I am the only female mortician in town.
Think of an undertaker and, odds are, it’s a man. Right? If, like me, you’re a woman in this business, you have to try harder.
So, heading home during a slow week, a slower month, I spot an accident ahead. The crumpled hood of a black Lexus jammed into the rear bumper of a small yellow car. I’ll have a better view as we inch closer.
Nearing the accident, I see a crushed bicycle wheel and tortured handlebars sticking out between the two cars. Blood pools on the asphalt. I calculate my options.
I can turn at the intersection ahead and keep going. There’s plenty of people crowding around to help.
Or I can pull over and join the crowd. This is tricky. If I stop, I have to decide: should I leave a business card? This could be a fatality. Someone will need an undertaker.
I’m not the type to keep a police scanner in my car, but undertaking is a business. You’ve got to get business to stay in business. Maybe a decent profit just fell into my lap. If I procrastinate, it could be a lost opportunity.
A parking space opens at the curb, and I realize the universe just gave me a shove. I pull in, grab a business card, and walk up the street.