Over a Lilith drive-through grooming session, Hoku on one side and Ola on the other, each making Lily's fur fly, I mentioned I'd heard that the big bosses had been at the cemetery. "One of them's a billionaire!" said Ola. There's money in what I discover on-line is called "the death care profession. "I'd like to have dinner with him." He won't bother with you guys, I muttered cynically. "Oh we local guys, we got our ways."
At my computer, I look up the Executive Leadership Team of the corporation that owns the cemetery. It's located in Houston, Texas. At the top of the webpage I read: "Humanity is at the heart of what we do because at its core, the cemetery and funeral profession is all about people." There are photos of the bosses, nine white men and one white woman (who is, of course, in human resources). Below them, two more white men, Divisional Vice Presidents. The men are in suits and ties. They all smile, except the last one.
On weekends, the cemetery is full of families: Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Filipino, Pacific Islander. They bring flowers and picnics and some of them burn incense in rusted trash drums. During the week, the place is full of workers: Hawaiians, mostly, a local white guy, who's a lower boss. If you walk after 8:30 a.m., you'll compete with huge tourist buses and rental cars going to the Temple. Usually the mix, while awkward, isn't toxic. There was an argument one day, I'm told, between tourists and a funeral party. Many of the tourists have no idea they're in a cemetery. Most of the grave stones are flat.
As we get closer to May, it gets hotter. Lilith and I were thirsty by the time we left the cemetery. I asked if they had any water in the guard shack. "What would you put it in?" asked S. I pointed out that they used to have a refrigerator outside the building next to the flowers. "It went the way of the trees," S. said. "Same decision-maker, too."
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