Drama at a Funeral

The other day I was at a funeral home for a service, and this young girl, maybe about 14 or so, was standing at the door, staring in the glass of the door pathetically, apparently not wanting to come in.  After several minutes of watching her wistfully gaze in through the frosted surface that is the window I decided to assist this unfortunate young lady.  Perhaps she was so overcome with emotional distress that she wasn't able to enter the building...

Well, let me back up a bit before I continue, so that I may more appropriately lay the groundwork for the rest of this story...

Attend ye Gods, and despair...

So the family was a Brooklynese Italian family.  (Maybe they staged this so that some of Psycho-Ex's friends could come and scope out the locale...)  And of course the deceased family member had moved up to New England where we currently are years ago, so all of these citiots (a portmanteau of City and idiot) had invaded my beautiful, sleepy, north-eastern town.  The local florist was losing his mind.  There had literally been three different daughters in his shop asking that he ABSOLUTELY MADE CERTAIN that their arrangement was bigger than their sister's.  I wish I was joking.

(Because, you see, it isn't about the deceased at all, it's about being the BEST DAUGHTER FUCK YOU SIS I WIN)

Anyhow, the florist had decided that he might need to rent an 18-wheeler to deliver the massive arrangements, one of which required two men to lift.  I swear I'm not shitting you.

So all of these people had established themselves as needing everything to be a massive production, and about them, rather than their dad. We have a well documented case of a city mentality happening here, and as such we can assume that, being from the city they have grown up in relative privilege and luxury, with taxis, automatic doors (this becomes important in a bit), and gigantic floral arrangements.

So now it's the day of the service, and things aren't going quite right, it's all drama, etc.

Finally there is a minor meltdown just for show, where-in the eldest daughter was panicked because her younger sister was 5 WHOLE MINUTES LATE YOU GUYS.  

5

FUCKING

MINUTES

LATE

In case you weren't aware of the gravity of the situation, the oldest sister was weeping over her dead father's casket in full view of all about how her sister was never late (because driving on uncertain roads in New England while you've grown up in the city NEVER makes anyone late EVER.  Especially in the winter, right? RIGHT?)

And Big Sister couldn't reach Little Sis on the phone, because in the north east cell towers are few and far between, unlike Brooklyn, whereupon they are mounted to each and every building.  Yet in Old Bag's mind, this very clearly meant that her iddle-widdle sister was bleeding out in a ditch somewhere, and we'd have to buy another casket and perform a double service, and the funeral director, the FUCKING FUNERAL DIRECTOR, should go look for her in God-Knows-Where.  Suddenly sister walks through the door and Older Bitch is clutching her, CLUTCHING I say, and weeping, and lamenting, and telling her how the sooner they get out of this Twilight Zone of the United States and back into glorious Civilization, the better; she was convinced that she had lost her, etc.

Anyhow, now that the gang's all here, we can go back to the beginning of this story.  The young lady that was peering through the door turns out to be younger sister's daughter.  I opened the door for the poor young thing and I asked her what was wrong.  She told me she was fine and went inside. I shrugged and went back to what I was doing.

A few minutes later she brushed past me in typical city attitude, and exited the building as another gentleman entered.  After about five minutes, I happened to look outside, and noticed her once again looking into the building forlornly.  I decided to ignore her, until she came in herself.  I'm not a door-man.  She didn't come in, and she didn't vanish.  I sighed and opened the door for her again.  (turns out I AM a door-man in my off-time.  Who knew?)

I politely informed her that if she wanted to come in all she had to do was open the door,  and was rewarded for what I thought was an incredibly helpful and sensible piece of information with a blank stare and the words, "your door is broken."  I went to look at the door, and it was fine.  I told her as much, and she says to me, (brace yourselves, it's pretty mind-blowing) "I stood in front of it for, like, a while, you know, but the sensor must be dead or something and it didn't open."  I told her it didn't have a sensor, it wasn't an automatic door, to which she developed a perfect (O.O) face and replied with shock, "I didn't know they made non-automatic doors!  That thing must be REALLY old!!!!"

My forehead still hurts from the facepalm, and I'm not sure I'll ever recover that lost bit of faith in the upcoming generation that represents what humanity is about to become...

And I STILL hate Citiots.