The mortician at Valley of the Temples, dressed in blue, was gently chiding a maintenance worker who'd parked his John Deere vehicle in the wrong place. "Need a diplomat?" I asked. I remarked on the mortician's black shoes, not the nice ones I remember. Those are in the car (a red Mercedes), he said. They have posts in the heels so he can't pronate; the ones he had on leaned to the side like skiffs in a stiff wind. "Do you guys do the autopsies?" the maintenance guy asked. "No, we mostly close them up. The worst are the donors; they really get cut up." "But isn't a good thing that they donate and help keep someone else alive?" I asked. "That's what they want you to think. You donate your body and someone else makes money," he responds.
"Do I have to disbelieve everything?" I ask.
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