Death At The Dinner Party

“Do you have a plan in case of your untimely death, or that of a loved one?”

I’ve entered Mia’s miniscule galley kitchen, which consists of a sink, refrigerator, apartment stove and exactly two cabinets - arms stretched widthwise, I can touch the cabinets and the wall above the stove that she’s painted a cheery green, as well as lengthwise the window above the sink and the door frame - and immediately feel trapped. Enclosed, as it were, in a space not big enough for two. 

I just went in for a couple of cubes of ice; Mia left out in a bowl and told everyone to keep it filled from a sack in the freezer. I absolutely, utterly and totally want to get back to Mia’s newly opened bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and a raging game of Cards Against Humanity. 

“Ah, excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, that came out really forward didn’t it? I’m Laurel,” she said and she thrust a hand toward my midsection. “I came with Cami and Diana? Mia used to cat-sit for me.”

I wipe ice water on my jeans and we shake hands. Then promptly excuse myself. Laurel continued to squeeze limes for margaritas and promised to talk to me later. 

Mia was fairly excited to host this dinner party, her first in her new apartment after leaving the comfy nest of her parents. A sunny, two-room flat on the third floor of a 30s brick-style box, Mia had decorated with numerous items from IKEA, a few antiques borrowed from her parents and a brand-new 48-inch flat screen, which served as the musical entertainment, streaming Sirius XM’s “80s On 8.”

She invited maybe 20 friends; 12 had shown up and we all jockey for seats. Cami, Diana, Mia and Mia’s cousin, Dustin, were playing Sequence at the dinner table. And, as usual, Cami and Diana are fighting. Again. 

The rest of us are scattered in another corner of the living/dining room, squished together on the sofa, a wingback chair and several folding tables my wife, Andrea, made us bring. With generous laughter, this round of Cards Against Humanity concludes with Mia’s therapist friend, Joclyn, winning. 

“You gotta know your audience,” she said, and gave a boozy victory toast with a glass of Pinot Noir. 

Before we can start a new game, Laurel emerges from the kitchen, carrying several margaritas on a tray, and suggests a new game: Do or Drink. With cards like “Reveal to everyone how many people you’ve slept with, or take four drinks; if anyone calls bullshit on you, finish your drink” and “Confess out loud to the group who you’d fuck, marry or kill or drink four times” shit was about to get real at Mia’s casually-crowded dinner party. 

***

I’ve already lost my mobile for the duration of the game (some bullshit question about being addicted when, in fact, it’s how I make my living), and now everyone knows that I don’t wear underwear, ever. And I’m feeling tight, with nearly a half-bottle of Buffalo Trace in my system. 

It’s Laurel’s turn; she pulls a card and clears her throat. 

“Explain what you do for a living in great detail; if someone calls bullshit correctly, finish your drink.”

My eyebrows raise, instinctively. 

“Maybe not a lot of you know, but I was a CNA at a nursing home for 12 years,” Laurel began. “And let me tell you, that gives you so much insight on death and dying. Watching people die, all alone, no family anywhere to be found. 

“Life is lonely enough, and when you see that much death, it gets really depressing, you know? It seizes you, pulls you in and darkens even your best days. Oh, sure, there were times when it wasn’t all bad. Putting together puzzles in the common room, brushing a client’s hair and watching her sigh. Trading dirty jokes with the dirty old men in the gameroom.

“But death always came knocking.

“Well, I just couldn’t stand it anymore, you know, so last May I started at Benevolent Funeral Home. I sort of used my experiences to jump-start my career as a funeral planner. Are you even aware of how much a funeral costs these days? I mean, start planning now, so your family isn’t on the hook for thousands of dollars. There’s a lot of peace of mind in funeral planning, let me tell you. And seriously, all of you need to start thinking about it now, before it’s too late.”

Everyone takes a drink. And a somber deep breath. I empty my highball and shoot a subdued side-glance around the room. 

Laurel looks thoroughly pleased. But the address has crashed the mood. It was late anyway, so drinks were downed,  glassware collected. Hugs given. Numbers and Facebook friendships exchanged.

As Andrea and I walked out the door with our folding chairs in tow, I found Laurel sitting in the wingback chair, surrounded by people. She leaned her head out of the crowd and we locked eyes. She smiled, winked, and slowly raised two thumbs in triumph. 

She’d be going home with eight new funeral plan appointments.