In a city where even the end comes with add-on fees, Poplar Cemetery is unveiling a points card for regulars of the irrevocable.
Official promise: turn the irreversible into a customer perk, with the patter of a cashier who never makes change for time.
Presented yesterday at a booth draped in anthracite velvet, the little matte-finish card is already being waved like a premium pass to the hereafter: points earned with every service, complimentary engraving at the Gold tier, a “twilight edition” urn as a welcome bonus. The establishment insists it’s about “democratizing the experience,” not trolling for fatality. In front of the recycled-paper flyers (we don’t joke about cycles), residents waver between guilty snickers and polite indignation: “Do you stamp the tears too?” murmurs a passerby, her eyes dry out of caution.
“We don’t kill the competition, we bury it properly,” vows the marketing director, charcoal suit and embalmer’s smile. He notes that points are credited only after legal confirmation of departure, so as to avoid overexuberance. The tiny terms speak for themselves: no retroactive accrual, loyalty is strictly family-only, and the “Grave for Two” offer excludes posthumous disputes. Also on the program, a partnership with local florists: bouquets that wilt right on cue, for flawless emotional coherence.
Skeptics call it morbid commerce; pragmatists, a “good long-term deal.” The company, for its part, rolls out its slogan on dusk-colored posters: “You have your whole life to think about it. We’ve thought of everything.” In the thick silence that follows, you can almost hear the cash register: it coughs, then falls quiet, respectfully.
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