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Lean on Me
By Shawn Mafia
It was a tough lesson to learn so early on in life. But, working at the funeral home spread a grim light upon the reality that we are all trapped in these
bodies of slow decline. Each one of us is moving forward in time as our bodies gradually peak then begin to bottom out. The years build a strange, savage momentum and the physical being is thrust into a degenerative
state of slow-motion decomposition. Blood, bone, arteries, enamel, organs, hair, skin, veins, tissue, toe nails ... all wearing out and growing old.
Death starts long before we even realize it.
After work I would stand in line at the liquor store. All the pretty young things would be be-bopping around in their tight jeans and shirts cut off at the
midriff. Bubbly, delightful and sexual. I would set my sixer down on the counter and hand over a few greasy bills. Their laughter was dripping with evocative tension and secret pleasures I would never know. The
young girls would buy their bubble gum and maxi pads and flutter about moth-like towards the flame of their complacent, dumb reality. But I had something on them in the sure knowledge of what was lying in wait. In
the years to come they would slowly waste away and their beauty would be subtly stripped from them by a cruel and impotent God. The flesh is a vehicle of the ephemeral realm. It drives quickly into a brick wall.
At home I would smoke cigarettes, drink beer and wait on Death. The Company had issued me a beat up black pager with the most obnoxious tones. I would stare
for hours, in horror, at the thing sitting on the kitchen table. The afternoon would grow into evening and the desert would expand and swell into a vast black belly of darkness. I would drink despite the fact I was
on-call, and I didn't care. The whole affair of waiting on people to die was intensely nerve wracking and I wasted the hours away with the bottle and the dead silence.
I had worked a funeral service that day for a man named Daryle Dingflinger. Dead at 80 and the widow tried to crawl right into the casket with him during the
visitation. I stood at the front of the funeral home's chapel handing out memorial cards and instructing people to sign the guest register. I watched as the sons had to come up and pry her off the corpse. She
started to hyperventilate and passed out cold right on top of the old bugger.
Someone started shouting, "CALL 911! CALL 911!" So I wandered into the office, phoned the ambulance, walked back to my station, and continued passing
out folders. She was awake and seated in the front pew when the paramedics finally arrived, surveyed the scene, had one of the sons sign the form, and left annoyed and disgusted. The service started half an hour
late with a fat woman in a cocktail dress playing a very funky rendition of 'Lean on Me' on a 100 dollar Casio keyboard. Halfway through the tune her stand collapsed and the keyboard hit the floor hard, feeding
back, making the most god awful noise that sounded remarkably better than her playing.
As I was considering all this my beat up black pager went off. I was startled by its abrasive, high pitched wail and nearly dropped my can. I was seated at the
kitchen table in my boxer shorts sweating profusely in the dead of summer. The mountains around me had been burning for a week in one of the biggest wildfires in California's history. I was unable to use the swamp
cooler because of the gross of humidity and the putrid black smoke it would suck in from the outside air. I slammed my hand down on the pager and silenced the little bastard. Getting up from my chair I put on my
wrinkled white dress shirt, grabbed a name badge that read: John O'Shay, and went looking for my black pants and jacket.
At the funeral home I sloppily filled out the first call sheet from the information the answering service had faxed over. My buzz was starting to wane and I
was sad and a little edgy. I waited for my second up partner Red to arrive. All coroner calls were a two man deal. I had hoped it would be a quick jaunt up to the rest home which usual only took 30 minutes giving me
ample to time to rekindle my drunken state. But on this evening that would not be the case. I went to the garage were the van was parked, sparked a smoke and waited.
Of course I had to drive, since Red was in his 80's and the company insurance would no longer cover a man of his years. But Red was stronger than a blue ox on
PCP and sharper than most men half his age including me who was younger than that.
"I had a feeling we'd be busier than a cat covered in shit tonight!" chuckled Red as he sat shot gun with his wrinkled arms folded over his chest.
"Damn ... I was hoping nobody would pass tonight." I grumbled with low enthusiasm.
"No, no! WE need to make some money my boy. Social Security just don't get it these days. I hope we hook three or four tonight."
"You would," I smirked laying my foot hard on the gas pedal.
We were headed out of Yucca Valley up the mountain to Pioneertown. Smack dab in the epicenter of the Bucktooth Complex Fire. The flames had devoured the whole
area a few days prior until firefighters had finally stopped it at Hwy. 247 before it could put the cancel on the whole Flamingo Heights/Landers area. It then shot backwards and moved towards Morongo Valley and was
now threatening the San Gorgonio Mountain and Big Bear area. The road was open and the sight of the scarred and burnt hillsides mad me dizzy and did nothing for my failing disposition.
"You all right?"
"Yeah ... just a little tired," I mumbled.
"Just a little tipsy, eh!" laughed Red, "Have a couple shooters on the way down to the funeral home. You know they got a strict policy about
drinking when you’re on call!"
"You know there's a fine line between drinking and being drunk."
"A line easily crossed, my boy!"
We were up into Pioneertown proper and the firefighters must have sucked every lick of water from the aqueducts to save the town, for it still stood, in all
its western glory. Just the thought of it made Roy Rogers smile in his grave. We drove past the old saloon on Mane Street and rounded the bin, went down into the wash and then back out and the patrol car lights
waved red and blue on the upcoming asphalt.
I slowed the van to a rolling stop and saddled up along side one of the search and rescue vehicles. Flashing my coffee stained, lamented badge and sobering up
my speech I yelled out the window, "Coroner transport! Where's the stiff?"
Giving me a dirty look, the search and rescue crony shot back, "Down the road and to the right. Just follow him," pointing to a prowl car that had
pulled up in front of us. "And don't talk to any press jack-off."
"Making friends all ready, O'Shay," snorted Red. "You’d better put a lid on it before the boys in blue pop you for a D.U.I. and a drunk in
public and handling a dead body while under the influence, and ..."
"I get the picture, Pops!" I said. "I'm perfectly on the level. Don't worry."
I followed the cop, his red & blues blazing, and within a quarter mile we pulled up to a large fenced property with a closed wrought iron gate. The
entrance was lit up with hot white flood lamps. The media was parked across the street filming for the evening news and a few stray shutter bugs where scurrying around the front entrance popping pictures of the
prowl car and our van.
The cop parked in the driveway and got out. We sat on the roadway, idling behind him.
"I thought I told you motherfuckers to stay on the other side of the street. This is private property and a crime scene!" shouted the cop to one of
reporters that had strayed too close to the fence. He just stood there unresponsive shooting pictures of the officer.
"Look, I'm going to shove that camera lens so far up your ass you'll be shooting pictures of your own tonsils. Now take your fat ass across the street
before I gotta haul you in for trespassing!"
The reporter finally relented, saying nothing, shooting film as he walked back across the street and vanished into the sea of media cameras. The cop walked up
to our van and I rolled down my window.
"That's the third time I told him to keep away. If I catch you boys talking to any media I'll ram your little coroner transport badges so far up your
asses you'll be able to read your names at the back of your eyeballs."
"Yes sir! I mean, no sir ..."
His face was right up in mine. Hot, foul breath scorched my checks and stray spit sprayed my forehead, "Now! I'm gonna open the goddamn gate and you boys
roll on in like it already happened yesterday! Got it?!, " he yelled, pausing for a second,
"Say boy ... smells a bit like booze in there. You been drinkin'?"
I just sat there staring dumbly, like a deer caught in the head lights.
"No sir! Spilled a little embalming fluid on my shirt ..."
"Well, all right then. Now! When you get in there grab yourselves a couple of Gatorades from the search and rescue unit and hang tight."
I drove the van straight through the open gate firing off a cloud of dust and rocks into the frenzied media still teeming and undulating across the street. Red
sat there laughing at me with his old, wrinkled arms folded across his chest.
"This is the first victim from the Bucktooth Complex Fire. I think law enforcement dropped the ball somewhere along the way. Could get sticky for
em'," Red stated.
"I guess so."
It was a long dirt driveway that lead up to a large Pueblo-style home to the right. It was still standing and appeared to be in good shape. Apart from a few
blown out windows, the fire had blazed past it on both sides scorching the entire yard and the 10 acres of hillside that spread out in the distance. A very large R.V. sat next to the house with its engine idling,
and it appeared unscathed. There was an interior fence surrounding the home. At the end of the driveway the fence opened up to a dirt road that lead into the exterior property which encompassed 10-plus acres of
hillside which was also fenced. A Search and Rescue Mobile Command Center was set up near the house and was surrounded by numerous patrol cars and the county coroner’s plain white Crown Vic. I parked the van next to
the S&R command center. I could see flood lights out on the hillside about a quarter mile up into the exterior property. I got out of the van and so did Red. We walked over to a group of search and rescue guys
engaged in some heated talk.
Red interrupted, "So, we headin' up the hill over yonder?," pointing in the direction of the floodlights.
One of the S&R guys turned towards us, "You the transport?"
"Yep!" I said
"Don't think you'll make it. The Coroner and the plain clothes Dicks got our 4x4 up there. It's some mighty rough terrain."
I stared out into the distance at the black burnt scab covering the desert terrain. In the evening darkness I could only get a foggy glimpse of the devastation
the fire had wrought from the floodlights illuminating the hill, leaving nothing behind but the smoldering memory of natural beauty that once was and would not be again for decades to come.
"They’re gonna bring the body down to you guys, I think."
"What we got?," asked Red.
"Elderly white female fully burned. Fire got her little dog along with her. We were calling em' Dorothy and Toto until we finally got some identification
... you know, the Wizard of Oz."
I stood there with my hands in pockets saying nothing. A couple of the other S&R guys laughed. They thought they were real comedians.
"Don't mean to be cruel, but you gotta have a sense of humor in this line of work."
"I guess so ..." I muttered.
Red and I stood around for about half an hour until we finally saw a red truck rattle up from out of the darkness. It pulled up and parked next to our van. A
couple of cops got out and the county coroner, Doug Burnritter suddenly appeared at our side.
"She's in the back of the truck boys. Jump on in there and bag & tag her while I go up to house and talk to the son."
Burnritter started giving Red some information for her toe tag and I went into the van and grabbed the standard issue bright yellow body bag. I climbed into
the open flat bed of the truck. One of the officers shined his flash light so I could see. She was underneath a blue tarp strapped to a body board. A black garbage bag was next to her. I assumed it must be Toto.
I unfolded the body bag and laid it out next to the blue tarp. I held me breathe and ripped the blue tarp away exposing the body. She was curled up into the
fetal position, legs bent at the knees with her arms outstretched. I leaned in and unbuckled the body board straps and the heavy aroma of burnt flesh smelled like barbecued steak, which reminded me I hadn't eaten
all day and my stomach growled, then felt suddenly sick. It's best not to think about what you’re doing in these instances so I quickly grabbed her legs and forcefully attempted to slide her off the board and into
the body bag. A large chunk of black, charcoaled flesh slid off into my hand, so I grabbed harder down into her bone and grunted and pulled until everything from the waste down was in. Then I grabbed her arms and
slide her the rest of the way. I saw Red's wrinkled arm pop over the side of the truck, holding a toe tag, which I swiftly applied to what remained of her left toe and zipped the mess up. I leaped over the side of
the truck and plopped down into the dirt feeling somewhat nauseous and beaten.
Red had the gurney at the bumper of the truck and he reached in for the body bag and slid it out and on. He rolled her over to our van and pushed her in.
Burnritter suddenly appeared again from out of the darkness.
"The son's pissed and screaming. Got his lawyer on the cell phone and they’re screaming bloody murder up and down the line. I guess the son was detained
at the road block while the fire was raging and no one would let him drive up to get his mom out of the house. His driver’s license didn't have a local address on it. The roadblock was only letting residents
through. Looks like Mom tried to fire up the R.V. to get out of the area but couldn't get the thing goin' in time. Called the son who was down at the local grocery store. She was crying and carrying on like crazy!
She and the little dog tried to make tracks up the hillside but the firestorm came to kick and got em' both about a quarter mile up. Shit's gonna hit the fan now. Heads will be rolling up and down the Sheriffs
department," confided Burnritter to Red and I and a few of the cops standing around our van.
Pointing to me, Burnritter excalimed, "You there!"
"Yeah."
"We need to do a positive I.D. for the son. He said mom should be wearing a silver necklace with a solid gold crucifix. Jump in there and see if it's
still on her!"
I opened the van doors and Red pulled out the extra gurney so I would have room enough to get in next to her. Squatting on my knees I carefully leaned over and
unzipped the bag half way. I reached my arm in and patted around her chest. Nothing. I started to sweat and my stomach ached in my belly. I moved my hand up towards her neck line. The grizzled leather-like flesh
make my skin crawl and my senses reel. Then I felt the chain and yanked my hand back.
"It's on there all right," I yelled from the van feeling a sense of relief sweep over my body.
My hand reached over to zip the bag back up when I suddenly heard Burnritter’s bulldog voice bellowing back at me, "Good! Now take it off her and bring it
here!"
"Shit!"
"What’d ya say?"
"Oh ... ah, nothing. Sure thing. Comin' right up!"
My trembling fingers reached again for the zipper at $8.25 an hour. I thought about making rent, delinquent electric bills, and warm cans of beer, sad and
lonely in stale refrigerators. Then the strange sounds that echoed through the creosote washes in the dead of midnight came back to me.
I heard the faint ringing of the cathedral bell where preschool was just starting at the Little Church of the Desert and I was standing on the dirt playground
so full of hope and promise. As the burnt flesh filled my nostrils I had the bag completely unzipped and the corpse exposed. Some men did it in air-conditioned offices for triple digit pay checks. Secretaries with
double DD cups, two hour lunch breaks, company cars, single-malted scotch, and three square meals a day ... why couldn't that be me! How did I ever get involved in something like this?
I put my knees on the edge of the gurney and leaned in. I saw the silver chain. I fumbled around her neck for a few moments but couldn't find the latch. I
leaned in closer, her outstretched arms coldly caressing my head. The air in the van was hot, stifling and smoky. I recalled again that I hadn't eaten all day. My stomach was shriveled up like a rotten prune and my
pre-drunk burnout made my thoughts cloudy and distant. I wanted to vomit. I was right up face to face with her, struggling with the necklace, trying desperately to undo the latch. I heard voices yelling to hurry up.
All the blood rushed from my face and I was ghostly pale. Then, I found it! The silver chain broke free from her neck and the solid gold crucifix was in my trembling hand. I leaned my head up and stared directly
into her black mummy face. Her mouth was opened and painfully contoured as if her final scream crawled back down her throat and choked her to death. Her eyes carried a horror that looked straight through me, right
through the moon and the stars, right through the mercy of God and off into an unknowable infinity where war raged forever and no hope of peace could ever silence it. Darkness came to me in an instant and my
consciousness faded into oblivion. I passed out cold right there in her barbequed arms.
Coming to, I found myself lying outside strapped onto the extra gurney. I could hear the faint sound of Red's voice saying, "He'll be all right. He can
just ride in back until we get to the funeral home." Then I felt myself being lifted up and pushed back into the van. The door slammed shut. I could once again smell the faint aroma of burnt flesh.
Suddenly the van door swung open and I was momentarily blinded by the outside lights. The cop that had given me shit at the entrance to the driveway was
standing before me. I raised my beaten head up and looked at him. He tossed a black garbage bag at my feet and exclaimed, "Don't forget the dog," letting out a sardonic chuckle as he slammed the van door
hard. I heard the engine start and we were off.
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