Eva Walker is a writer, a KEXP DJ, one-half of the rock duo the Black Tones, and mom to her baby girl, Hendrix. She also co-wrote the book The Sound of Seattle: 101 Songs That Shaped a City, which was released in 2024. Every month for The Stranger she writes a letter to Hendrix to share wisdom learned from her experiences—and her mistakes.

Dear Hendrix, 

One day you’ll be allowed to leave the house on your own for a date, and when you do—at age 40—you’ll find that there are many interesting ways of meeting someone new. People meet potential prospects in all sorts of places: Supermarkets, dog parks, the gym, bars, and even church. But sometimes, the sparks will hit you at the most awkward and peculiar moments. Like over a dead body.

In 2015, two years before I met your dad, your grandma’s first cousin died in his sleep.  Although he was in his eighties, it was very sudden and a shock to all of us. My phone rang that early November morning (by the way, I HATE November, but that’s for another letter), and it was his granddaughter calling to tell me he hadn’t woken up. As she cried on the phone, I drove straight over to his house to see if I could be of assistance. When I arrived, I saw him lying there, lifeless and pale. We called the funeral home to set up arrangements, and as we waited for them to arrive, I volunteered to sit in the room with the body as no one wanted to leave it unattended (not sure why). I started humming my usual haunting gospel spirituals: “You better get ready for judgment morning!” I’m a gospel-loving atheist and damn proud. 

Not long after the third or so spiritual, the funeral home employees—all dressed in their snazzy yet macabre black suits—walked in, routinely yet respectfully. There was one who stood out immediately: He had dark black framed glasses and dark brown slicked-back hair. I stood up and introduced myself. Let’s call him Denzel. Denzel gave me a big smile and introduced himself immediately. The first thing Denzel said was, “We will need to move all of this stuff off the bed before we can take the body.” I was smitten and said gleefully, “I’ll move this stuff away, no problem!” So I started picking up papers and old mail. As I cleaned, I asked, “So, what kind of music do you guys like?” I really don’t remember what answers they gave, but it turned out Denzel had played some music himself and was stoked to hear I, too,  was a musician. And my dark bizzaro-self was weirdly stoked he was in the field of funeraling. (Is “funeraling” a word?)

After we removed clutter from the bed, all that remained were ruffled sunset-colored sheets and a pale, stiff body. Denzel began to forcefully push down the arm of the deceased (it was bent upward when he passed away). “Why are you pushing down on his arm?” I asked. “I have to straighten his arm out, and the rigor mortis just kicked in,” Denzel said. Me, asking flirty and curiously, “Rigor mortis? What’s that?” He replied with a gentle grin, “It’s the stiffening of muscles after death.” Me, still flirting, “Oh really? Wow, that's interesting.” 

I felt the flirting coming back at me from Denzel. Since the feeling was mutual, I felt less worried about the fact that this was happening with a dead body in the room. It took a few minutes, but Denzel eventually got that arm straightened out, and now it was time to wrap the body up, which they went ahead and used the bed sheet to do. Now I had never seen anything like that before, and I see why immediate family members probably don’t want to be in the room because it would be too hard to see. But as I watched, and flirted and watched and flirted—I know there’s a special place in Hell for me—they finally had him all packed up on the cart and ready to take to the funeral home for preparations. I wasn’t brave enough to exchange phone numbers with Denzel there; that would have been taking it a little too far. (I know what you’re thinking; stop judging me.)

The service took place about a week or so later at the funeral home, and I was hoping Denzel would be there—I had no other way of contacting him. Friends and family arrived wearing their black outfits and sad faces, and I, while indeed mourning, was on a secret mission to find Denzel. We were greeted by the lead funeral director and another employee who guided us to the main room where the casket was and where the service was going to take place. As people headed toward the chapel, I went to one of the workers and casually asked, “Hey do you know if Denzel happens to be here?” The employee’s eyes brightened, and he excitedly responded, “Oh! You must be Eva! Stay here, I’ll go get him!” I was shocked. Not only did Denzel remember my name, but I was the talk of the funeral home! 

Minutes later, Denzel ran up the stairs and out the door, adjusting his suit jacket with a big smile. As the service began and people shared stories and memories, I was in charge of the slide show. Of course, I pretended not to be very proficient with a typical computer, so Denzel would have to help me as much as possible. It worked. Toward the end of the service, Denzel and I sat in the back of the venue, and I asked all sorts of curious questions about the embalming process: “What does the body look like after you drain all the blood out?” and “Do the bodies ever make weird noises or move?” Questions I realize now he’s asked a thousand times, but he thought my curiosity was adorable and was glad to answer them. It was a very nice and enlightening conversation. If you have any questions about what happens to a body at a funeral home Henny, I might actually be able to answer them for you. 

After the service, I invited Denzel to a late-night burlesque performance I was doing at a basement venue in Capitol Hill (also a story for another letter someday), and right then and there, we finally exchanged phone numbers. I gave him the details for the performance, and he proceeded to say, “Okay, I’ll be there. But you should know I’m on call. So if someone dies during your performance, I’ll have to go to pick up a body.” “That’s a really good reason,” I said.

Our short time dating was like any other brief relationship, and he ended up moving to California to pursue screenwriting in film and we eventually fell out of contact. Years later, Denzel texted me asking if I wanted to meet up. I had to text him the news that I was happily married since the last time we talked but it was good to hear from him. 

You meet people in the oddest places sometimes, and usually, it makes for a great memory, an important lesson, or simply just a good story you can share with people to slightly creep them out during Thanksgiving. Hendrix, when it’s my time to go, and you have to make the dreadful call for my body to be picked up, just remember this story. Because if that mortician, funeral director, mortuary transporter, whatever title they have, walk in the room and you see something you like, don’t let my expired meat suit prevent you from shooting your shot.