Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs Read Free Book Online Page A

seconds ago?”
    He chuckled and took a deep drag from his cigarette. “The Kennedys? Are you kidding? Shit, they wouldn’t care. They’ve seen worse. They’ve done worse.”
    I liked the undertaker, but it wasn’t love.
    Let me just get this out of the way right off the bat: I am not now, nor have I ever been,
into
dead bodies. Nor into the people who make it their lives to work with them.
    We met in the twenty-first century gay guy way: online. He placed a funny ad and I answered it. We exchanged e-mails. One of them made me laugh and spit café mocha on my keyboard.
    He was also mysterious because he wouldn’t tell me what he did for a living. “I’m in packaging,” he wrote. I suspected he was just being a coy fashion designer.
    We graduated to speaking on the phone. He was more contemplative than I imagined. A little more serious. His mellow, masculine voice brought to mind images of a methodical patent attorney or perhaps an oceanographer, in other words, a career that did not involve a dark suit and pinkie ring.
    “I won’t meet you unless you tell me what you do,” I joked.
    “Okay,” he said finally. “I’m an undertaker.”
    I laughed. “No, I’m serious. What do you do?”
    “I’m not kidding,” he said pleasantly. “I manage a funeral home. I deal in prearrangements. I don’t actually do the
embalming
anymore. Haven’t for years.”
    Dead silence.
    “So,” he said. “Want to go to the zoo?”
    I did sort of want to go to the zoo with an undertaker. But I had to clear the air first. “How do I know you’re not some kind of freak? That you’re not gonna stab my eyes out with an ice pick when I get in the car?”
    “Hey, I’m a nice guy. We always leave the eyes in.”
    Hmmm. “Okay, Pick.” And he was instantly nicknamed.
     
    ______
     
    He came for me the next Saturday in his wine-colored minivan. “Twenty-five cubic feet of storage,” he said with a wink. A small placard sat in the window, facing out. It read: FUNERAL DIRECTOR ATTENDING FUNERAL — DO NOT TICKET. I appreciated the implied threat. What police officer would dare ticket Death’s minivan?
    As I sat, the power locks on the doors engaged. I looked to make sure the knobs were still there, that the door could still be unlocked manually. One does not want to encounter customized door locks on a blind date with an undertaker.
    “The name Pogo mean anything to you?” I asked, sliding my eyes toward him.
    “Huh? Who?”
    Pogo the Killer Clown aka John Wayne Gacy. Serial killers often admired each other’s work. Though seldom did they wear Hawaiian shirts. “Never mind. Nice shirt,” I commented.
    He looked pleased. “Thanks. It’ll look great on the boat.”
    “Boat?” I asked as he pulled away from the curb.
    “Uh huh,” he mumbled as he made a left down a side street. “I got a little mail-order business on the side. Small-space ads in
The National Enquirer
, that kind of thing. Last Christmas I sold twenty thousand units of Trixie the Christmas Pixie. She had illuminating wings and a glow wand.”
    I noticed he wore boat shoes and no socks.
    “Yup. One more hit like Trixie, and I’ll be behind the wheel of a thirty-foot Sea Ray with twin MerCruiser diesel inboards.”
    I fingered the red, green, and white tassel that hung from his dashboard.
    He didn’t need to see my face; the disdain emanated from my fingers. “I’m an Italian from the Bronx,” he said. “Gimme a friggin’ break.”
    “No, I like it. I like that your people have such pride.”
    He stopped at the light and shot me a dirty look and a
hmpf
.“Here, I brought you a present.” He pulled a plastic bag out from under his seat and dropped it on my lap. He smiled like a cat with fresh chipmunk blood on his whiskers.
    I reached into the bag and pulled out an ice pick. The price was still stuck on it: $2.99.
    “Wow,” I said. “This is cool. Pick,
ice pick
. You’re very clever.”
    “There’s something else,” he said.
    I peered