Hudson Man

NEW BUSINESS

By the time Ginger found the funeral home she was already pissed.  In fact, she was ready to chew Byron’s ass.  Thanks to his bad directions she was twenty minutes late, and if there was one thing Ginger couldn’t tolerate it was wasting time. “Hamster-faced fool,” she muttered while parking her leased Maxima next to her assistant’s ridiculous 1957 Chevy.  Eccentricity was okay in the office, up to a point.  But a goddamned two-tone, jacked-up hot rod in front of a funeral home that looked like a plantation house was an embarrassment, it reflected badly on her struggling advertising agency:  a kick in the teeth of common sense, and her bank account.

One of her biggest clients was the construction company that built the antebellum monument to death.  David Grossman, its martini swilling C.E.O., was a prissy geezer who didn’t like surprises.

With her  attache tucked firmly under one arm, Ginger moved between the home’s huge columns.   Even in New Jersey, the vast porch left her feeling like some modern business belle who traded her hoop skirts for  high heels.

It was only 8:30, but nerves and the August morning  were already sending a trickle of sweat down her back.  The building was as somberly elegant inside as out.  Byron was standing beneath a huge crystal chandelier and when he saw her come through the door his eyes widened above his maidenly cheeks.  For a moment Ginger flashed on  the eyes of a young deer she and Tim had nearly run over one foggy night in Vermont.  A terrified gaze isolated in the headlights, then gone.

Before Ginger could speak, Byron gestured down the hall to his right where a small crowd was gathered. 

“Hello, Ginger,” he said,  “Seems we have an unavoidable hitch in today’s shoot.”

“Unavoidable hitch?” Ginger asked, outrage and sarcasm underlining every syllable.

“Yes,” Byron whispered.  “An unscheduled service,” he nodded toward the mourners.

“It’s really a tragic thing.  A three-year-old snuck out of his bedroom during his naptime and somehow--”

“I’m very sorry about all that, Byron. But we still need to do the photo shoot today if we’re going to make our production schedule.

“So, tragedy or no tragedy, the show must go on.  Where the hell is              Trevor?” 

“He’s always late.  I’ve recommended other photographers in the past, but my advice is always ignored.”

Ginger was about to tell Byron something he couldn’t possibly ignore when the  beeper in her attache went off, filling the stillness of the funeral home with its electronic nagging.  A quick glance told Byron he and his boss had become the focus of the bereaved family’s attention.

Ginger opened the case and snapped off the beeper; a device her secretary reserved for major emergencies.

“All right, Byron, you’ve wanted more control for months now.  Here’s your chance.  More control is all about messes like this.  I’m going back to the office.  Stay here and get me beautiful photos for the client’s brochure.  Then we’ll talk about a promotion.”

Before Byron could respond, the front door opened and Trevor Masters came through it with Nancy and Tina, his beautiful young assistants.   All three were dressed in well-worn jungle outfits.  The women were each carrying part of the three hundred pounds of photographic equipment Trevor brought to every shoot.

Down the hall, mouths opened in shock at the sight of the new arrivals.  A worried assistant funeral director separated himself the family and headed toward the main entrance.

Ginger smiled sweetly at Byron and told him, “Good luck, Big Bwanna,” before heading toward the photogs.

“Trevor, baby.  Good to see you.  Got to run.  Make it beautiful for me.  Byron has the shot list.  Ciao.”