It's Complicated

It’s Complicated
By John Corliss




Too Many Paths
An ancient Chinese Story

         One of Yang Tzu’s neighbors lost a sheep and sent his men out to find it.  He asked Yang Tzu’s servants to join in the search.  Yang Tzu asked why he needed so many men to find one sheep and his neighbor replied “There are so many paths it may have taken.”
         Yang Tzu sent his servants to help and when they returned he asked if they had found the sheep.  They replied that they had not, that “there are too many paths.”  At that Yang Tzu looked very thoughtful.  He sat in silent reflection.
         One of his pupils asked why he was so upset over a sheep that wasn’t even his.  Yang Tzu replied “When there are too many paths a man cannot find his sheep.  It seems one cannot find their way.  The source of all knowledge is one, but the branches of learning are many.  Only by walking many paths can we return to the primal truth and avoid losing his way.”




         It’s complicated, what happens to people.
          The unknown outcome of every decision you make constantly changes the course of your existence.  Each choice you make, a turn on the road trip that ultimately maps out your life.  Looking back, a fading highway in the rearview mirror, littered with relationships, jobs, herbal remedies and curried stews, your life plays out in reverse.  Or maybe it’s nothing like this, because your path is unique.
         It’s complicated, what happens to people. 
         It’s your life and it’s happening to you right now.
         The thing is, this journey always ends the same way.  This was clear to Arthur Moore, who saw the end every day. 
         A car crash at 17 on the night you got your license.
          Drifting off to eternal sleep at a peaceful 83.
         Choking in an upscale restaurant on a blind date with a woman who would have married you.
         Heart attack. 
         Blunt force trauma. 
         Hunting accidents.
           Pumped full of embalming fluid, painted to the perfect complexion you could never achieve in life, everyone looks the same; always the same.
         The end. 
         And so Arthur Moore wondered: what’s the point?
         Upon examination of Arthur Moore, one would find a tall, thin man.  Thirty something, but aged beyond, his skin a cracked desert.  A spider webbed road map of choices written on his face.
         Each day Arthur Moore put on the same black suit, the same black tie spotted with white balls of lint that even his lint roller no longer wanted.  He donned the same black shoes that wanted so much to be polished.  And each day Arthur went to the same job, where he would confront the end, maybe two or three times in a given day; more when business was good. 
         Arthur Moore was assistant director of Eternal Rest Funeral Home, the place where it always ends; if not at Eternal Rest, than certainly at some other funeral home.  You might wonder why a man would do such work.  Perhaps compassion, excellent people skills, providing a misunderstood, but greatly needed service.  With empathy, this work gives you the opportunity to comfort and console people all the time.  There is a satisfaction in helping others during a time of need.  Well, that’s one side of the coin anyway.  And there is the other, there is Arthur’s side.  The deceased is an easy customer.  The dead don’t complain.  The pay is good, and unlike normal supply and demand principals, as the product increases, demand for service does as well.  Death is a growth industry.  And of course there are the chance encounters with vulnerable young women in need of comfort.  Arthur Moore was no saint, and for him his job wasn’t all gloom and doom.
         And so each day Arthur Moore worked, pouring on grief and deep felt sorrow, rehearsed to perfection in a bathroom mirror, to every family who walked through the door, as if he were a close relative.  More like a scam artist.
         When a family walked in the door, the game began.  While shaking hands and frowning with sorrow, Arthur Moore’s mouth repeated white lies of sympathy while the bereaved told truths about their bank account.  While shaking the hand of a grieving widow he took inventory.  He noted her manicured nails, her soft hands.  He saw the daughter’s arm, one elbow linked with her mother, the other hooking an Italian leather purse, a tan that didn’t fade as it disappeared under her designer dress, a son wearing shoes that cost more than Arthur Moore made in a week.  These people would be talked into the most expensive coffin in stock.  The Bella flat lid walnut gloss finished coffin was nice for only $950.  But the Cedar Classic, solid cedar coffin, outstanding beauty, gold drop bar handles; this would truly ensure the comfort of your loved one for a mere $2,500.  “Its fine lines and rich timber set this coffin apart from the rest,” read the brochure.  They would be provided with flowers to dress the room, and a rose for each member of the family to place with the dearly departed.  An extended viewing would be best, and at an additional cost of $220 per viewing, you can’t rush grief.  For the widow’s sake.  Of course, an organ player is always a touch of class; to die as you lived.  For the living, a mourning coach is available for the bereaved for an additional cost of $143.  And all of this, of course, was simply for the benefit of the family.  To help them ease the painful loss. 
         Today’s mourners would be the Greenbergs.  Jews.  That meant an Aron, a cheap coffin.  Cheap because traditionally no metal can be used and plain wooden coffins were far less profitable than metal.  The Greenbergs would get “The Basic”, a chipboard coffin at only $350.  A Mogen David (or star of David) is traditionally placed atop the wooden coffin, and Eternal Rest kept a small stock of wooden stars that could be tacked on to any coffin for only $50.  Still Arthur Moore knew a coffin at just $400 was better than nothing.  Traditional Jewish burials can place the departed directly into the ground in their burial shroud, the Tachrichim.  Still, the body must be washed in a ceremony called Tahora and then wrapped in the Tachrichim. This, for a small fee, can be arranged with a Rabbi present to recite psalm 91: “He that dwelleth in the place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty...” After this ceremony, the body would not be embalmed; it would be refrigerated in accordance with Jewish tradition. The service itself: psalms, speeches praising the deceased, prayers for the repose of the soul and the recital of the Kaddish, a hymn to praise God.  Men must cover their heads, and memorial black yarmulkes could be provided, with the name of the departed and date of the service printed on the inside.  250 should be purchased to be on the safe side.  The rest would be done most likely at the home of the surviving family members, where a simple meal would be eaten, prepared by friends and neighbors.  A Jewish funeral is a simple one, a spiritual one.  There wasn’t much opportunity to up-sell for any real profit.  The Greenbergs, they still bought flowers.  They still said “thank you” to Arthur Moore. 
         After work that night, at the end of his day of ends, Arthur would walk out of Eternal Rest Funeral Home, through the back parking lot and through the door of a wooden fence which separated the employee parking lot from the customer parking lot.  There, in the flickering orange streetlight sat Arthur’s car, to anyone who didn’t know much about cars, a non-descript mostly maroon sedan (save the green passenger side door, and primer beige trunk), dented, rusted, and near its end.  A 1992 Manufacturer X Meat Wagon.  Deluxe.
         Arthur always preferred the trip home from work than the trip to work.  This was simply because at night, there weren’t as many people out, as many eyes to glare and mock him as his car fell apart down the road.  The speedometer didn’t work, but that was no problem.  A shrill, sharp squeal caused by the fan belt would indicate that you had reached between 15 and 20 miles per hour.  At 30 a steady click-click-click could be heard, coming from a loose wheel cover.  Somewhere between 40 and 50 a piercing metallic sound, high-pitched and impossible to ignore would come from the break wear indicators screaming it’s time for maintenance.  Then there was the ever present rhythmic rumble of the defective exhaust pipe, and the heavy knock of the loose transmission torque converter; the bass section of his highway symphony.  Surrounded by something falling apart, embarrassing, and to the rest of the world despicable, short of hiding or denying it, there is only one thing to do, embrace it outwardly with over-zealous excitement to mask your inner turmoil.  This is best represented by the vocal and over-the-top love professed by residents of New Jersey toward their home state.  This is New Jersey Syndrome. 
         The next day, Arthur Moore would wake to the same buzz that shocked him to life from his temporary end each morning, he would drag the same dull razor across his high cheekbones, take the same 11 minute shower he always took.  He would leave earlier than he had to because the trip to work always took longer than the trip home.  He took the back roads, longer distance, less traffic, less mocking. 
         He would be greeted daily by Samantha Anne Lawrence.  Twenty-something, receptionist, short, overweight, her credentials consisted of a six-week technical education certificate.  Samantha seemed to wear the same blouse everyday.  A floral pattern popular some spring for any grandmother on the cutting-edge of (granny) fashion.  Her blouses weren’t actually the same, but the variety of plus-sized clothing available to a receptionist at Eternal Rest Funeral Home was limited.  Her eyeglasses were large and square, the frames appearing larger than the actual corrective lenses they contained.  Maybe she thought the large glasses made the rest of her (in juxtaposition) seem smaller.  They didn’t.  In spite of her weight, wardrobe, and position as ambassador for the dead, Samantha Anne Lawrence was always smiling.  She’s my receptionist- she’s my car... New Jersey Syndrome, thought Arthur Moore.  He thought this because it made him feel better, because it made Samantha Anne Lawrence seem, in a twisted juxtaposition, smaller than Arthur Moore.
         “Morning Arthur,” the words bubbled from Samantha’s mouth.  “How are you?”
         “I’m fine, Samantha.  Any appointments today?”  He picked up the newspaper folded on the corner of the desk and flipped to the obituaries, a hopeful habit.
         “Actually... there is a woman in your office.  Said she needed to speak with you about a traditional Chinese funeral.”  Arthur let the newspaper sag in his hand so his eyes met Samantha’s.
         “An Asian?”  He walked to a filling cabinet behind Samantha’s desk and opened it, flipped through the manila folders until he found the one labeled: Chinese.  Placing the folder under his arm and tossing the paper onto Samantha’s desk he headed for his office.  “What’s her name?” he called back over his shoulder.
         “Sue Chin,” answered Samantha, folding the paper and placing it back on the corner of her desk.
         Arthur walked into his office, and there sat Sue Chin.  Petite, but curvy with shoulder length black hair, she wore a short black skirt with a slit up the side revealing a toned thigh, and a suit jacket, perhaps professional attire, if a little racy.  “Ms. Chin?” she turned and stood as Arthur closed the door to his office and extended his hand.  She took it and Arthur took note of her soft hands and French-tipped nails.  “Let me offer my deepest condolences to you.”
         “Thank you,” responded Sue Chin “but I think I’m going to need more than your sympathy.”
         “Well I understand you are looking for a traditional funeral, and I can assure you that we are equipped to assist you in any way you need.”
         “My Brother died last night.  He is sitting in the Morgue, and if my parents have their way he will stay there until he’s put in the ground.”  Her tone was more of frustration than grief.  Arthur looked at her, unsure of what to say.  “Traditionally, Chinese rituals are performed in the home Mr. Moore.  Unfortunately this isn’t possible if they die outside the house.  Further more, my brother was not married, and he is survived by our parents.”
         “It is terrible to lose a child,” he began his standard litany.  He was more than somber.  He was a Catholic priest delivering a solemn requiem. “Please tell your parents we will assist them in any way they need.  We have mourning councilors if...”
         “My parents won’t be attending the funeral Mr. Moore.  According to Chinese custom, an elder should never show respect to someone younger.  My brother was unmarried, and had no children so there is no one to perform the burial rites for him.  So my brother will be left in the morgue, and no prayers for his soul will be offered.  He will be buried in silence.  If my parents have their way.”
         “Well of course, I can understand your traditions, and I certainly respect them.” All Arthur could wonder was how this could turn a profit.
         “These aren’t my traditions, they’re my parents.  I want my brother to have a proper funeral.”
         “Well then I can explain what we have to offer, and go over your options with you.” Arthur went for his drawer and took a pen from his desk.
         “I don’t think you understand.”  Sue Chin would explain to Arthur Moore the traditions of a Chinese funeral.  A coffin is usually taken care of in advance, however due to the sudden death one would be needed.  Traditional ceremonies are long, and take place in the home, however they would need to be held in the funeral home.  First, all mirrors must be removed because seeing a coffin in a mirror is believed to bring death in the family.  Her brother would be cleaned with a damp towel dusted with talcum powder and dressed in his nicest clothes, which Sue Chin would bring.  The rest of his clothes must be burned, if it was all right with Arthur Moore, in the crematorium.  After the bathing and dressing, the body will be placed in the coffin and a yellow cloth will be placed over his face, a blue cloth over his body.
         Arthur’s stomach began to churn and a sharp pain spiked between his shoulder blades.  Heart burn, maybe from the fried chicken he had for dinner last night.  Sue Chin continued; the coffin was to be placed on a stand with the head facing the inside of the funeral home, about a foot off the ground.  She handed him a picture of her brother, which was to be blown up and framed, placed near the head of the coffin along with wreaths, and gifts, which would be brought by mourners.  Food will also be placed near the head of the coffin as an offering to her brother.
         At the foot of the coffin, an altar is to be placed with one white candle and burning incense.  There would also be burning of Joss paper and prayer money, to provide sufficient income to her brother in the next life.  Mourners will crawl toward the coffin, light incense and bow in respect.  Don’t stop them.  There would also be men gambling outside the funeral home.  These were guards, watching over the body; the gambling helped them through their vigil.  They were not to be disrupted.
         “I think we can handle all of that.  I’ll have to get back to you with a quote, though.” Arthur Moore said, still absorbing the extent of her request.  Still trying not focus on the pain that had moved to his right shoulder.
         “I’m not worried about the cost, I can pay you whatever you want.”
         “Then I’m sure,” Arthur couldn’t help but wince a little as the pain in his shoulder throbbed.  “We will be happy to accommodate you.”
         “There is just one more thing,” she paused.  “The prayer ceremony I just described to you... it will be repeated three times, once every ten days.  Then we will bury my brother.”
         “And you want us to keep your brother here?”
         “I’ll pay for exclusive use of the space.”  She raised a brow and asked the squirming Arthur Moore, “Are you okay?”  He nodded.
         “Just some heart burn, I’ve been getting it a lot lately” Karma, if you believe in that.  Reaching into his desk,  “Nothing a little Tums won’t cure.”
         “How long do you sleep each night?” The question threw Arthur off, but he responded.
         “Maybe, I don’t know, five hours. Why?”
         “Do you eat a lot of fatty foods?  Fried foods?  How is your cholesterol?”
         “My cholesterol is a little high, and I guess I eat my share of fried foods. Why are you asking this?”  Arthur’s fried chicken dinner was burning his shoulder, taking revenge for it’s golden brown end.  Sue Chin stood, and walked around Arthur’s desk.  She didn’t bother to pull down her skirt, which hiked itself up her legs when she crossed them.  She leaned in close to Arthur.
         “Stick out your tongue, please.”  She leaned closer still.  He hadn’t noticed her perfume before.  Something subtle, floral.  Not Samantha Anne Lawrence’s floral, but a light, bright and pleasant floral.  Lilac.
         “I’m sorry, but what are you doing?”  Arthur Moore was cornered.  He wasn’t in control, he wasn’t talking Sue Chin into a $2,800 solid cedar timber coffin with gold drop bars; the Grecian urn.  She was talking him into doing what she wanted, into sticking out his tongue; what would happen next he wasn’t sure.
         “Your tongue is very red,” she could have been talking to herself, “inflammation.”  She nodded to him.  “You can close your mouth.  Why do you think you have heart burn?”  He swallowed hard, letting saliva coat his mouth while he wondered what might have happened had he been chewing a mint.  Sue Chin leaned on his desk, crossing her legs and placing her hands on the edge for support.  “Well?”
         “Uh, well I had some pain, a burning between my shoulder blades.  Now it’s in my shoulder.”  She nodded.
         “And this has been happening a lot?  Do you have a piece a paper?”  He handed her a paper and sat silently while she wrote.  She then handed him the paper that read in bubbling, swirling script: Chin-chien Tsao (Gold Coin Grass), and directions.
         “What’s this?” He skimmed the paper. 
         “Chin-chien Tsao.  Pick up a tincture at the Chinese market and take one tablespoon every day.  It will cure your gallstones.”
         “My what?”
         “You don’t sleep enough.  Your cholesterol is high, and you eat too many fried foods.  You have migrating pain between your shoulder blades and right shoulder, and your tongue is inflamed.  Your gallbladder Qi is out of balance.  If you don’t believe me, take your Tums and let the pain continue.” She took something from her purse, a business card and began to write on the back.  “In a week, when the pain is unbearable you can go to the ER for an endoscopic retrograde cholangiopancreatography.  A camera snaked down your throat, through your stomach and small intestine and into the bile duct.  After they confirm your stones you can schedule surgery to remove them.  I’m going to call your receptionist tomorrow to arrange payment and finalize my brother’s funeral Mr. Moore.”  She slid the business card across the table, closed her purse and walked through the door.  The card read: Sue Chin, M.D., and Practitioner TCM.  On the back, a number.
         Arthur walked out of his office, holding his shoulder and looked to Samantha Anne Lawrence, playing Mancala on her computer.  “Samantha, what is a Practitioner of TCM?”
         “I’m not sure, just a sec.”  She clicked on the Internet icon and typed TCM into the search engine.  “Hmm. Traditional Chinese Medicine, I think.”  Arthur Moore looked at the card, and then to Samantha.
         “Brew some coffee and hold my calls.  I need to arrange a Traditional Chinese Funeral.”

         Arthur Moore, in his black suit without a tie, he unlocks the passenger side door for Sue Chin, and opens it.  The car doesn’t have electronic locks.  Still, it’s a Cadillac.  It’s a hearse.  On their first real date Arthur Moore picked Sue Chin up at her first floor duplex in a hearse from Eternal Rest Funeral Home telling her his car was in the shop.  Somehow, this was less embarrassing for him.  In the driveway, with a sign that read Tenant 1 sat Sue Chin’s car.  A European sports car you see in men’s magazines, an implied promise that after three easy payments of $59.99 and 20 minutes a day, three days a week you’ll be driving your own European sports car with Sue Chin in the passenger seat, hopelessly in love with you; you and in no way your adult film star physique or money. 
         While sitting at the table across from Sue Chin at what she called the finest Authentic Pekinese restaurant in the city, Arthur Moore looked for imperfection.  During the Certified Master Chef exam if you make perfect julienne cuts during the Asian food section you actually lose points.  Arthur Moore knew this because he read, and during the time in his life when he had the motivation to attempt bettering himself he tried to cook.  He bought Escoffier, and Larousse, all of the classics, and then some other more entertaining titles like The Soul of a Chef (in which he read about the Certified Master Chef Exam).  So he looked for authentic imperfection.
         Apparently, Sue Chin was from the center of the Peking Region in the north of China.  She was born in Beijing City, the capital of China and brought at seven months to America.  Despite her duel citizenship, she said she was an American, that she didn’t even speak Chinese. 
         As they looked over the menu, Arthur Moore read the blurb about Peking style cooking.  He could see instantly why this would be a successful style in America, it specialized in deep-fried birds.  When you order pork ribs and they are off the bone and colored bright red, that red which sticks all over your fingers and mouth, and cheeks and, god forbid you drop a piece, to your color-safe clothing, those ribs are Peking style, simmered in soy sauce and water. 
         “Peking Duck,” Sue Chin set down her menu and looked across the table at Arthur, reading the history of Peking.  “Peking Duck is the specialty of this place.”  Arthur looked at the menu and to the restaurants name at the top ‘The Peking Duck’. 
         “What is it?”
         “Well, it’s three courses, first the duck’s crispy skin, then the sliced meat, then a soup made from the bones.  It’s an ancient technique, which takes one year for an apprentice to master.  They study fattening, slaughtering and cleaning the duck for three months, then for the next nine they study the cooking, carving and serving.  It’s like, the biggest thing to come out of China since white rice.”  She smiled, impressed with her own wit and Arthur nodded. 
         “You know a lot about Peking cuisine.”  She smiled a smile that was too big.  Then she laughed and flipped the menu Arthur held in his hands over and pointed to the back.  The Tradition of Peking Duck.  Oh, he smiled. “Alright, lets try it.”  She was calling the shots.  She was talking Arthur Moore into a Davidson rosewood coffin with a hinged high dome lid and ornate handles.  And for some reason, he didn’t mind.
         Everyone knows the famous yin and yang symbol, probably from a necklace or poster, but to the Chinese this symbol actually meant something.  It represented balance in everything.  They believed that everyone was made up of yin and yang, there was a little of each in everything.  In order to maintain balance in your life you needed to make sure that your yin and yang were balanced.  This was true of everything, even food.  Of course Arthur Moore didn’t know this, and he didn’t know that the duck he was going to eat was yang.  Eating foods that were slaughtered carried the chi of their death and brought you bad energy.  But for Arthur Moore the energy of the simply decorated Chinese restaurant, and that coming from Sue Chin across the table from him in their private corner, sectioned off with a cloth divider inlaid with metallic designs, was overpoweringly positive.
         “I think you made the right choice, to bury your brother now,” he offered.  She agreed with a real smile and nod.  The traditional Chinese funeral she wanted had been shortened to one viewing, in the traditional manner, and then the burial.  Her parents hadn’t come.  As they ate their crispy golden skin, served with flour pancakes and hoisin sauce Sue Chin explained that she had made her point.
         “I was raised around the traditions of my parents, but they weren’t mine.  You know?”  Being raised in America, seeing the people around her, her friends and schoolmates living in our fast-paced culture of consumerism, she couldn’t relate to the life lived 5,000 years ago in the birthplace of Chinese culture like her parents wanted.
         “They just couldn’t change with the times.  They came here so I could live the American dream, but they didn’t want it for themselves.  I don’t know, it was always a struggle.”  But like a good American, Sue Chin rebelled.  She changed with the seasons of fashion, snuck out her window to make out with boys, American boys, and experimented in all the ways teenagers do.
         “Some traditions aren’t bad, they might be silly, but they don’t cause any harm.”  For example, she explained, if they were at dinner in China, Arthur would most likely be seated nearest the kitchen, where the server would come from.  This is because he would be the most junior guest.  Either that, or he would be seated next to host as a foreign guest of honor, but the point was he wouldn’t just sit anywhere.  It was then that their server came and bowed, and then began to pour tea.  Sue Chin began tapping on the table as the server poured, and Arthur glanced toward her fingers.
         “There was this emperor,” she said, from the Qing Dynasty.  He wanted to see South China like a commoner, so he went on a trip assuming the role of a regular person.  “Traditionally, at a meal everyone takes a turn pouring tea...” she told him.  So not to be discovered one night at dinner, the emperor took his turn pouring tea for the rest of the table.  They began to bow in honor, knowing who the emperor was but he stopped them before anyone noticed.  “He told them they could tap the table instead,” but with three fingers.  Two to represent their prostrate limbs, and the third to symbolize their bowed heads.  This tradition still exists, “a harmless thank you.”
         “But it’s just, like, Confucius lived 400 years before Christ was said to rise.  It’s hard to believe that writings so old could still be appropriate to govern our lives today.”  It was those same beliefs that kept Arthur Moore in business, yet he realized that to him they were just a sales pitch.
         “White Oleander.”  She paused.  “White Oleanders are beautiful flowers, but they’re deadly.  Did you know that in Southeast Asia they still mash the poisonous seeds of white oleanders with oil and force it down the throats of infant girls?”  She explained that, especially in rural areas, weddings are still arranged, dowries still given, and girls still thought to be a burden.  Girls receive less education, they work longer, and even receive less medical treatment than their male siblings.  So to prevent this burden, mothers simply murder their newborn girls.  Pouring boiling hot chicken soup down the throat of an infant is still one of the leading methods of killing an unwanted little girl.  An easy form of infanticide.  Unfortunately for the undertakers of Southeast Asia, these girls are buried in unmarked graves, under piles of dung. 
         “You know,” she continued as the table was cleared of their first course.  “Teenage girls in Asia are still forced into marriages arranged by matchmakers.  Those are the lucky ones, others are sold to be prostitutes.” 
         Arthur sat and listened to Sue Chin telling him about the horrors of life as a girl in Asia and the east.  This was far more traumatic than the struggle for designer clothing, and getting the latest and greatest CDs on the Top 100 faced by today’s teenagers in America.  And as he listened, he was struck by how Sue Chin cared about her life.
         “In China, the primary form of wealth is still land.  In like 1978 they passed The Production Responsibility System.  Basically, every family gets a piece of land that they can farm.  They have a government quota to meet, and then taxes.  If they are able to meet the taxes and quota they get to keep the rest for themselves, or to sell.  It’s like, a form of socialism, I think.” 
         “So that’s what your parents believe in?”
         “Well, sort of.  They believe in ancestor worship, and Confucianism and that sort of thing.  You know, my father works, my mother stays at home.  In China, men rule the outside world, but women control the home.” 
         The next course of their Peking Duck came to the table and the server bowed as she presented the pieces of sliced, roast duck.  She stepped backward away from the table and then finally turned to walk back to the kitchen. 
         “In a lot of places in Asia, women young and old still eat after men.  They get scraps, or leftovers after the men and boys are full.”  She said this as she ate her sliced duck.  “It’s not like I don’t want you to be full, Arthur.  But I’m hungry too.”  She smirked.
         She would explain that in China one was still expected to have unquestioned loyalty to party authority, still expected to live in harmony with their family and work together as a unit, not an individual.  And that, for strong-minded Sue Chin, just wasn’t good enough.  She wanted to be thrust into the melee of capitalism, to make a name for herself and battle for her place in society.
         “So, if you don’t believe in this stuff, why the funeral for your brother?”  This was the best duck of Arthur Moore’s life.
         “Well, honestly.  I don’t know.  I guess I didn’t know what to do, but I knew that my brother deserved something.  The nothing of my parent’s tradition wasn’t good enough, but their tradition is all I know.  Well, as far as funerals go.  That’s the only kind I’ve been to.”  She wiped her mouth with the corner of the black cloth napkin and then put it back on her lap.  “Plus, it was a little rebellious.  Well it was way rebellious.  That’s what Americans do, right?” 
         “Yeah, sure. But what about your traditional Chinese medicine?  That isn’t rebellious, and it’s... well, traditional.”  He finished his plate and pushed it to the corner of the table. 
         “Well, that’s what my father does.  He is a Chinese doctor.  But I wanted to be an American doctor.  I worked hard, studied, and got every scholarship I applied to so I could go to medical school.  Still, I grew up with my father and I had seen that what he did worked.  I’m not just trying to throw everything old out the window.  I just think you should learn as much as possible and adopt what makes sense, what works.  How are your gallstones?”
         “Better, I guess.  If it wasn’t just heartburn.” They both smiled a little.  “So you’re a doctor, and your parents don’t approve?”
         “It’s just not what women do.  But like I said, that’s their beliefs.  They aren’t all wrong, you just have to be able to interpret them.”
         For the first time since he could remember, Arthur Moore realized that he was enjoying himself.  He was on a date with a woman who was beautiful, who was smart, and different, and cared about things.  And for the first time in a long time, though he didn’t realize it, he wasn’t wondering if there was a point.
         They finished their soup, and paid their bill using Arthur Moore’s credit card.  They walked to the parking lot, and they held hands.  Arthur opened the passenger side door of the black Cadillac hearse like a true gentlemen, and they drove to Sue Chin’s duplex, and continued to talk about things that didn’t really matter.  But wasn’t that the point?  And then parked in front of a fire hydrant outside Sue Chin’s house they began to say goodnight.
         “You know, I have a bottle of wine inside that I’ve been saving.  I don’t know what for, but I’ve been saving it.”  She laughed.  They laughed.  “Do you want to come in?”  She looked at him with a nervous smile as he fingered the steering wheel.  Then he nodded.
         “Yeah, that would be nice.”  He pulled the keys from the ignition and got out, walking around to once again open the passenger side door.  And then as they walked up the path to the front door Sue Chin looked at Arthur Moore with a devilish smile.
         “You know, even today traditional Chinese women never make a move for a man.  They still only have sex for the purpose of bearing children.”

         “You look nice this morning, Sam.  Is that a new blouse?”  Arthur Moore smiled as he walked into Eternal Rest Funeral Home, wearing a new pin-stripped charcoal suit he picked out with the help of Sue Chin. “I brought coffee, skim milk and two Splenda for you.”
         “Thanks.  I love the new suit!”  She smiled a big, cherubic smile up at Arthur Moore.          
         “So who are we helping today?”
         “A Mr. Jacob called about his wife.  She passed in her sleep last night.  They’re Quakers.”
         “Alright, well they don’t like anything too fancy.”  They could still be talked into veneered rosewood, the Burke for $1,100.  “Why don’t you get them the information on the Eton, and Bella,” Tasmanian oak for $750, and walnut for $950 respectively. “The basic package would probably make them happy, and not break the bank.” One service in the chapel, one viewing (at no extra cost), around $2,300 plus the coffin.  “Show that to them so they can look it over, and make an appointment for tomorrow.”
         “Sure thing, I’ll get that ready for them.  I left a few other notes in your box, you’ll want to look into them.” She sipped her coffee. 
         “Alright.  Oh, are you reading the paper?”
         “No, all yours.”
         “Thanks.” He walked to his office and opened up to the comics.  The business prospects of the obituaries section could wait.  Over the past few months Arthur Moore had undergone some changes in his life.  He continued to date Sue Chin, his exotic Asian doctor and guardian angel of gallstones, he bought new clothes, he stopped looking down at Samantha Anne Lawrence, and he started looking into the eyes of people who walked through the doors of Eternal Rest and not for their wallet.  He began to cook and learn about Chinese cuisine.  He was even taking a vacation with Sue Chin, to Beijing, China.
         It all started when the subject of Arthur’s family came up one morning at breakfast in Sue Chin’s duplex.  They had died of natural causes, happily married for 46 years, just a few months apart.  Broken heart syndrome.  There was no dark history, or hard feelings.  Their house had been sold; it was too big for Arthur.  But everything in it was shoved into a storage unit downtown.
         “Wow, so like, what’s there?” Asked Sue Chin through the steam of her coffee.
         “Everything.  Pictures, couches, chairs, the stuff that people fill up their houses with, or I guess that they filled up their houses with.  In the sixties.”
         “What?  Oh my God, I have to see this.  Why is it just sitting there collecting dust?”  And so they went to the storage facility and Arthur Moore opened the large metal door.  As the sun hit the inside what was there could have been a jigsaw puzzle of vinyl, and mod patterns.
         “Oh man, this stuff is great.” Sue Chin smiled and put an arm around Arthur Moore.  “You know, this stuff is making a comeback, and in this condition you could probably get a good price for it.”
         And so Arthur Moore began to sell his childhood dwellings.  The Art Deco lighting fixtures, the space-age fiberglass sofa with orange vinyl seat circa 1960, the complete Paul McCobb Kitchen set with table and four chairs, the orange mushroom-shaped stool, the set of gray Saarinen side chairs that used to sit on his porch, his father’s Danish Mod print arm chair, the polka dot rocks glasses, the modernist style tea pot and vase, these relics that sat collecting dust would now pay for Arthur and Sue Chin to see China.
         First they would eat real Chinese food just outside of Tian an men square, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people who had come to see the site of the great massacre, and the largest square in the world.  From there they would walk into the Forbidden City and look at the portrait of Mao standing in the place where he proclaimed the People’s Republic of China.  It was interesting that this site of so much importance in Chinese history had such a dark name.  This was given by Westerners because uninvited entry to the palace would result in the loss of your head.  Up until 1911, it was law that no home could be higher than the walls of the Forbidden City.
         After that they would travel to the great wall.  Or part of it, in actuality the great wall is a series of smaller walls originally built to hold out the Northern invasion by the Mongols.  Constructed of dirt with stones around it, the original wall failed and the Mongols took over Beijing.  When China retook the city they rebuilt the wall, stronger and connected some of the sections.  It didn’t really matter if it was one wall or not, the picture Arthur Moore would take, holding the camera out as far as his arm would reach while he pulled Sue Chin in close would live on their mantle for years to come.
         They would walk the road leading to the Ming tombs and take pictures with every one of the 36 stone statues along the road, making so many jokes about how they were all missing a finger, a nose, or an ear that it wouldn’t be funny, but being in love they would still laugh.  The statues were missing their extremities because one of the emperors requested that all whole statues be brought to his tomb.  That night, somehow they all got damaged.
         Finally, they would visit the Summer Palace, a place so glamorous it bled the wealth of China to near poverty.  After the French and English burnt down the original Summer Palace in 1860, a new palace was built.  Instead of building a navy fleet, a marble boat complete with cannons was built in the palace’s lake.  Instead of feeding the people, a road was built inside the palace walls where all of the emperor’s servants could pretend to be shopkeepers so the emperor could walk around and pretend to be a starving commoner.  His playtime was before dinner.  Still, they would walk right up to the marble boat and if they could get away with it, become stone pirates for a few frames.
         This is what Arthur Moore was thinking about as he drove home from work three days before he was to leave for his vacation.  This was what mattered, fun, friends, love, being happy.  It turns out that life isn’t about up-selling coffins, or recommending extra viewings of the deceased.  And funerals, they weren’t just silly ways for people to get rid of their former loved ones, or for Arthur Moore to make a profit.  It was becoming clear to him that life was a cycle, well sort of.  It was a series of paths that lead to the same place, yes, but the beauty was in which path you chose to walk, the adventures that would be scattered across the highway in your rearview mirror as you got off at the last exit.  It wasn’t about getting there, everyone does.  It was about how you got there, that was the surprise, that was the beauty, and that was the point of life.
         Now that this was all clear to Arthur Moore, he felt like a new man.  His chi was strong, his yin and yang in perfect balance.  He was finally, for the first time in a long time, content to wander the trails of life.  He was looking forward to the road ahead of him, and remembering the road behind him, until now a straight desert highway, soon an off-road adventure with no clear trail.
         With his life in front of him, clear for the first time, Arthur Moore looked back in his rearview mirror, Eternal Rest Funeral home growing smaller in the distance.  Looking back in the mirror, but forward to the life in front of him Arthur Moore didn’t even see Francis Knightly Jr., the 17 year old proud new owner of a drivers license who had confused the break and gas when he came to the first red light of his driving career.