No toe tag? No entry . . .
It appears that I will not be overdressed for the morgue. Nor will I be underdressed. We have been dissed by the morgue manager (who knew this was an actual job?). We are not allowed to visit, quite possibly because we’re not dead yet.
Sadly, I am half glad. To be honest, I was not looking forward to hobnobbing with corpses—I was forcing myself to do this in the name of research. I know it’s very Stepford Wifely of me, but hanging out with the dead is just not my thing. They don’t make great small talk and they’re a little cold and forbidding, if you ask me.
Instead, I now have contact information for not one but two retired police officers who will probably rue the day that they told mutual acquaintances that it was okay for me to call/e-mail them.
But back to the whole concept of a morgue manager. What do you think such a person does? There are toe tags to generate, I’m sure. And perhaps bodies to check out to the M.E.? Or do you think the M.E. checks the bodies in to the M.M.? I’ll have to ask someone how this works.
I’m sure there are autopsies to schedule and perform. (Oh, ugh. There went my breakfast.) I’ll bet there’s a whole lotta stainless steel to clean. So there’s probably stainless steel cleaner to order. And disinfectant. And coolant for all those refrigeration units . . .
Being a morgue manager, I imagine, is a very busy task. If I were a morgue manager instead of a Stepford Wife, I probably wouldn’t want weirdo writers touring my premises and getting in the way, either. They’d show up in the name of research and/or morbid curiosity, puke their coffee up in the corner, possibly pass out on the floor. At the very least, they’d ask a lot of very silly questions for their great American novels—questions that as a busy morgue manager, I wouldn’t have time to answer.
So there you have it: I don’t blame the guy for refusing to let us visit. I wouldn’t let me in without a toe tag either!