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took a frantic look around to see if there was anything that could help me make this right. Mr. Hopkins, meanwhile, was there in the casket, his hand outstretched as if he was signaling for a right hand turn.

There was nothing there to help me. I'm not sure what I was looking for, a spatula, some chopsticks maybe? My choices were clear. I could either tell the director, or try to fix it myself, manually.

I opted for the latter. I took a deep breath. Gingerly, I pinched the cuff of his blue jacket and lifted it slowwwwwwly. With great care, I placed it on his stomach. It looked just fine. I had done it!

Backing away, I watched in horror as the hand slowwwwwwly slipped off his stomach and flopped out of the casket. Once again, Mr. Hopkins' hand was out in the open, palm skyward. Mourners now could bid him farewell by either shaking his hand or giving him bus fare to the cemetery.

I needed to make it right and needed to do it fast. I carefully lifted the sleeve. I was almost home when I felt somebody behind me. It was the funeral director.

There I stood, holding the sleeve of a corpse. My mind was reeling with things to say. I wanted to make it clear that I wasn't trying to steal the cadaver.

"I bumped the casket," I explained.

Now an ordinary person would have been angry. Lucky for me, funeral directors are missing the gene that allows for human emotion.

"It's all right, I'll get it," he said nonchalantly.

Apparently, this sort of thing happens all the time. He was unflappable. If we ever need a new Secretary of Homeland Security, I nominate this guy.

I quickly removed the rest of the arrangements from the van.

"Hi," the makeup girl flirted.

I ignored her. I had learned my lesson. The earthly remains of Mr. Hopkins had set me straight.

I slammed the van door, and fled the scene, occasionally checking the rearview mirrors to make certain that Mr. Hopkins wasn't following me.

Learn more about this author, Neal Acito.
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