A morbid stroll down ‘Memory Lane’

It was one of those calls that I probably shouldn't have answered.

The caller ID read: "Memory Lane" something or other and included a local number. I quickly thought back to when I was in high school. There was a restaurant down the road from my house called "Memory Lane" which specialized in recreating the 1950s Doo-Wop experience for its customers. People said that I should work there as a singing waiter because of my outgoing, playful personality (the flat-top haircut didn't hurt either).

So, the phone call intrigued me. Had "Memory Lane" expanded to Indiana? Had they been searching for me all these years, after being told of my untapped Doo-Wop potential?

Also, I had some calls out for stories and thought it might be a source calling me back. So, I hit the "talk" button. On the other end of the line was a friendly female voice.

"This has to be it," I thought. "She must be one of those doo-wopping waitress types, and she's calling to see if I have any interest in becoming a singing waiter."

Being out of work, I was ready to give it my best shot. I envisioned her wearing one of those poodle skirt outfits while talking to me, like they wore in "Grease."

Then I found out what this "Memory Lane" was when I began listening to what she was actually saying. The cute-sounding doo-wop girl was a telemarketer. She was trying to sell me a two-for-one deal on cemetery plots. Also, she said, they had a great deal on mausoleum crypts.

Talk about a letdown. Was this some sort of sign? Was the doo-wop girl really the Grim Reaper's assistant? Did my wife put her up to this?

"If you'd like, I could set up a meeting with one of our associates to discuss your final plans and go over burial options," she said.

I was dumbfounded. My final plans?

I wanted to tell her that my final plans included something quick and relatively painless, preferably having something to do with tequila shooters and buxom, topless supermodels. Instead, I mumbled: "No … I think we're good here. Thanks."

But I couldn't resist blurting out a question.

"You don't … you know … know something that I don't, do ya?" I said.

She giggled (maybe she really was a doo-wop singing waitress).

"No," she said. "You sound young and healthy. I'm sure you're probably fine."

If she'd known about my ongoing gall bladder problems or my BMI number or the sink hole in my front yard, maybe she wouldn't have been so sure. She continued talking.

"I'm glad you didn't let me hang up," she said. "I was going to tell you that if anything with your situation changes, be sure to give us a call."

Wait. What?

"Uh, I probably won't be the one calling you if anything changes with my 'situation,' you know?" I said. "My wife might, but probably not me."

She broke into a cackle and hung up (probably off to work a doo-wop shift somewhere). The exchange got me thinking, though. Lately I've been a bit preoccupied with death. I'd like to blame it on my wife Lisa's impassioned pleas for me to get a new life insurance policy now that I'm no longer a regular working stiff.

Alas, that's not it. Not entirely. This is just the way my warped brain works. I'm like that kid in the movie "What About Bob?"

We are all going to die. There's no way out of it. Every one of us is going to die. Someday, and we have no idea when or how, we're just going to cease existing.

I think it's the mysterious part about death that intrigues me most. How and when?

Will it be tomorrow? Will it be Cancer? Will it be 10 years from now? 15? Will it be a heart attack, like my old man? Or will I come down with pig flu and be one of the unlucky ones? (Note: if this one happens, it might help explain the dream I had the other night, in which I was being chased by a pig with a runny nose).

Or maybe it'll be much more random. Stray bullet, perhaps? Stabbed by Benjamin Linus?

The possibilities are endless, right up until the bitter end. And at that point, something tells me it's not going to put my mind at ease knowing that I got a great two-for-one special on a cemetery plot.

It's like I always tell Lisa, who also seems to have a morbid fascination with death (mine, usually): "Just cremate me, after you make absolutely sure that I'm dead, and then do what you want with the ashes. Put me in a cereal box or a coffee can, for all I care. Just, whatever you do, MAKE … SURE … THAT … I … AM … ALREADY … DEAD. OK?"

Do-wop. Do-doo Wahhupp.

(Editor's addendum: So, I decided to look up Memory Lane online and found the place at http://www.memorylanepark.com/. There, you can scroll through photos of their very classy mausuleum (for those of you who aren't as comfortable with a coffee can being your final resting place). Also, there is a letter from the director of cemetery operations citing the 2-for-1 special. You can find that here http://www.memorylanepark.com/hardTimes.pdf