Good Times

Olly thought the coffin at the center of the stage was tasteful.
It stood at a tilt like the top of a water slide, but instead of a baseboard, the plush velvet interior turned into a small tube sloping down to the basement.
“Your table is ready,” said the hostess.
“Sweet,” said Olly, following her through the crowded lounge.
Crowded is such a useless word, thought Olly as he sat down at his table, but, he asked himself, why do there have to be so many people here? Yes, it’s date night, but wasn’t there anywhere else fashionable to go—somewhere hip and exclusive—besides Magnolia’s?
People made him antsy. In fact, leaving the house had become something of a new phenomenon since he met Sophie.
The twenty-somethings had been casually dating for three months, since they met on an app Olly pretended not to remember the name of.
“I hate having it on my phone,” agreed Sophie. “I hate who dating apps make me.”
“I love who they make you,” said Olly.
“Yes, but you’re a freak (in the good way).”
But that was a few days ago, dinner at the Italian place, where the only novelty was singing waiters.
Magnolia’s promised something more.
A review in the local paper claimed, “Finally, death is fun again.”
“I thought this would make a nice change,” she messaged Olly.
“From what?
“From living.”
“Oh good point.”
“I’m not morbid but I find death kinda neat.”
“Same!!!!!!!!!” he wrote first, before deciding on, “Same.”
In his Before Sophie existence, he had been turning in early most nights to fall asleep to Dateline. It used to be he couldn’t sleep without Dateline, but now he couldn’t live without Sophie, Sophie with the blonde hair that wasn’t too blonde, who dressed in a respectfully provocative way, the fishnets ripped and leather red. Sophie didn’t know he watched the long-running true crime series with eyes closed and a wide smile, rest assured that by the end of the program the murderer would be apprehended while Olly would be lulled gratefully into slumber. Dateline had warped his brain, but Magnolia’s might just be his cure.
A waiter appeared before Olly. He wore a black cloak and scribbled orders on a small notepad that failed to honor the theme of the lounge. Olly would have expected orders to be taken on faded parchment with a quill, something to really set the mood, or even scribbled in dry erase marker on the back of an ax. As it was he found the waiter altogether too excited to be working at Magnolia’s, something Olly noted with some jealousy, as Olly worked from home.
“Welcome to Magnolia’s, where death is for living, what can I get started for you?”
Olly scanned the menu, relieved to find a cocktail list with an emphasis on the classics. He knew Sophie hated themed drinks, and he agreed with her, deciding, finally, that he was too old for them. He was, after all, twenty-three.
Agreeing with Sophie was one of his favorite ways to spend his time.
Although, and here the old desires crept in, if some drinks smoked or turned blood red or had frozen grape eyeballs in place of ice cubes, he wouldn’t exactly be upset, so long as the names of the cocktails did not pun.
“I can come back. You have plenty of time, which is more than I can say for Edna May Armstrong.”
The waiter spoke conspiratorially, as if he was engaging Olly in a most-important secret, but Olly suspected with displeasure that he engaged in cheap camaraderie with all his tables.
Olly, who hated Negronis, ordered a Negroni.
“Heavy on the Campari,” he instructed the waiter.
Olly appreciated the sparse decor and dearth of flowers. From what he had gleaned from television, death parlors were dreary beige places with too much carpet. Magnolia’s was sleek, it was now, it was not coated in death.
While he waited for Sophie, he read various signs on the wall.
One said, “Don’t wait until it’s too late to say goodbye: birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, let us host your special day.”
And to its left, another advertisement, “Pass away in style: Veuve Cliquot for only $125.”
There were advertisements for happy hour, the staff softball team, and a commitment to stay open late. There were social media handles and a $30 credit card minimum. There was a tease for a full kitchen in the next six months, but for now enjoy the mausoleum of libations, where 10% of drink sales go to support the families of the deceased.
Drag Brunch started in two weeks.
Olly thought it was tacky to display the prices on table tents—$895 for a basic cremation all the way to a $3,000 Show You Care Package—but he was secretly thankful to know, and glad to see, just below, Martini Mondays.
Olly was happy to be here, but part of him was nervous, not for the event of death, but for the fact that the tables were so close together.
For a time, Olly’s wounded personality couldn’t take much stress. All of life’s expectations set him off: neighbors waving, polite conversation, the audacity of mail. These external woes sent him skulking off to the bedroom for another early night in the apartment he shared with Jared, who he was pretty sure hated him.
Olly was someone who started a timer the moment he woke up to know just when it was marginally acceptable to go to sleep.
He wasn’t depressed.
Well, he was diagnosed depressed. He had depression. But he wasn’t feeling particularly low. He wasn’t feeling much of anything.
Sophie, who had no mental illness of her own, thought it was a flex to date someone with depression, calling it “so cool.”
Olly felt most alive when he thought about Sophie, or messaged Sophie, or met Sophie for another date.
And there she was walking toward him.
He stood up to greet Sophie but she was too fast for him, diving in for a kiss that pushed Olly firmly into his seat.
Olly liked that.
“Have you been waiting long?” asked Sophie.
“Not really.”
Sophie fell into the seat opposite, that careless jerking of her own body, as if she had been dropped out of the hands of her puppeteer.
“It’s your favorite game.”
“What is?”
“Waiting for Sophie.”
He blushed.
“I like waiting for you,” said Olly.
He tried not to objectify her. He tried not to drool. But she was looking so hot in a tight black dress and the red leather jacket that constituted her uniform. Doc Marten boots and almost no makeup. Olly swooned.
She told him she loved how obsessed he was. That it wasn’t weird to her. That it was excellent.
“What are we drinking?” she asked. “This place rocks.”
“I think the next performance is going to start soon.”
“Performance?”
“Well… what would you call it?”
They both turned toward the coffin on the stage, where artificial fog danced across, where the music over the loudspeaker was distinctly modern, and the DJ, who hid behind a two-way mirror, was famous. The floor reminded Olly of a wrestling ring or someplace Elvira might perform stand-up comedy. He was relieved in surveying the decor to see the tenets of Halloween could be enjoyed by the public beyond the confines of October.
The stage was cordoned off with a sign promising a return to regularly scheduled cremations in fifteen minutes.
“But I’ve been here about that long,” said Olly hopefully.
The waiter returned.
“I’ll have a—did you get a Negroni?” Sophie asked as the waiter presented Olly with his drink.
“Yep,” he said.
He hoped to impress her with his improved drink knowledge.
“It’s just so red,” she said, “but okay, I’ll do the same.”
As the waiter turned to go, Sophie reached for his arm to stop him.
“When is the next… you know?”
“The family is just coming in now.”
And they were.
The family of Edna May Armstrong proceeded into the cocktail lounge.
“Do we clap?” Sophie whispered.
“I’ve never been to a funeral before,” admitted Olly.
Someone clapped.
“See?” she said.
More people began to applaud as the party entered, this party dressed in bright colors, carrying pitchers of martinis, cosmopolitans, and beer, this party cackling with delight, laughing at jokes that came endlessly from their beloved, the soon-to-be-late Edna May Armstrong, who, despite her short stature and bulky walker, led the party gallantly to the stage.
“It’s like one of those lines,” said Olly.
“Conga,” answered Sophie.
“You’re so smart.”
Once onstage, Edna May Armstrong laid in the open coffin while her daughter placed a martini in the cup holder attached to the casket. Edna May raised her glass, and her family members clinked their glasses to hers.
“Buy the bereaved a cocktail?” their waiter asked Olly and Sophie.
Sophie looked at Olly, eyes big and wet.
“I love that,” she said.
“What should we get them?”
“Not champagne.”
“Agreed.”
“Whisky is for grieving,” said Sophie.
“Whisky is for everything,” said Olly.
“No one has bought anything for cousin Jeffrey,” the waiter said.
Then he pointed to a round man at the end of the party. He had his head down and carried a box of tissues.
“Oh yeah, he needs a boost,” said Olly.
Then at exactly the same time Olly and Sophie said, “Tequila!” and the waiter said, “Coming right up.”
Olly and Sophie watched as some family members unfurled pieces of paper for speeches, but both were surprised (and annoyed) when the family delivered their remarks without a microphone. In fact, once Edna May was tucked into her coffin drinking happily, the spectators all went back to their conversations. He noticed that people watched the stage distractedly, waiting for the big moment. It was something to look at, not pay attention to. The goodbyes were not, on their own, appealing.
“I wish we could hear what they’re saying,” said Sophie.
Olly was ashamed. “I should have gotten the VIP package. They’re those little tables on the stage.”
“Next time.”
“Although.”
“What?”
“My grandmother is getting pretty old. Plus she likes attention.”
Sophie was impressed. “Are you going to ask her?”
“I am her favorite.”
“And?”
Olly puffed out his chest.
“I’ll ask her.”
“Legend,” said Sophie.
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m serious: I bet she’ll be really touched.”
Edna May Armstrong looked around the cocktail lounge proudly, as if the bar were her kingdom. The crowd began to cheer, building on chants of, “Do it! Do it!” She reached for her martini but it was gone, replaced with a murky brown liquid in a large crystal goblet, a murky brown liquid which smoked and fizzled.
“Do you think it’s a Manhattan?” Olly asked.
“No,” said Sophie. “I think it’s for the pain.”
“Oh, you can pay to have their ashes spread in the ocean,” Olly read on the menu. “Or Vegas.”
“Love that.”
Their waiter approached in a hush.
“How is everything over here?”
“We’re perfect,” whispered Sophie.
The family lined up to kiss Edna May goodbye. They lovingly touched her hands. They embraced her for long hugs. They unclasped the jewelry from her neck. A granddaughter in a yellow dress yanked off her rings.
“Please give it up for the life of Edna May Armstrong,” said a voice on the loudspeaker.
Not even at a concert had the crowd cheered so powerfully and proud.
“I want to thank the folks at Magnolia’s for making this possible,” Edna May told the crowd. She dished out last-minute wisdom, and reminded her family not to spend too much time sad.
“Don’t let death stop you from living,” she told them, reading from a printed notecard.
Then she turned to the audience, “And you too can make grieving a celebration! Let us host your loved one’s final moments. Did you know twins burn free? Ask your server for details.”
Her daughter took away the goblet, now drained of murky brown liquid. Cousin Jeffrey was the last to say goodbye. He cried pathetically into his margarita (“Total king,” said Sophie). Edna May turned to the audience with a sheepish grin, and they laughed.
The voice in the air continued, “And now to enter that eternal rest.”
“Already?” Edna May quipped.
She pretended to scold her relatives for not extending the service, for buying the cheapest package, only she wasn’t pretending.
Still, as the flames engulfed her, rising from above, Edna May was painlessly at peace.
Her skin singed then peeled then disintegrated in seconds Olly considered to be precious moments, a core memory in formation. Edna May felt no pain. She shut her eyes for the final time. Misters coated the air in raspberry, lavender, and lime, but Olly tried to sniff through the fragrances—he swore other people were doing it too—to smell the burning flesh he was always, in a non-murderous way, curious to smell.
Sophie tried not to ugly cry as she livestreamed her reaction and Olly wished he had thought to bring tissues. Olly made a promise to himself, a promise to live as a more thoughtful person, to keep the image of Edna May’s exploding eyeballs as a constant reminder of a life lived well. He wanted to be up there on this altar of flames, he wanted the crowd’s eyes on him, the fanatical devotion of an audience; that’s how he would go out. Sophie would be there with him; she was only his first girlfriend, but she had to be the one.
They could even be cremated together.
And they would come back to Magnolia’s every week. They would watch the bodies burn to appreciate the value of their own lives. Public death, Olly realized, was not a macabre event but an opportunity for a community to come together, even if he objectively hated all the other people in this cocktail crematorium.
Sophie took Olly’s hand.
“Thank you,” she mouthed.
The floor opened up and Edna May descended burning into the basement below. Balloons fell from the ceiling, popping loudly on the pyre, as the crowd gave her a standing ovation.
It wasn’t long before their waiter returned, this time carrying a large white urn in his hands, and a black Sharpie.
“Any words for the deceased?” he asked.
While Sophie signed the urn, Olly reached into his pocket, took out his phone, and texted his grandma.