it was what you were looking for--and pulled you in like a magnet if your grief was vast and deep and jagged as a crevasse. Stephen King dropped by; you could see his picture just off to the left when you pulled up to the window. Maine's native son had his arm thrown over Merle's all kindred and fraternal like. Merle's face was washed out in the photo. But in person and up close he always looked natural, at peace, just like when he was more alive. See, Merle was a marvel; only an itty-bitty bit of life pulsed through him, and he was his own best advertisement if you needed an example that zombiefying your recently departed might be a good idea.

Well, some thought Merle zombiefying corpses was an abomination. They hissed that what he did wasn't a true funeral business. He prepped the dead for a ceremony that acknowledged their passing, right? That's what funeral directors do, right? Well, there you go. Merle felt making a zombie out of a loved one for a spell could ease the grief of friends and family, keeping emotional scaring to a minimum. Think about it: death can be jarring. Don't most people kick off without proper notice? Being turned into a zombie allowed the deceased the opportunity to tie up loose ends, say good-byes and apologize to love ones, if necessary.

Merle was a miracle incarnate, and he handed off his gift to others. That's the definition of a saint, isn't it? For most of his life, he worked as a short order cook in diners all across the state. Days off, he fished, sailed, and hiked. All those modest pursuits kept him focused and calm, so he could do battle with the D-Day phantoms of WWII that rattled his noggin. I loved to hear him tell the story of how that mortar blast nearly ripped him in two, and how his intestines tumbled out, and him salvaging what he could with clumps of Normandy Beach mixed in. Then came the best part, when he pantomimed hammering in place the piece of jeep hubcap he'd fashioned to secure his innards. Clang, clang, clang! Oh, how I'd howl!

But to this very day, seeing any hubcap still chokes me up.

Anyway. Nightmares plagued Merle, but it was the guilt of surviving, when so many worthy others didn't, that really gnawed at him. Before being wounded, he admitted to being a major jerk, but he had made amends. I didn't ask for details. Didn't need to, his eyes were clean. One night, after we made love, Merle confided in me his deepest fear. Franny, I'm a soulless freak, and too lifeless to contain something so precious, he sobbed. I told him don't be stupid. Didn't you rescue me from that alley, help me patch up my reputation, and suggest I go to community college? Don't you watch very little television? You've got a soul and odds are it's healthy. More people should be zombies like you. Now shut up, and let's do it again. Two hours later, Merle roused me from unconsciousness and said he had had a flash of inspiration during our ruckus coupling--I suppose that made me his muse, of sorts. He explained how he wanted to zombiefy the dead and give them a chance to ease their passing into the next life.

Using only his gut instinct, Merle tried out different recipes until he concocted his special blend zombie recipe, which I wasn't privy to-at first. The drive thru wasn't a gimmick. He was no Barnum, just pragmatic; besides, he had all that experience slinging hash. A larger space would have meant more costs for him and higher prices for the grief stricken. The process didn't take but a minute or two and wasn't long lasting.  For fifty dollars a corpse was a little alive for a day, a good value-- just like a .99-cent hamburger or bucket of chicken is. A family would drive up, slide their dearly departed into a slot on one side of the building, show Merle the death certificate, pay the fee, then round the corner to find their zombiefied loved one sitting in a lawn chair all ready for pick up with a dozen helium filled balloons in hand that read Carpe Diem--that was my idea.

Merle felt lucky to be alive, and those he zombiefied were stiff limbed, hence, the parlor's name, Lucky Stiffs. Yes, he should have thought the name through, for some got the wrong impression. From time to time, necrophiliacs sniffed around town, asking the zombies out on dates, but the local kids loved to tar, feather, and whatnot those sexual deviants and begged Merle not to change the name. The town folk figured, if the kids had a mob mentality anyway, why not put all that teenaged angst to a constructive civic use? As a result cow tipping went way down, causing milk output to spike.

Because of Luck Stiffs a whole cottage industry popped up in Madawaska catering to those zombiefied, putting lots of locals to work. There were counselors galore to help friends and loved ones iron things out. Wholesome families went to Moody's Diner.  And no, real brains weren't served. Everything on the menu was mashed up to resemble brains, though: strawberry jello with cool whip, or spaghetti noodles, marinara sauce and meatballs, or meat loaf and red cabbage--that sort of thing. Rowdier characters barhopped between Kick the Bucket, Dire Consequences, and Rigamortis, where various flavors of zombie drinks flowed from vats shaped like coffins. Most women enjoyed a day of beauty at the Curl Up and Dye Salon and Spa. Golfing, kayaking, wall climbing, and bungee jumping were popular pursuits. What the zombiefied lacked in coordination they made up for in gusto.

What you need to understand is that it was the absurdity of it all that blunted everybody's mourning. True, you only had twenty-four hours, but they were full of hearty laughter, which soothed the soul. Luck Stiffs helped friends, family, and the zombiefied laugh in the face of death.

After about five years and thousands of zombiefyings, Merle began to wane. See, he had tapped into himself in order to help others. Bit by bit, just like an hourglass measures time, he had placed a grain of sand from his own bowels to reanimate the dead: his blood, sweat, and tears made up the rest of his secret recipe-oh, and a dash of paprika.

Merle worried about leaving me to fend for myself. I told him don't be stupid. Didn't I turn my life around? Aren't I scrappy? Don't I have a strong heart? I'll manage, given time, even though my very robust sex life will come to a tragic end. The town threw Merle a big parade and festival during his last hours. I reigned as Zombie Queen. We all had a heck of a good time, but bawled like babies when he finally shuffled up to heaven.

If you have any soul or heart at all you'd see, smell, and taste the sticky sweet moral of Merle's lifework at Luck Stiffs coming from a country mile away: cherish each precious hour with your loved ones; give a little of yourself to others; oh, and laugh a lot despite the specter of death that looms just around the corner for us all.

I'm doing okay because fate spawned me some cuddly comfort and joy during Merle's last moments. Hey, I've got to run. Merle Jr. just woke from his nap and needs changing and a bottle. Talk about a shot of luck, we always used two types of contraception!