The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Cancer, Crime and Crypts

Episode Date: March 24, 2021

When a beloved patient’s cancer returns, a psychologist confesses that she is at a loss for words, an inmate at a women’s prison describes the surprising value of an ordinary transistor radio, and an undertaker deals with a problematic client. Hosted by Jenifer Hixson, Senior Director at The Moth. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Jenifer Hixson Storytellers: Martha Manning, Chris Tombline, Piper Kerman

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slash Houston to experience a live show near you. That's from PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jennifer Hickson, Senior Producer at the Moth, and I'll be your host this time. The Moth is unscripted, true tales, told by regular folks and rock-on tours alike, who

bring stories from their lives to the stage. This hour, we have three stories for you. We'll hear about a clinical psychologist with car trouble, an inmate's desperate desire for a simple transistor radio, and an undertaker with a problematic client. This first story is from way back in the Moff's history. The name of the show was Savage Mood, Stories of Melancholy. To be honest, I was a bit afraid that a show about depression would be depressing, but the night started with this story from Martha Manning, and the audience was immediately sucked into her world,

because we're not often privy to what's going on inside the head of the therapist. Here's psychologist Martha Manning, live at the mall. I'm going to talk about two breakdowns tonight. Thankfully, neither are my own. Although I could serenade you for the entire evening with those stories. My stories are about a breakdown as a therapist, me, and a breakdown of a car, mine. For a long time, I was the epitome of the perfect therapist.

I had a high-rise, expensive office. The Kleenex matched the carpet. It resembled in no way my own home, which was decorated in one accident perpetrated upon another and another. But I loved my office. It made me feel closer to being a real therapist. And for the most part, my therapy patients helped in that regard, in that they seemed to respond to what I did for them and with them and get better.

That was until Annie. Annie was the first person who was referred to me by an oncologist. After that I got a number of referrals because it appears that depression and cancer are very much hinged both in terms of dealing with the day to day, as well as the inevitabilities that are shoved in your face. Annie and I worked together for a year and a half, and she was a real street fighter when it came to cancer, which was marching relentlessly through her body. But the things we worked on were fairly mundane many times. Her recalcitrant 12-year-old son, the fact

that he didn't get along with his new stepfather, those kinds of things. Unfortunately, her breast cancer metastasized again, and it metastasized to her brain. And at this point, it was decided that there be no more treatment. Annie came in to my office to tell me that and with that knowledge, the first thing she did was reach down into her bed and pull out a new pack of cigarettes. She and I were gonna light up the world. Unfortunately, I didn't smoke and had absolutely

no intention of starting. And we were in a medical building that would go absolutely nuts if there was any smoke detected. So, I'm thinking, what would a real therapist do? And I didn't know. So I said, let's go outside. So Annie and I went outside. And we leaned against a green dodge in the parking lot. And our faces were tilted up into the sort of the new spring sun. And Annie is puffing away and says to me, casually, what is it you believe?

And I'm stunned, I don't know what I believe. I believe data. And I said, well, you know, it's not so important what I believe, Annie. It's, it's what you believe. That's important. Bullshit.

Martha, that's bullshit. I want to know what you believe. And I said about what? And she said about dying. About where we go after we die. About prayers. About God answering our prayers. Well, you know, I mean, Jesus, I had 16 years of Catholic school,

but I didn't have a single answer for any of those questions. And so I started again and talked about how there was data about the healing power of prayer. And she had just about had it with me. And I actually came over and bumped me in the leg and said, cut it out. I want to know. I need to know.

And then I realized what she was asking me. And so I struggled and I struggled out loud. And my final answer was a mess. And it was that I didn't know. Sometimes I thought I knew and other times I was sure I didn't. And right now I had no idea where I was. And for some reason that sorry-ass answer was satisfactory to her. And she let me back in. She lit up another cigarette and she said, you're going to be with me, right? What? You're going to be with me. What do you mean? Till the end. I'm thinking, what end? She goes the end,

Martha, the end. You're going to be with me. Again, there's part of me that's thinking, what would a real therapist say? I had never been taught any of this stuff. And I said, yeah, Annie, I'm going to be with you till the end, having no idea what that meant. At the same time, my car was stalling out. It particularly hated bumps in McDonald's

in the Safeway parking lot, and would stall out leaving lines of people royally pissed off at me. That's McDonald's, and me stranded with groceries at the Safeway. And I finally brought the car to the person I should have brought it to at the beginning. And this was a person whose name was Chuck, but he worked at a place called Malcolm's Automotive.

And over the years, I had so associated Chuck with Malcolm's, that I always called him Malcolm. Chuck always had a perfectly pressed gray denim uniform with the most remarkably clean fingernails, and a deeply resonant calming voice that would have qualified him to be an FM DJ late at night, comforting people in there and saw him there. I would always say, how are you doing Malcolm? And I go, oh God, I'm sorry, I guess a lot of people do that, to which he would always

go, well, actually no. But I described the problem to Malcolm, and he was very satisfied and confident that he could fix it. Malcolm had always fixed it, and he conveyed his confidence this time. So I rented a car and went back to work. Annie was sliding down a hill faster than any of us had anticipated. She was in tremendous pain and was vomiting a great deal. She entered hospice to have better pain control. Hospice is one of the few places in life that says, we can't fix it and we're not going to try.

She went in and started having people call me immediately and I began to understand what it meant to be with her until the end. And at night, after work, I would take my rental car and drive to hospice. And I would sit with her, always wondering, what would a real therapist do? She got worse and worse so that she was blind and she was in a great deal of pain. And I would struggle to know even what therapeutic thing could I possibly do with her. And when I ran out of stories to tell her, I resorted and you'll see how pathetic this is in the several seconds.

I resorted to singing in her ear, because we had, over time, for meditations of pain control used things, and we had used, in the beginning, Steve one would roll with it baby. In the beginning that song is a vibrant rocking rebellion about taking charge and moving on. But at the end it's very different and I would lean over and whisper into her ear. Then you'll see love can be so nice. It's just a step up to paradise. You just roll with a baby.

And she would squeeze my hand. And I would know that she heard me. The next day Malcolm called and said things aren't going well. I can't get the cardestall. I'm saying did you take it to save for me? Did you go to McDonald's? He made me very anxious in his impotence. He said, we've done all those things, but I'll call you tomorrow. So the next morning, I get a call from Malcolm. He says, I'm sorry. We've done everything we can. Everything.

And we can't find the problem. And if we can't find it, we can't find the problem and if we can't find it we can't fix it. It's as simple as that and I was furious. I said, what do you mean? You can't find it, you can't fix it. Mechanics can always do more. Fast talk me, cheat me, deceive me. But don't say there's nothing more you can do Malcolm. I mean Chuck. And he said, I'm really sorry. And I believe he was, but it didn't help. That evening, I went to visit Annie at the hospice.

And she was in terrible shape. And I knew by her breathing that she was not long for the world. But in a moment of lucidity, she held my hand and she said, I want you to know something. I want you to know the best thing you ever said to me. And I'm thinking, well, thank God, finally we're going to hear a therapeutic intervention somewhere that was, you know. And she said, remember when the cancer came back the third time, remember what you said? And I said, no, I don't.

And she said, you got really choked up and you said, this really sucks. And I'm waiting to hear the therapeutic intervention. And then I realized that was it. All of it. Fifteen years of training and experience in psychotherapy. And this really sucks. Had the most impact on this dying woman. And just as I was despairing, she was great effort, leaned her head over to look at me. And she said, and it really does, you know. It really sucks.

And all I could do was look right back at her and say, yeah, it really does. I kissed her on the cheek, not knowing when I would ever see her again. And as I was leaving and closing the door to her room, there was someone down the hall leaving another room. And from a distance, I could tell that it was a man. And then closer, I could tell that it was a tall man in a uniform, a gray uniform. It was Chuck.

Chuck was at hospice. And from the way he was leaving in that drooped shoulder, quiet way that people leave the rooms of the dying. I could tell that he was leaving someone he loved. I wanted to run to this man. I had such violent fantasies about all day. I wanted to run to him.

I wanted to wrinkle his perfect uniform. I wanted to hug him and say, I get it Malcolm, I mean Chuck, I get it. Some things just can't be fixed, can they? But I didn't. I watched him get into his pickup truck and drive away. Annie died the next day and I stood by her bed as her priest said his prayers. My car got better. It never stalled again. I don't get it. I don't understand how a car gets better with nobody's help and how a person doesn't

get better with everybody's help and how a person doesn't get better with everybody's. But I'm learning that there's a lot I don't understand. That was Martha Mann. Martha is a clinical psychologist and author of many books including undercurrents, a life beneath the surface. In a moment we'll be back with Piper Kerman, whose best-selling memoir was the inspiration for the award-winning series of the same name Orange is the new black. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and

presented by the Public Radio Exchange PRX.org. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jennifer Hickson. Piper Kerman grew up in a supportive family, graduated from an elite college, and had a promising future, until some bad decisions caught up with her and sent her to prison for 13

months. We were drawn to a story in her memoir that outlined the immense value of an ordinary transistor radio in prison. Here's Piper Kermann, live at the moon. For sale at the commissary at at the Federal Correctional Institution for Women in Denver, Connecticut, you can get shampoo, deodorant soap, toothpaste, you can get pens and paper, envelopes and stamps, your lifeline to the outside world. You can get packets of tuna and hot sauce and candy and razors. And if you're lucky, if you got it like that, you can get sneakers, vitamins, luxuries,

the most coveted item of all, a radio. I went to prison in 2004. I went behind a drug offense from 1993. When I was fresh out of Smith College, I fell into a relationship with a mysterious older woman and she was an Arcrotic Straffaker and she asked me to carry a bag stuffed with money from Chicago to Brussels. And I did. The things that we do, the consequences of the things we do, they come back to us in one way or another. And for me, more than a decade later, I found myself walking through prison gates in

the biggest, most vicious looking razor wire fan side ever seen in my life. And on that day when I surrendered at that prison, I found myself stripped naked in a cold tile room, commanded to squat and cough for the first of what would be hundreds and hundreds of strip searches. And I was transformed head spinningly quickly into prisoner number 11187-424. That place and the people who ran it never let you forget that to them you were nothing but that number. So I was put in the unit where I would live for the next year and I immediately saw that I was one of hundreds and hundreds

of prisoners. I was surrounded by women of every size, shape, color, accent, and I knew none of them. I was desperately trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. And women began to approach me, and I was scared. And they said things to me. They came at me, and they said things like, do you need a toothbrush, some shower shoes, some instant coffee? This was the phenomenon known as the welcome wagon. And you need to get

everything that you need from the welcome wagon because you're not going to get it from the prison. The only things that the prison gives you during your stay are toilet paper, tampons, and once a month a small ration of laundry powder. So everything you need comes from the commissary. Even the things on offer from the institution like green meat and government cheese and moldy pudding are ironically in short supply. The food is lousy and the portions are too small. And so that commissary is very important.

If you have money in your commissary account, you can get a banana, some ibuprofen, even some eyeshadow in hummingbird colors. And these tiny comforts, they make you feel human there. And they also make you feel just a little bit more in control of your prison life, which is why Commissary is one of the first privilege you might lose if you're punished there. So I was very fortunate. Unlike most of the women that I was doing time with,

I could count on folks from the outside world to put money into my Commissary account. So in theory, I could count on folks from the outside world to put money into my commissary account. So in theory, I would want for nothing, but there was one thing that I wanted from that commissary very, very badly, and I couldn't get it. And that was a radio. Just a cheap little transistor radio about the size of a deck of cards with a headset. And it would have cost about $6 out here on the street, and in prison it costs $42.90.

And at $0.14 an hour, that represents about 300 hours of prison labor. So those radios are very, very dear. And despite that, once a woman has her basics taken care of her hygiene, her stamps, that radio is going to be one of the first things that she gets if she can scrape together the resources. And here's why. Prison, especially in this country, is crowded. And because of that, it's noisy.

Imagine the sound of hundreds and hundreds of people bouncing off of center block walls and metal all day, every day. And prison is lonely. The last thing my lawyer said to me before I was about to go in was piper. Don't make any friends. And something you hear again and again when you're locked up is you walk in here alone and you walk out alone. And prison is stultifiably intimate, meaning that all of your moments of every day, your most private moments, are lived,

stacked on top of one another in a place where no one wants to be. This is not the kind of intimacy that one craves. So that radio was like the silver bullet that could at least alleviate those conditions a little bit, just a little bit. But I couldn't get one. And that's because every week when I went to the commissary on Tuesdays, the prison guard who ran the place, he was the one who

would throw every grocery item at you after he scanned it, would say, no radios Kermann, no radios Kermann, they were out of stock, out of stock of the radios. Now, folks, one of those radios for practical reasons. You had to have the radio in order to watch television. So if you'd gone into any of the many, many TV rooms in the prison, you would have been surprised by the silence. And what you would have seen was dozens of women sitting there, headphones on, turned to the same frequency

so they could hear the program. But I didn't want the radio to watch the Today Show or Fear Factor. I wanted it so that I could go to the movies on Saturday night. In the federal prison system, every weekend, they screen a movie. And the movies reliably fall into three categories. You've got low comedy, high

melodrama, and anything with an animal protagonist. When they screened Hidalgo, the horse dies at the end, and I found myself surrounded by sobbing convicts. Movie night was the collective social event. Everybody went. You know, folks would go to the same screenings and sit in the same seats with their friends, and even the biggest loner in the prison would make the scene. And after weeks and then months of trying to follow my lawyer's advice and keeping to myself all meek and mild, I wanted to make the scene too. I wanted in on the action.

And that radio was the golden ticket to Movie Night because otherwise you were just reading lips. But every week, no radios, Kermann! I wanted that radio for another reason too. I needed it to escape. Since I had arrived in February, I had been fleeing out of the unit building where I lived, down to a little gravel track that we were allowed to use. I would go out there in the freezing cold and crunch around

and that ice and snow to get away from that noise, to get away from the gossip and the fights and the human stew that I was a part of in that prison. And I wanted that radio to get even further away. I wanted to hear music. I wanted to hear the news. I wanted to hear voices that had nothing to do with that awful place. I wanted to remember that the outside world existed.

And still, every week, no radios, Kermann, the ice and snow down on that track turned into mud and then dried up in the spring sunshine. And still, week after week, they were out of radios. I was getting desperate. So one day, I was down in the dorms doing work as an electrician. That was my job. Well actually I was hanging up a legal hooks. One of the rules of the prison is that you can have no personal items anywhere in your living quarters except in your locker or hung up. And those hooks were in very very short supply. But as an electrician, I had access to tools, and I could fashion a makeshift hook that I could install in someone's area.

And the word spread like wildfire, that upon request, I would do just that, hang up those hooks. And all of a sudden, women, I didn't know. Some women I didn't like were coming to me and asking me to hook them up. And I never said no. I always did it. And one of my coworkers in the electric shop got frustrated with me one day. She said, Piper, you don't have to do this.

Why do you bother? And I said, no one is looking out for us in this shithole. We have to look out for each other. So on this particular day, I was in B-dorm, my own dorm, hanging up hooks, screwing them into the wall. And I spotted Lionel. Now Lionel, unlike me, was doing serious time, a long sentence. And she was the acknowledged consigliere of the warehouse and the commissary, which was a plum prison job. She was a formidable figure.

But she was my neighbor. She was not my friend. But she lived about three feet away from me. And she would say, good morning to me. And if we found ourselves brushing our teeth side by side before it lights out, she'd give me a smile every now and then. So I got up my courage and I approached her. And I said, Lionel, I'm really sorry to bother you, but I've got a question.

And I explained my radio problem. And Lionel just looked at me. I said, Lionel, I am going crazy without music. The CEO won't tell me when that shipment is coming in. Do you know she just stared at me, not smiling. She said, Kermin, you know you're not supposed to ask warehouse folks about the inventory. It's against the rules.

I said, no Lionel, I didn't know that. I didn't mean to put you on this spot. I'm sorry. I could have kicked myself. I felt like a jackass. So I had broken a cardinal rule. Another thing you hear again and again when you're locked up is don't ask questions in prison.

This in response to essentially any question. So now not only did I not have a radio, I had committed a huge prison faux pas. So I was dejected to say the least. And the next week, I almost didn't even put the radio on my commissary list. Why bother? You know, some women who had shopped before me were complaining.

They were still out. And I just dragged my tail into that commissary building. And so when a shiny bright new radio came hurtling into my grocery pile, I just stared at it. Until the CEO began to scream, what's wrong with you, Kermann? I guess it's true what they say about blondes, huh? Keep moving, Kermann, move, move, move.

I began to shove my purchases, including that precious radio into my laundry bag as quickly as I could, and as I did that, I looked past the CO back into the commissary and I could see Lionel back there working, and she would not meet my eye. I turned around and I walked out of that commissary and I was elated, and not because of what I had in that bag. The idea that Lionel, a prisoner, one of us could make something happen just like that, was thrilling to me.

The fact that she had the power to get that radio was stunning to me, and the fact that she had chosen to give it to me was absolutely astounding. I knew in that moment that I had her regard. She saw me for who I was and not just the number that we were supposed to be in that place. And it made my heart sing. That was Piper Kermey. Her memoir, Orange is the New Black, my year in a women's prison, was the inspiration for the long-running, critically acclaimed, and award-winning series of the same name. My favorite characters, tasty and crazy eyes.

We asked Piper how she felt her story fit into the theme of the evening, which was currency. It was a story about how a person builds social currency in a place where they really know no one and where they really have to earn their keep. And the reason that I was so excited to tell this story is because I'm always hopeful that folks will think about who's in prison in this country and what happens to them and why they're there

in their first place. In a little bit more of a complex way, in perhaps a little bit more of a complete way, it adds a layer of nuance that folks don't necessarily expect when they think about crime and punishment in really basic ways. To see a picture of Piper Kermann and her husband in the visitor's room of the Danbury Federal Correctional Institution, please visit our website, themoth.org. In a moment, our final story from an undertaker who makes a wrong turn while driving a The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jennifer Hicksim, Senior Producer at the Moth. In 2009, I was looking for an undertaker.

We were working on a show called Stiff's, Stories of the Nearly and Deerly Departed. Four stories were cast, most of them pretty serious. I needed a story on the fun side. I asked around to see if anyone knew of any funny undertakers and the problem was pretty obvious. My calls to funeral homes, asking for hilarious undertakers, were not well received.

Eventually, I put in a cold call to a school of mortuary science and asked, hey, have any of your students been particularly funny? By the way, undertakers return to school regularly to learn new techniques. This is the sort of stuff you learn when you work at the Moth. Anyway, I got a number. It led me straight to Chris Tomline, who's been in the business for more than two decades now.

If you've ever wondered what undertakers are really thinking, here's Chris Tomline, Live at the Moss. Thank you. I've been a funeral director now for 20 years here locally in New York. I worked in Brooklyn and Queens, currently in Long Island. And I've always worked at the busiest funeral homes, kind of like death is following me around. And when you work at the busiest funeral home, what that really means is that you're better than everyone else at getting rid of people. So don't have any misconceptions.

I had a happy childhood. I wasn't off playing with that animals or anything like that. To the contrary, actually, I wanted to be a doctor. And one day I was sitting in Queensborough Community College and realized that wasn't my fastest route to learn how to save a life. And I thought what I was gonna do. Now, my only obstacle getting into medical school at the time was gonna be time and money. And funeral directing school was two years and ten grand and I was out.

So I looked into the curriculum and see what I wanted to take. And all classes were like anatomy. 10 grand and I was out. So I looked into the curriculum and see what I wanted to take. And all classes are like anatomy. I said, Doc, this is taking anatomy. Chemistry, pathology, physiology. I said, I'm working on building something up here. We took classes like in bombing, for dummies, and psych. And in the class that I learned the least amount in, I didn't realize I was going to use the most because when you're with people at the worst time in their life You really become a therapist and my side class was only about six months of Vocabulary words stuff down your throat that you had to regurgitate back down on a piece of paper

But one statement that stayed with me is that funerals are going to bring out the best and also the worst in people And it was early on when I became a funeral director and after only going to school for two years, you're 21 years old and I didn't know it at the time but I didn't know. And I'm going to try to get people through a bad day. I couldn't get myself through a good day. So, one of my first arrangements, I'm sitting with somebody and Nana died and Nana was old when I was born She was almost a hundred years old she was 98 and I'm sitting with these people and they were affectionately talking about this lady and I left an impression on me because usually when they're old

They just look to the sky to people as fast as they can and it was December when she died Because they were talking how in a few weeks we can't have Christmas at night And it's house anymore and who's gonna call us a night to say good night and our birthdays are gonna be the same A little while into the arrangement. I realized that I didn't know what to do So I started to cry with the family I Think I babbled something like she was so young And by the time we got done with the arrangement they were patting me on the back saying you'll be alright and I was like, I've traveled something like she was so young.

And by the time we got done with the arrangement, they were patting me on the back saying, you'll be all right, don't worry about it. But at the end, they were nice people, because I did something, maybe my sincerity, that made them feel better, and they said, thank you. Well, the year goes by, and I'm trying to fumble through my industry

here, and I come across Antenette. And Antenette was the girl who worked at the deli down the block from the funeral home. In three, four days a week, we would eat lunches by going down to the deli and getting our sandwiches. And Antenette was not only the sandwich girl, she was a divorcee in the neighborhood and the local barfly. If she wasn't at the deli, you could find her at any pub

by eight o'clock at night. And this is the truth, because her mother was so involved in the neighborhood, we would see her pass at the deli, you could find her at any pub by 8 o'clock at night. And this is the truth because her mother was so involved in the neighborhood, we would see her passed by the funeral home either to go to church or ask if we saw her. So one Sunday morning, the phone rings at the chapel. And I know it was a Sunday because I said, what is she doing up so early? Saturday night's a big night out. So she said, her mom died and she wanted to come over and make the funeral arrangements. So professionalism kicks in. I said,

antenna come right over. We're going to get you through this. We make the arrangements. They were very religious people. Her mom was very involved in the neighborhood and in the church and every parish that she could go through an open door. So we set up a traditional two-day wake followed by the mass at the church down the block, which was the biggest in the neighborhood. And then we were going to Mount St. Mary's cemetery over in Queens. So anybody who has a drunk in their family knows that a wake is the license for public consumption and nobody's allowed to say anything.

And the internet did not disappoint. For two days, she was stumbling around in the funeral home. She was laughing with everybody that came through the door that she didn't see for a while, and she was crying at the most inappropriate times. Where's the bear to boo? So this was our entertainment, and I'm figuring the morning of the funeral that she was going to be out on the bench the night before. We were going to get started late, but to my surprise, she actually got there early. So, we go off the church and it was a nice send off for a woman who was a little bit elderly

because the church was packed. It was the kind of, you had a bus in three communities full of people in order to get this church full and the old lady had this church filled with everybody that she knew. There were eight priests on the altar, we had about four altar service, everybody wanted to pick a song that they knew was one of her favorites, and two people did a eulogy. But at the end of the mess, I'm standing outside by the hearse. And I knew we were going to pass Mom's house, and I watched Antoinette come down the stairs,

and she comes over to me, and I could smell that she's been drinking a little bit, and I know it wasn't communion wine. And she said, Chris, before we go to the cemetery, you have to be past Mom's house, can we go past the house that I grew up in? I didn't think it was a problem, but I asked if she knew anybody who lived there. She told me no, so I figured we'd go surprise the new homeowner and stop in front with the hers.

So I get the possession going. I have a hers that I'm driving. The limousine is carrying the family and about 20 private cars following behind us. Now if anybody has ever tried to lead one car through the streets of Queens, you know, it's pretty much impossible. And I have a tale of 20 cars following behind me.

And I knew which car was gonna be the problem because the first light we go through, the light turns green and I have two cars after the limousine behind me. And it was this little old man who was driving a dock, little fiat, with his hands above his head looking through a steering wheel. So I go about a block further down, and I pull to the side,

because I don't want anybody to get rear-ended. I only have a couple cause with me. And I stand out, and I'm waving people past, so they don't get anybody to get re-erended, I only have a couple of cause with me, and I stand out and I'm waving people past so they don't get in my line. The light turns green, and I hear this engine starting to rev, and out of the dust comes this car moving a lot slower than it sounded. But by the time he got to me, he blew right past the whole funeral possession, and everybody else followed behind him too. He was like,

now I'm in trouble because I lost half the line or more. I figured he's old enough he's been at the cemetery probably more times than me. He's... And I take my time and I get off to the... I head over to Mount St. Mary's cemetery and I pull in and everybody is not just there waiting for me. They're at it at cars like they've been there a while. And this is not helping my plate here.

So I bring everybody who was once in the front of the procession back to the front and I get out of the car. Before I get to the back of the hearse, Antonette is already out of the limousine. And she's stumbling towards me, and she's being a little bit belligerent. And she goes, you dumbass. Excuse me.

She lost half my mother's friends and now nobody's going to be here. After so many people I read the church and I said, no no, Anton, look, everybody's right over here, they're by the cemetery office. She goes, don't you tell me, get out of my face. I go, Anton, everybody's over here. She goes, you idiot fuck you. And even though we were outside, I heard the collective guess, but everybody like,

oh, and my arm was still sticking out like this. It was like I was watching the whole thing, I was talking to myself. I said, did you see that? I saw that. And I didn't want her to be intimidated. So here's where I failed psych. I brought my arm back around and I took a step back so she doesn't feel intimidated. And I said, and tonight, get back in the fucking magazine.

I got to go plant your mother. Forget training. I was brought up get gang tackled, but everybody else was standing there. So I figured I'd put my head down and I'll head off to the cemetery office. I'm going to let them know we're here. And either they were going to jump on me or part the way. and it was like the red sea opened up, and I just walked inside. I came back out. I was embarrassed to come back out, if you want to know the truth. And everybody was in their cars. I guess they didn't want to be the psycho undertaker. Now, I never cursed at somebody and then prayed for them

so close before in my life. And I had to take them back up to the grave. I would pick my head up. They would put the head down and I said, pray, and it was a quiet prayer because the lady that died didn't deserve what had happened. You could have heard a pin hit the grass. Now normally when I get done, I go over to the next of kin and go, there's anything else you need.

I didn't think that was a good idea here. That's it. It's a close. So I went back to the hearse and I figured I'm going to drive back to the funeral home to get fired. On my way back, I said, you know, I really like working here. Maybe I won't say anything. I'll catch the boys by surprise.

As soon as I get back to the funeral home chapel, and I go to put the keys, back in the drawer, there's a note there. Chris, the boys is looking for you. Now he was all the way back at two buildings that we had put together. He was so far back in the funeral home, he was walking down two long hallways and when you think he'd get in fight it was like walking the green mile. I go over and I knock on the door, he goes, who is it? I go, it's Chris. He goes, come on in. Now normally when you opened up his office store you were

looking at his back. Not when I got in the room. He had his elbows on his knees. He was parming his face. He had these big round glasses that were in style at the time. And he's looking over the top of him and he goes, what happened? He said about what? And he told me that somebody from the family called already from the cemetery, what happened?

I said, she was being belligerent. And I don't get paid enough, and it relax, I'm gonna let you off the hook. I guess he was afraid I was gonna ask for a raise. He goes, the cousin called and said, everybody in the limousine couldn't come to your rescue because they needed the right home, but they wanted to thank you for putting in tonight

in her place. Now I feel good about myself. He said the only thing you did wrong was you tried to justify the mistake. He's in business, he said, well the customer's right, wrong or drunk. Just say you're right and walk away the next time. I said anything else. He said, yeah, don't order deli anymore.

I said, is that it? He goes, no, there's two bodies in the prep room going bomb them. Now, a lot of people might think that that was a punishment. That was actually my job. So, the day goes on and a few weeks pass. And I didn't know what at the time because I was young and I was brass and I had to show a fuse, but I learned a lesson there. And a few weeks later, it hit me in the face.

I was in the embomming room. My friends and I used to alternate. You direct today, I'm in bomb, and I was back in the embomming room, and I opened up the pouch that a body came in, and I was taken back because it was a face of an 18-year-old boy. And when you're 23 and you're bombing somebody young and in you, it's a little surreal. So I take my gloves off, I run back up to the front, I grab my friend who made the

arrangements, I said, Steve, you what happened with this kid? Because we usually try to tip each other off what's happening. He goes, well, the police told his father about 2.30 in the morning, the other day, he and his friend were going to a boat digger on their way home, and he bumped into somebody. And nobody said, excuse me excuse me nobody said I'm sorry and literally pushing came to shove two minutes later the other man pulled a gun out and pulled the trigger I wasn't so surprised that there was a bullet hole between his eyes and this is what funeral

directors come across every once in a while I was so caught back by the look of surprise on his face because his head was towards me and his eyes was still open. And that's when it hit me when I said, this kid died for nothing. And I should have not thought that I was going to get shot in a Catholic cemetery arguing with a drunk whose mother was dead, but there's been plenty of times before that where I now consider myself lucky.

So folks, from a young or funeral director's point of view, I say every once in a while realize that life is fragile and sometimes unfortunately it's short. Don't sweat the small stuff. And every once in a while when you stop to smell the roses, pick a few for yourself, too. Thank you for listening. That was Chris Tomline. He's a husband, the father of four little girls, and in his spare time, an amateur boxer. When we asked Chris if he'd send a picture for our website, he said, sure, what do you want? Like, me posing in a coffin?

We said, uh, yeah. so we now have that picture. If you want to see it, visit our website, theMoth.org. To relisten to any of the stories you've heard in this hour, go to theMoth.org, where you can stream the stories for free or share the specific link with your friends and family. The stories are also available at the iTunes Store. Also you can pitch as your story at themoth.org.

Record it right on our site or call 877-799-Moth. That's 877-799-6684. Here's a pitch we liked. Recently, my wife and I were taking care of my mother in-laws' house while she was out of town. And we arrived to discover her house was being burglarized at that moment. Rather than leaving Colta Police as rational people might, we confronted the burglar. The story is really driven by the mix of my tendency to overthink and over-enalyze and over-assess. My wife's tendency to charge right in and assess later, and the burglist's desire to not only not run, but to come to the front door

and insist we leave. The story humorous, no one gets hurt to the rest of the end, all despite pretty huge odds to the contrary, including his arm toice who just happened to be gone at the moment, the guard dog, who thought the murderer was just great, and the policeman who fortunately makes the right decision between who to arrest, the burglar, or me. Remember, you can pitch us your story at themoth.org. We really do listen to all the pitches, and we've been using stories from the pitch line at our shows in New York City and all over the country. So keep those pitches coming. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time and, the senior producer of The Moth.

The stories in this hour were directed by Jennifer and by Joey Zanders. The rest of the Moth's directorial staff includes Katherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Geness, and Meg Bowles, production support from Whitney Jones. Most stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Malthe events are recorded by Argo Studios in New York City, supervised by Paul Ruest. Our theme music is by The Drift, other music in this hour from Imogen Heap, John Zorn, and Sofa Showcry.

The story from our pitchline came from Joel Clements. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation committed to building a more just, verdant, and peaceful world. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by the Public Radio Exchange PRX.org. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching your own story, and everything else,

go to our website, TheMoth.org. you