National Poetry in Your Pocket Daycomments powered by Disqus
Posted on Thursday, April 29 2010 @ 13:19:37 PST
And now for something bleak...
Joe Calvo, 45 years old, a businessman, dead.
Unsure how he died. People said he just collapased in the middle of the sidewalk. Most likely a heart attack or something. Someone attempted recussitation but it was definitly too late.
And like that, it’s another weak case.
Death is death at the scene, but after so many cases, dealing with the run of the mill gets boorish after a long while. Id rather something along the lines of the macabe, a body torn in half, a severed arm or two. Sadistic yes, but after twenty or so years as an active coronor, I am sick of the simple stuff. Sure, a stabbing or gunshot here and there and I get called in to remove the corpses of the victims, but even then that’s no longer shocking unless if it’s something really tragic, like a child.
Poor me that Joe wasn’t a child. He was also pretty fit to have a heart attack, but you can be a muscle-bound freak and have your chest burst open for steroid use, so only toxicology will report this. So run of the mill. So boring. I pack up Joe for his second to last ride, his black suit now over his cold eyes. I’m alone today, a beautiful day it is too. A sunny day in Spring, with green grass rising above the knees of passerbys and goldenrod flowers sprouting like weeds along the cemented pathways. A day I won’t enjoy because of Joe. Because of a 45 year old in the back of my van.
No, thanks to him I get to enjoy the sterilness of the whitewashed rooms, the artificial heat of the flourescent lamposts as I scribble the facts and start the embalming. My greens and yellows become fluids that would make others regurgitate their lunches. A collage of chemicals to keep up the facade of living for Joe. To keep him fresh. Life-like. Always a pain to deal with.
I pull into his new home. Security wasn’t even around, probably wading through the grass on this lovely day, listening to music or basking in the sunlight. I pull the van up to it’s space. Nice and steady, because I don’t want to distrub Joe’s rest, even though nothing will.
I open the back door with my vinyl hands, the touch almost non existant yet still cold. I see his black suit, covering him, like a plastic blanket for a deep sleep. I guess I can be jealous of him. Jealous of Joe, at least a bit. He doesn’t have to work anymore. Unlike this now. I guess I shouldn’t be happy. It could be worse. I could be Joe.
I clutch the zipper to gaze at his face once more. Morbid curiosity I guess. No one else will view Joe now. What struck me was that his eyes were open when I did, colored yellow as if he had jaundice. His mouth was agape, his teeth brandished.
He bites into my safety suit. His teeth can’t cut through the tinfoiled fabric. They never learn I guess. I push him off and Joe goes down hard, still trapped in his new suit. I see Joe trying to grab the zipper, but he won’t pull it down. They never do. Not in time at least. I take my pocket knife. Swiss made. Standard issue to all coronors now, along with the tinfoil lined safety suits. One quick jab in the head and he is down. Fully dead. Totally dead.
I sigh a bit. At least we had some excitement now. At least Joe made things interesting again. Thank you, Joe. Thank you for that.
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