The Coffin Maker: Part 1

Small white flakes of particle dust gently floated around the room, caught in the ray of the morning sunlight beaming down from a window specifically cut into the ceiling. They drifted left and right, circling from unknown winds, so soft no skin could feel it’s breeze but the weightlessness of the dust could be swept back up into the stuffy air.

The light shone down on strange line that was whole – connected like that of a circle but curved inward and looped around in an intentional design. Around the odd line were numbers drawn around it, and at the top of the shape was the number twelve; to its right was the number one, then the number two, and so on until it came around back near the top – number eleven, and the first twelve completed the counting. It was a clock drawn in the floor and the light told the time as it shown through the strange window in the ceiling, designed to illuminate the drawn clock on the floor in rays of sunshine, landing just after the number eleven, as it was roughly after eleven o’ clock in the morning.

The drawn clock in the floor was near the middle of the room, and facing the clock one could layout where things lie in the room: at six o’ clock was the door, which was the only entrance; at seven o’ clock was an L-shaped desk with a small green lamp on it with a pull string to turn it on as well as large, leather bound ledger; from one o’ clock all the way down to five o’ clock – the entire right side of the room – was a wall of coffins. They were organized on a three-tier staircase, starting from the back of the room largest to smallest; each one had a paper price tag dangling off the left side of each coffin. Though organized from largest to smallest, there were gaps between sizes, and several stacked in front of the larger coffins that simply leaned against the one on the shortest tier.

From eight o’ clock to eleven, mostly the left half of the room, were crafting tables and saws; an entire work station where the coffins were carved. Between eleven o' clock and twelve o' clock was a dark room where bodies were kept and placed in the appropriate coffin. And at ten-thirty was Gerry, the coffin maker. He was fifty-six years old but in good health; thin body with mostly white hair. He wore bifocals that he seemed to forget about while he worked as he could get lost in the process of his craft, that he would often rely on his thirty years of experience as the local coffin maker that he could trust his instincts over his sight. Gerry had light, prickly stubble hair on his face that, too, had turned white, having not shaved in a couple of days. Tied around his neck were leather strings that held up a long auburn apron. On his left breast the letters G-E-R-R-Y were branded.

Gerry’s rough and coarse hands sanded the right side of a newly carved coffin; for the newly dead approximately between five-foot-seven inches and five-foot-eight-and-one-half inches and approximately between one-hundred-and-fifty pounds and one-hundred-and-sixty-five pounds. Gerry’s hands were indeed coarse, calloused over that if one pricked his palm with a needle he wouldn’t feel it. Thirty years of carving coffins for the town calloused him emotionally, as his life for three decades depended on death.

Gerry looked at the floor to check the time. Almost twelve o’ clock. He set down the sandpaper and walked to the L-shaped desk, where he opened a small drawer on the left side and took out a long measuring tape. He shut the drawer, walked to the door, and left.

The fifty-six year old man exited his shop; The Coffin Shop, which was engraved on a swinging sign above the door. But everyone called it “Gerry’s Coffins,” or even “Gerry’s.” When Gerry walked outside, two men were standing in the middle of the dirt road with their backs pressed together. They split apart and took slow, careful, long strides in synchronization – one step, two steps, three steps. A small cloud of dust puffed up from underneath their boots as they firmly placed each foot on the dirt. The man to the left of Gerry wore spurs on his heel, which scraped up the ground, forming a trail of dust behind him as he continued his pace; seven steps, eight steps, nine…

They took their tenth step and stopped, turning around to face each other. The men locked eyes and held an open right hand over their holstered guns. Other people had exited their shops to watch the duel that was about to commence. Gerry looked far to his left and then far too his right to measure the distance between the duelers. He then examined each man, estimating their height and weight. Gerry figured the man on the left was taller and a bit stockier, but both men were roughly the same weight. He secretly wished the man on the left would die for he had too many tall coffins and wanted to clear some space.

A man with long blonde hair and a yellowed goatee from a lifetime in the sun casually stood next to Gerry. He wore a large silver badge in the shape of a star pinned on his left breast with the letters S-H-E-R-I-F-F engraved on it.

The sheriff licked his lips and inhaled with an open mouth. He pointed with a small nod towards the man on the right. “Lost his horse, thinks he took it,” he gestured towards the man on the left. The sheriff’s voice was raspy from a lifetime of whiskey. “Says he bought the horse a mile away in Big Belly—” the sheriff coughed a long wheezing cough, then reached in his vest pocket and unscrewed a flask. He took a quick sip and sighed audibly. “To be frank, Gerry, I think the poor guy lost his own damn horse and doesn’t want to admit it.” The sheriff wiped droplets of whiskey off his goatee with his palm. None of it mattered to Gerry. He just hoped the taller man died.

The sun rose directly above the duel and hung motionless in the sky. The air turned quiet; everyone held their breath. The two men stood still like statues, waiting for the slightest twitch to ignite the duel. They waited patiently. Sweat forming on their brows. Not a single part of their body moved.

The shorter man suddenly gripped his gun but the tall man sprung his gun out from his holster and pulled the trigger in a flash. The short man jolted back, his hat flying off his head, and crashed onto the dirt, where a cloud of dust erupted.

The sheriff scratched his goatee. “Well,” he drawled, “It’s his own damn fault.” The sheriff pulled money out of his vest pocket and slapped it in Gerry’s hand. “Okay!” he shouted indignantly as he plodded off and walked towards the scene of the crime. He took out a pair of handcuffs and approached the victor. “C’mon. One night behind bars.” He strapped the handcuffs tightly around the tall man’s wrists and walked him across the road to his office. Gerry still wished the tall man died.

As the audience retreated to their homes and businesses, Gerry stepped onto the road and took out the measuring tape. He unraveled it and placed the starting end by the feet of the corpse. Gerry grabbed the body by the arms and straightened out his posture to make him as tall as possible and continued measuring. He was approximately five-foot-seven-and-one-half inches tall. He wasn’t fat either. He’d have to use the coffin he just made.