Schwartz stood in the shade of his funeral home’s green awning, searching the street for a sign of Rabbi Silverman. Tapping his watch lightly with an arthritic index finger, he turned to the usher beside him, a pimple-faced graduate student he employed at twelve dollars an hour.
“So where is he?”
The usher didn’t respond. Although he’d only been in Schwartz’s employ for less than a month, the usher had already concluded that it was best to exchange as few words as possible with the funeral director. His initial impression of Schwartz, formed during his interview, was that the old man was a toxic mix of impatience, pessimism, and hostility. Each moment spent in Schwartz’s presence since then had only confirmed that appraisal.
While funeral home ushering was hardly physically or intellectually demanding, he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to endure it. Beyond the unpleasantness of Schwartz’s constant company, there was also the excruciating shame and indignity the usher felt at graduating summa cum laude from Northwestern University’s School of Journalism, yet finding himself working for twelve dollars an hour at a Jewish funeral home while he took graduate courses part time at a state college. His friend Benny Rodkoff was making close to $40,000 a year at The Washington Times, with no Schwartz hovering over his shoulder, and Benny had only gone to Brandeis.
The usher tried not to dwell on any of this as he waited beneath the green awning. He was hungry and eager to get the funeral over with. For now, at least he was in the shade, even if he was sharing...
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