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As a hard working floral delivery guy, I deserved a good pat on the back. However, I never expected it to come from the deceased.

The dearly departed in this case was Mr. Hopkins, a rotund Rotarian who had left this mortal coil peacefully, leaving behind a loving wife and family who dutifully ordered flowers for the funeral. The pieces were rather large and barely all fit into the delivery van. Even so, I somehow managed to get the everything there in good order.

The funeral director led me to the viewing room immediately. This is unusual, by the way. Most of the time, the arrangements are left an adjacent flower room.

"Right this way," he said quietly.

"Uh, shouldn't these be left over here?" I asked nervously.

"No," he explained, "this is family work. It needs to be set up first. Put the sprays on either side and the casket saddle on the casket. I'll be back in a few minutes."

I carried the seven foot tall standing spray into the room. The room was already set up with chairs for the viewing. At the far end of the room was Mr. Hopkins in a dark blue suit. His hands were folded over his large belly.

The make-up girl was putting on the final touches.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey," I responded.

She had a lovely smile and was a delight to look at. Perhaps it was her smile that distracted me, but I quickly forgot the reason I was there. She left the room and my eyes followed her. Thus occupied, I wasn't paying any attention to where my feet were landing. Like the doofus that I am, I walked smack into the casket.

There was some damage to the funeral spray. A gladiola became dislodged and hit the carpet. After putting the spray to one side, I knelt down and picked up the flower. When I stood up, however, I felt a hand hit my back.

It was the hand of the late Mr. Hopkins.

"Gnahhhh!" I responded.

My first thought was that Mr. Hopkins wasn't as deceased as I had been told. After a careful examination, though, I realized that the gentleman had indeed expired. The mechanics of the situation were simple, the bump had caused his hand to slide off his beer gut. The question remained, how do I get the hand back to where it belongs?

There was a noise in the hall. Someone was coming. Thinking quickly, I moved the spray to block the view of the casket. It was the funeral director. He was checking on my progress.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Fine," I said, voice cracking. "Just fine."

He hadn't seen it. After he left, I surveyed the situation. This was bad. I was being punished for my lechery. I

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