The Mortician

I wake up to the sound of sirens, sirens that are attached to vehicles, the vehicles that are big metal monsters that scream down the street. I open my eyes, which are not really eyes because they do not take anything in. They process nothing... they only see. And I take my eyes which are not eyes and I move them around in their sockets which are not sockets, because for there to be an eye socket it must be holding an eye. So these sockets which are not sockets direct my eyes that are not eyes to my window, the square absence of a wall that is covered with a thick, grimy glass that gives me a dim view out on the world, that absence of a wall that allows my eyes that are not eyes to see what is going on outside my room that is not really mine. I look out of the absence of wall to the street beyond my apartment, watching the huge red monsters down on the street, belching toxic clouds of exhaust as they pass. Those are the men and women who save other people, the strong people riding in the big red monsters who try to stop the other people from dying. We share a common connection, as far as careers go-- the fruits of their efforts, or the people they manage to save, will be nothing to me but one less thing to take care of.1

I am connected to those people, though my job is the opposite of their job. I am the one who takes care of the people they cannot save.2

I am the mortician.3

* * *4

I never understood why the world hated me.5

I am no killer. I simply do what is asked of me. I never wish harm upon another being. Back at my last apartment, I never even installed flypaper when the bugs made a nest inside my ceiling. The landlord soon found out and asked me why I didn't tell him of the problem sooner. All I told him was that they never hurt anyone. He screamed that they were hurting his building, which would in turn hurt my rent, because his job was to find a man who would hurt the flies. I refused to argue with him. I went out that day, buying a cheap coffee from a 7-11 down the street and taking a long walk. I sat in the park and watched the pigeons for a few hours (I watched indifferently as one of them narrowly escaped a cat) and walked home. There, I found the exterminator, doing a poor job of sweeping up the little black bugs, now curled and stiff on the floor in their death. He looked up at me as I entered. Well, that should fix the problem.6

I smiled emotionlessly. Don't worry, I'll clean it up. And he left, reminding me that the bill would be sent to my landlord. I nodded and closed the front door behind him, reveling in the silence of his departure. I looked around the room to gauge how much mess he had left before I began my work. I grabbed the broom and began to sweep up the death that was scattered around me in little black dots on the floor. I felt no sort of pity, joy, disgust, or sadness. I just focused on the task at hand and continued to sweep until all the bugs were gathered in a neat little pile on the floor. I grabbed the dustpan and, in one clean, fluid movement, I swept all the little black corpses up into the dustpan and dumped them in the trashcan. You see, I never told him not to kill the flies, but I never killed them myself, either. I never interfere with the lives of others, no matter how insignificant they may seem. I simply clean up after them when they are done.7

I am the mortician.8

* * *9

I threw on my old, tattered army coat that was not an army coat, because it had never been in any sort of war. I pulled the army coat that was not an army coat a bit tighter around me, opened my front door, and descended the stairs in my apartment building to the street below. I intended to pursue the red monster vehicles and the strong people inside them. I wanted to see the outcome of their battle, the battle for lives that were not their own. I wanted to know how many hours I would have to work overtime this week. I was sure that there would be many who would perish in the flames. When you are in the business for so many years, it is a natural instinct that comes to you. It is a burning in your nose and a rock in your chest.10

When you are in the business for so many years, you learn to smell the death long before it happens.11

I walked briskly down the street, knowing that I could catch up with the red monsters before they began to cart the death away. All things done by the strong people in the red monsters had a certain pattern, all with a sure rhythm that I had learned easily in the course of my career. I was an expert in the ways of death, as well as the ways of those who tried to prevent it.12

I arrived at the fire, watching the monsters channel water through their hoses, spitting it at the fire viciously in a vain attempt to beat down the flames. But the orange fingers of death reached ever higher, defying the red things. I saw the strong people weaving in and out of the scorching flames, sporting thick red helmets to show their allegiance to the red creatures. I wondered how many people they would manage to save this time. Not many, I knew.13

And there I stood, a silent spectator on the sidelines, watching it all unfold. Now came the white creatures, the smaller cousins of the red creatures. Out came even more people, more of the strong people who wanted to save the victims of the fire. I knew that their work would be difficult, and many tears would be shed. But I also knew that none of them would be mine. I was the vulture, staying in the sidelines, waiting patiently until it was my turn to act.14

I am the mortician.