On Tuesday, I’m paying a visit to the Miami morgue. A sort of accidental visit, but a visit, nevertheless.
Yes, this Stepford Wife is gonna get all gussied up to leave the Stepford Village and make googly eyes at the Dead. (Preferably we will not be running into anyone or anything Undead, but in these turbulent times you just never know.)
Shocking as it may seem, I simply have no idea what to wear. A black dress and Mummy’s handed-down-for-generations pearls is probably (pun intended) overkill. Yet my typical writer’s garb (jeans, bare feet, snaggle-teeth, hair mashed into clip on top of knobby head, permanently-attached coffee cup) seems disrespectful. And if I were dead, I do believe I’d want to be respected . . . at least a little more than I have been in life as a romance writer. (But that, ladies, sluts and gents, is a whole other topic.)
You see, I don’t believe we have a morgue here in Stepfordville. Why, I’m not sure, but I have a suspicion that the developers of this place might consider them low-rent. And if there *were* a morgue here, well, let’s just say that I can picture the old-fashioned term “top drawer” taking on new meaning. Anyway, I’m fairly certain that if anyone has the bad taste to die here, he/she is immediately transferred to a bigger, dirtier city where such things happen all the time.
Am I digressing again? Sorry. It’s a writer thing. We digress a lot. As I was saying, I’m going to visit the Miami morgue, probably sans pearls. And I have to admit some trepidation about this. In fact, I’m getting chills and goose-bumps just thinking about it, which every good reader knows is a prelude to terror.
I have already told the guy with whom I’m tagging along that he can pretend not to know me if I puke or pass out. The puking—well, there’s that little paper mask to hide it from others, at least until I can get my purse unzipped to catch the, er, fallout. But the possibility of passing out truly bothers me. Because what if I fall backwards and hit my head on the tile floor? And then become a permanent resident? What if the morgue is like the Hotel California and I never get to leave? Now that’s (brace yourself for another terrible pun) chilling.
Clearly, I must give much thought as to what to wear, especially given this new possibility of Death at a Morgue. Great book title, no?
Stay tuned for more of the Stepford Village Voice . . . after I check with Stacy and Clinton, who can at least tell me What Not to Wear on Tuesday.