I Got Kicked Out of a Funeral for Mooching Off the Food

If you are keeping track (there isn't much of a reason to do so), I landed myself in a psych ward two months ago. Subsequently, I have received various notices and bills from their billing department. Having quit my job in order to go there in the first place (I was really and truly freaking out), I find myself writing this now with a negative balance in my bank account.

There remains two months of rent plus utilities and enough money for my meds left in my savings. Having spent a majority of my money on "getting better" and "giving myself time" and "prioritizing one's self", I find myself totally and completely fucked. So here I am. Having set aside the money for the things I cannot skip out on, I am left with the responsibility of filling up my time and the need to feed myself at minimal cost. It's time to get creative and make a little bit of skrill. This is a story about how I crashed a funeral in order to eat something that is not a bowl of curried lentils (have two pounds of the stuff left in my freezer), manager's special bread, or bruised bananas.

First, it begins with some recon. A past roommate of mine just finished mortuary school and currently works at the biggest funeral home in the region. I thought it would be best to ask her some questions versus going in blindly. Fittingly, we hung out at her favorite cemetery and discussed the logistics.

Me: So, what part of the funeral involves food? I don't want to walk into anything sad.

My ex-roommate: The last part. There are five parts of a funeral. First, there are the visiting hours, the celebration of life, the mass, graveside, and then the collation, which is also called the reception. It's the fun part, where the family and friends of the person is celebrated and food is served. It's more social and everybody is more relaxed.

Me: It seems like the collation is the most social part of a funeral.

My ex-roommate: Well, funerals bring people together, and get together people who haven't seen each other in a long time. The amount of money the family has and how much they're willing to spend really determines what the collation is like.

Me: What's the food like at a collation?

My ex-roommate: It depends, because some places will charge per plate, or you can get a meal plan with has huge trays of food that are heated that'll feed like, 15 people. Those are the ones I assume you would want to go to. I guess you can make a plate and go to the bathroom and eat it.

Me: Hmm. Yeah.

My ex-roommate: Or you can talk to the family and pay your condolences and say you're a past girlfriend of somebody there, or hired help, or a work friend… Most people aren't in the place to call you out at a funeral. They're wrapped up in their own grief.

Me: What I'm gathering from you is that the collation is a time for people to put their grief aside and celebrate the person's life. How does food tie in?

My ex-roommate: It ties together in an emotional way. When my dad died, people showed their support by bringing Tupperwares of food to my house. Casseroles, mac and cheese—stuff that's easy to reheat and easy to eat. Food is comfort. Nowadays, from my perspective, families do most of the booking for collations because it's the most intimate part. People go to great limits to make sure the celebration is a good representation of the person's life.

Me: What's the sparsest collation you've heard of or been a part of? Is that easier to get into?

My ex-roommate: I actually attended a collation at an Elks, and the food was Subway. A bunch of subs cut into pieces. It was my grandma's sister's husband. I met him a few times but I was really there for the party. Honestly, no one cared. Nobody cared that it was Subway. They ate because they were hungry, and if you're spent from crying all day and driving and waking up at six and grieving, you want that Subway. It depends it might be easier or harder depending on how much money the family has, how many people are invited, if it's at a public place.

I did some research and found a collation at a popular venue for these types of things. The next day, I donned some funeral garb.

I parked at the other end of the lot, checked my teeth, took a deep breath, and decided to go in. This is a nice place, but not too nice. Unfortunately, the folks at the funeral are not too diverse; a quick scan around the room confirmed that I was the only person of color in the place. Fuck. I walk in anyway, expecting to be stopped at every turn. Calm, still, and as somber as I could be, I begin to walk towards the food. This one was not a pay-per-plate (score!). There were heaps of hot food in tureens across a long serving table. A large bowl of greens, another of fruit salad, and some bread rounded out the spread. I got a plate at the end of the line and began to accrue conservative portions of food: macaroni and cheese, steamed and buttered broccoli.

At the end of the line, I glanced around to find an exit. As MW recommended, I was going to eat this in the bathroom, or better yet, the hell away from this sad dining experience. Close to the door, I look up and smile at an older man whose attention was on me. I think he took it as an invitation to speak.

"So how do you know Mr. A-----? I don't recognize you." He was kindly enough. It didn't seem hostile.

"Oh, I'm a friend of his kids," I replied. I take a fork and stick it into the mashed sweet potatoes. Can't eat this with my hands, I reasoned.

His nose wrinkled. Dude seemed nice enough. His suit was extra starched, his shoes polished well. He seemed like the kind of person who had attended many funerals in the past, the kind of person who was far better versed in funeral etiquette and mannerisms than I am.

"J---- doesn't have any kids," His forehead wrinkled. "I think …"

"Oh, I must be… in the wrong place," I offer. At least my cheeks are appropriately flushed.

"I can take that for you," He says and reaches for my plate.

Fuck.