The Biker
Mary Ann McSweeny
In the stealth of the night on cold porcelain, under the severe fluorescent lights of the Prep Room, the embalmer pierces, drains, and plugs to slow the inroads of flesh-eating bacteria. He dresses the dead biker in jeans, t-shirt, and leather jacket. The embalmer’s knack for cosmetic work always makes the family nod and say in gratitude, “He looks like himself.”
This case is different. The embalmer doesn’t have a beard to replace the one the biker lost to chemo. The biker doesn’t look like himself, and everyone feels it.
The biker’s aunt has stepped up to take final care of her orphaned nephew, too young to die, only forty-nine. She carries the responsibility in loco parentis to bury her nephew in a manner that at once honors traditional American burial customs and celebrates his biker avocation. With dignity, with an old-fashioned sense of hospitality, she is quietly adamant. The biker’s friends must feel welcome. They must know they are in the right place when it comes time to pay their respects.
He must have a beard.
She cajoles, insists, and finally persuades one of the biker’s nieces, a makeup artist at a Boston movie studio, to… Read more »