“You think he’s fat?”

“Shut the fuck up, Ken, before you jinx it.”

The funeral home van rumbles down a country road as long as the shadows from the streetlights.  In the back, the gurney squeaks and rattles as the van rolls over what looks like the bones of squirrels, sending the van into a slight rock.

In the front, Johnny grips the wheel like it’s a stress ball while his partner Ken loosens his tie, staring out at the trees and sipping the coffee he doesn’t want. He massages his temple, trying not to imagine the body they’re about to pick up.

“I’m just saying… if he’s fat, what are we gonna do?” Ken asks nervously.

He doesn’t mean to sound callous — but he’s a man paid to move bodies, and some bodies are friendlier on the spine than others.

Johnny’s jaw clicks. “Ken. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Suddenly, the GPS on Johnny’s phone screams shrilly and insistent as they pass the only house with its lights on. Through the windows, mourners move like bees, ignoring the beekeeper—half panicked, half deliberate, all sad in a vaguely rushed kind of way.

Johnny brakes too hard, sending the gurney rolling forward and smashing into Ken’s back, launching his coffee across the dashboard.

“I think you missed it…” Ken mutters.

“Shut up,” Johnny growls.

They ease the van into the driveway. Ken leans out the window, catching a glimpse of a few people. A man and a woman—normal-sized—move across the room, wiping tears from their cheeks. Ken sips what’s left of his coffee, smiling into the Styrofoam cup.

“What are you so happy about?” Johnny barks.

“No reason,” Ken says, which is true only in the sense that he didn’t want to admit it: he was relieved no one here looked huge. For the moment, at least, he could relax.

Johnny now scans the room. Several of the mourners look like they could run a marathon. He shakes his head. His job is supposed to be about dignity and respect, but his thoughts keep wandering to back strain, the physics of a corpse, and whether he’ll pull a muscle today.

That’s life on the road.

“You’re an idiot,” Johnny mutters before adding, “Let’s do this damn thing.”

The door opens with the kind of somberness Ken has memorized from all his years on the job.
Huddled people, bright lights, the volume dropping low.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Johnny and Ken say in unison as they break through the crowd, hauling a gurney.

“Mind showing me where the body is?”

“Yeah…” a man says, looking down. “Follow me.”

Ken and Johnny make eye contact, then follow the man up the stairs and around the corner to a door half closed, the light shining through the cracks.

“He’s, uh… he’s just in there.”

Ken gulps while Johnny’s eye twitches as they push open the door. And when they see him, Johnny drops his keys.

There is the body—
Huge. Monumental. Bigger than the door frame. And in his hand, a turkey leg, gripped even in death.

Johnny looks away, and Ken purses his cheeks.

“So… ugh… is this him?” Ken finally asks.

“Yeah,” the man says, now weeping bitterly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The crying man leaves. When they hear him reach the bottom of the stairs, Johnny closes the door and turns to Ken.

“Is this him? Is this him? What, are you a fuckin’ moron?”

“You never know!”

“Please.”

“Just shut the fuck up and grab a leg,” Johnny snaps.

“Fuckin’ damnit,” Ken grunts.

Slowly, they lower the stretcher and try to lift the body, but it’s as if he’s superglued to the ground. Nothing moves—except Johnny’s patience.

“Come on, man—put your back into it!”

Ken wipes his brow. “I’m trying! He’s big. Bigger than my back!”

“You think I can’t tell?” Johnny shoots back.

“Okay, man—give me everything you’ve got!”

On the count of three—1, 2, 3—POP.

Ken collapses beside the body, clutching his back, rolling and yelling, howling like a wolf who stepped in a bear trap.

“Aww shit! My fuc—my fuckin’ back! Johnny, I swear to – AHHH – I just heard something snap in there! I can’t feel my left ass cheek!”

Johnny frowns and stares at the turkey leg. After a beat:

“Are you alright?”

“DO I LOOK ALRIGHT?! I’M FUCKIN’ PARALYZED FROM THE BUTT DOWN!”

Downstairs, a timid voice calls out, “Is… everything alright up there?”

“Yes!” Ken shouts.

“No,” Johnny says flatly.

An older man, red-eyed from crying, rushes upstairs. “Really? I just heard a bunch of commotion. Are you sure… oh no!!”

Then the older man sees it.

One idiot writhing in pain next to one dead man—their bodies touching.

Ken reaches out in agony and accidentally grabs the dead man’s ankle like it’s a handrail for survival and tries to prop himself up.

The old man vomits, while Johnny throws his hands to his sides.

“Well… my partner threw his back out,” Johnny explains casually, like this is a minor plumbing problem rather than a small catastrophe involving a dead body.

“Well, what are we going to do?” The old man finally manages.

Johnny frowns and eyes the gurney.

“Okay—stay with me on this.”

Twenty minutes later, Ken was gurneyed out of the house.

And twenty days later, the deceased got the bill anyway — one line item for “removal services,” and another for “unexpected additional labor,” which, ironically, was none.

That’s life in America: you pay for work people physically could not do.

Please like, comment, share, and tell me what you think. Thanks for all of your support the last couple of weeks! It means alot I appreciate you. When my Dad died, I had to help move his body, and the blue collar in me thought the people who are paid to do this likely think about this on the drive up. Hence a story was born.