Chill and Other Stories

Charles George Taylor is a payroll messenger in New York City. He grew up in rural Pennsylvania, served in the military and went to the city to live the gay life. These stories include lyrical memories of his childhood, reflections on religion, contemplation of existence beyond the physical world, gay romance—and a lot of baking. No, really, a lot of baking. Here is the beginning of Zombie Inc.

MY SEVENTH LOVER B. is a licensed funeral director. He is certified by the state of New York to preserve the dead. Most children have dreams of growing up to become firefighters, policemen or writers. Not B. He has had an academic interest in corpses since the fifth grade. Shortly before settling down with me, he left the funeral directing business. There was no valid explanation of why he abandoned his childhood dreams. He claims that he didn’t like the people he worked for, but I know that is not the real reason he turned in the keys to the black hearse that he once drove around Brooklyn, picking up his clients, for a final trip to the beauty parlor.
“You could make so much more money if you only returned to your profession,” I told him. “I wish you would leave that job at Starbucks. Why not try working for a different funeral home? They can’t all be bad businesses. We could really use the money, B.”
“You don’t get it. I’m tired. It was exhausting adding double shots of embalming fluids to those bodies. I was on call 24 hours a day. I’m famous in Brooklyn. Embalming is an art, Charles. There is more to being a mortician than making your clientele look good. I know how to make a corpse look alive again, unlike others in my profession. They have no faith in resurrection, like I do. The job requires so much more than preservation. Loved ones cried in my arms almost every day. That was a lot of stress. Those days are over.
“I like working the frother at Starbucks. It sure beats trying to inject the right amounts of fluids. You know how the people on Park Avenue look forward to seeing me at my coffee machine during morning rush hour. Life was dead before you and my new job. Working alone in a basement with nobody to talk to was horrible. In a strange creepy way, they thought I could bring them back to life. I can take only so much. I’m not a plastic surgeon.”
“What do you mean they thought you could bring them back to life?”
He didn’t answer.