Chicken soup, dead dancers, and wasabi fingers

My belly is full. I just enjoyed a bowl and a half of chicken and rice soup that I made with my wife last night. It was better tonight than last. Now, I’m hunkering down for a long night of playing on the computer. But first, a couple of things from my day.

Melissa has been missing since Wednesday. She was 23 years old, drove a green Honda Accord with alloy wheels, and according to certain people had been dating a married man for a while.

Yesterday afternoon her family got a call. The caller said Melissa’s car was in the parking lot of a local strip mall. So the family went. That’s when a cousin saw that the large stereo speaker that usually sits in Melissa’s trunk was in the back seat. The cousin relayed that to the deputies on the scene. One opened the trunk, saw a white sheet, and slammed the trunk lid back onto its lock. Melissa was dead inside. Somebody strangled her.

I deal with death a lot. I talk to a lot of grieving moms, dads, brothers, sisters, and kids. It is never fun and I rarely feel well after I finish.

Late today I was at the Sheriff’s Office. A woman recognized me and asked if I was covering the story. I said I was. She told me she was Melissa’s cousin. Melissa was a dancer. I learned soon that she wasn’t talking ballet. I gave her my card. Tonight, after I got home a young producer called and said the dead dancer’s dad had called for me. Normally, I would’ve waited until morning to return the call. For some reason tonight…I didn’t.

A man who sounded quite old and quite tired answered the phone. I asked for him by name and he said that was him. I told him I was sorry he was going through such a rough time and asked him what I could do for him. The conversation isn’t much to write here about. What was more striking was the background noise. I find it very familiar, even though I’ve only experienced it a few times myself.

There was a low rumble seeping through the phone receiver. A child was babbling like he didn’t know or couldn’t appreciate what was going on.. Adults were talking in low voices, but there were a lot of them so it made enough noise to be heard. The tired, old man was straining to hear me over the phone. I’m sure the room was full of cigarette smoke. There was probably an ashtray that someone had already emptied once tonight. The coffee pot barely has time to cool off before someone is making a new pot. They are the sounds, smells, and temperatures of death in a lower middle class family. The time when a family will come together and talk quietly, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, and wait to feel better.

Our conversation lasted less than five minutes. I became his second appointment in the morning.

He’s going to the mortuary first.

On a lighter note (actually a bit of a light green)…we all know to be careful of the wasabi. It looks quite innocent, but it can really mess your mouth up. And I learned something new today.

Wasabi must have some kind of water-repelling oil in its molecules. I swear I had washed my hands two times before I stepped into the bathroom.

Note to all of you and myself…the next time I handle wasabi with my bare hands, I’m wearing gloves before I take anything out of my pants.