Move-in Day (feat. Clint from Tullahoma)
Move-in Day (feat. Clint from Tullahoma)
Mortuary College Part 2
In the spring of 2001, I decided to make the classic transition from Theatre Major to mortuary college student, a path that would begin in January 2002. Now, let me point out that my parents were paying for my school and my living situation which I realize is something not everyone has, and I’m incredibly grateful for it despite the things I’m about to tell you. I understand my privilege and appreciate it.
My parents and I planned to visit Nashville to find where I would live for my time there, but, every time we would try, something would happen to prevent us until finally they decided that, since the school owned some apartments there on the property, I could just live in one of those…sight-unseen.
On move-in day, the excitement of that first view of downtown Nashville, TN quickly died upon exiting the interstate. Suddenly the buildings were old and run-down, and everyone looked mad at me. It was the kind of area people told you to avoid, and they meant it, and they were right to mean it. It was genuinely dangerous. Thankfully, the school had a chain-link fence and a past-his-prime security guard with dyed auburn hair to keep us safe.
Inside the apartment were the whitest walls you’ve ever seen—like an uncomfortable, trying-to-hide-something white—but somehow still dirty-looking and some late 70s carpet that had most assuredly seen some questionable things in its lifetime. There was a partition to the left of the entrance, the opening of which led to the bedroom with a bathroom on the right (cue CCR) and a little closet. The layout was fine, but the quality and surroundings made everything so much worse.
As my new reality sank in, we began unloading my possessions: my terrible couch, my unreasonably heavy, early-2000s TV, my clothes, my Geroge Foreman Grill™, the essentials. I can’t remember if the bed was mine or if it came with the apartment which is a level of discomfort that I didn’t expect to be feeling twenty-one years later.
While we were attempting to lift something heavy, Clint appeared from the corner apartment two doors down. Clint’s parents had died in a car accident, and the funeral director was so helpful that Clint decided that’s what he needed to do with his life and quickly enrolled in mortuary school. Unfortunately, a desire to help people isn’t always enough to push someone through embalmings and autopsies and head-buildings, and, sadly, that would be the case with him.
Clint was 6’3” and skinny but farm strong. He wore a white t-shirt, a dirty baseball cap with some miscellaneous farming brand logo on it, faded jeans that were tighter than I would have worn, and boots, and, as he made clear in is deep and very southern voice, he was there to help. Soon, with Clint’s assistance, everything was inside. Sitting in my new, stark white living room, probably drinking lemonade, the five of us discussed what mortuary college and living in Nashville would be like. Clint was from Tullahoma, TN, a place a little larger than my hometown but with a similar small-town vibe, so he was excited to spend some time in the big city.
After some organizing, my family and girlfriend, now wife, left. She told me later that she just sat in the backseat and cried on the way home, mostly because she was convinced I would be murdered in that apartment. She obviously didn’t see the chain-link fence. To ease your minds, I was not murdered.
Anyway, that night I found myself in a strange place completely alone for the first time in my life. All I knew about driving in Nashville was that downtown was to the left, and I wasn’t ready to find out any more yet, so I put on my green striped pajama pants and watched my unreasonably heavy, early-2000s TV.
Around 7:00 that evening, I figured it was time to eat, so I plugged in my Geroge Foreman Grill™. Once it was good and hot I slapped an unseasoned pork chop on there and closed the grill. Seasoning was foreign to me since I’d never cooked a thing in my life. Then, as I was boiling water for my macaroni and powdered cheese mix, a knock at my door. Through the peephole I could see a convex Clint wearing a cowboy hat, unbuttoned western shirt with a white t-shirt under it tucked into darker tight jeans, and his nice boots. I opened the door because he knew what my car looked like, so I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t home.
“Hey, man. You wanna go out and explore the town?”
“I actually just started cooking a pork chop.”
Clint looked like I ruined his birthday by stealing his fiancé. His head dropped, and there was silence. Then I heard myself.
“I’ve got an extra one if you want it.”
“Sure.”
He walked over to my terrible couch and sat down while I put a second unseasoned pork chop on my grill that could also be a panini press. After a few minutes (because they cook both sides of the meat simultaneously), we sat at the tiny table in the narrowest kitchen in the world and quietly ate bland white meat and cheap mac and cheese, Clint in his Downtown-Nashville best and me looking ready to eat raw cookie dough and watch Dumb and Dumber on USA.
When we finished eating, Clint thanked me and went back to his corner apartment. I watched more TV and then went to sleep.
Ultimately, Clint wasn’t meant for mortuary college. By late April, he was done. I think building the head pushed him over the edge because when we arrived for grading the day the heads were due, there sat Clint’s, twice the size of ours with clownish makeup, giant eyes, cartoonish lips, and tiny mortuary wax feet attached at the base of the wig stand neck. But where was Clint? He had cleaned out his apartment the night before and disappeared, I imagine, back to life in Tullahoma.
Updates
On March 30 I’ll be discussing Grief, Humor, and Funeral Directors with the nice people at Cadence.
Here’s an Old Piece of Mine That I Like
Here is I Run Social Media for Your Local Craft Distillery, and I Can Photograph Bottles from Every Angle originally published by Points in Case.
Here’s a Piece Someone Else Wrote That I Like
Please ready and enjoy I Misplaced My Phone for Forty-Five Minutes, and Now I’m a Mindfulness Expert by Holly Theisen-Jones published by McSweeney’s.