This happened back when Mr. Blister lived over on tenth street and we had our music studio in his basement. On the fine and sunny Friday in question, he'd been dropped at my house by his wife for logistical reasons far beyond my comprehension, so we had to walk to the studio.
On the way, I spotted an interesting figure coming down the sidewalk toward us. She has a stagger in her gait, as if she might fall over. My eyes were better then, and I was able to see two things from a distance -- first, she was wearing a turban and dark glasses. Second, I wasn't able to guess what her race was. She was pink -- but it wasn't a shade of pink I'd ever seen on a human being.
She starts the conversation while she's still half a block away, just opens her mouth up and hollers, "Boy, do you believe in morticians?"
What I want to say is, "Believe in 'em? Hell, I've seen 'em," but before I can get my words in edgewise she hollers some more.
"I saw this on the TV news! Those morticians are making love to dead bodies!"
Now that I'm closer I can see that she is a piebald African American, her skin mottled in shades of bright pink and that pinkish tan that's labeled Flesh in a box of Crayolas. Her skin weeps serum, and a thick white fluid seeps out from under her sunglasses. Burns? A skin disease? Whatever it is, it doesn't look fun. This is someone who has some serious difficulties.
When she gets to us she grabs my arm and looks up into my face. When she speaks, it's still at maximum volume, and her voice echoes down the street.
"They fucking corpses, boy! What do you think of that?"
I pat her hand and say, "You get some of that in every profession. Somebody's always gonna have a sick motive. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker..."
She lets go of me and cracks up. "Well, I just don't want that to happen to me. Think I wants to be cremated!"
The images that brought to my mind were less than attractive. A vivid imagination is sanity's second worst enemy. (Reality is number one.)
Mr. Blister and I walk on in silence for a while. He doesn't speak until it's safe to assume that the corpse-fucker lady is out of earshot.
"Holy shit," he says. "That really happened! I mean, it's not like I think you're a liar but I always figured you made that stuff up."
"Welcome to my world, man," I say. "Welcome to my world."
Up next -- Stewie the scar eater and Lobster Baby!