Charlie Huston - The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

In the middle of this glory I perched on a workbench and stared at a row of three coffin freezers stuffed full of rags, bits of bedding, carpet, sofa cushions, paper towels, and all the other debris soaked in every effluvium of the human body that gets removed from trauma scenes. Biohazardous material awaiting transfer to Saniwaste, then to be trucked to Utah, where such things are burned en masse.

Or so I read in the Saniwaste brochure I'd found on a rack in the office. It was that or the back issues of Entertainment Weekly in the John. Is it a shock the brochures won out?

I slid off the edge of the bench and walked around. I poked at a machine that, according to another brochure, recycled formalin. I wondered what they did with the specimens they removed from the formalin before they processed it. The eyeballs, biopsy tissues, amputations, perforated intestine and whatever that had been preserved in jars of the stuff, the material the brochure referred to as -pathology. I wandered to the window and looked across the street at one of the large dogs patrolling its patch of asphalt. Well, that would be one way of getting rid of the stuff. But they probably ship it to Utah with the rest of the waste.

I went back in the office and turned the TV on and flipped a couple channels and turned it off. I moved the mouse around on the computer, thought about looking at some porn, imagined the implications of jerking off in that particular environment, and discarded the idea. All I needed was another disturbing mental image running around my brain banging at the walls.

Thinking about disturbing mental images made me think about disturbing mental images.

That sucked.

I sat on the edge of the twin bed that was parked in the corner of the office doing duty as a cot. A regular cot being, one assumes, out of the question for Po Sin's needs. I looked at the clock. It was just after midnight. I tried to remember the last time I'd been up that late. Crap, I tried to remember the last time I'd been up past nine PM. It'd been awhile.

It's not like it's a mystery or anything, all the sleep.

Sleeping was just easier than being awake.

So why fight it?

I curled up and stopped fighting. A daily ritual of the last year. Giving up.

Hello, you've reached Clean Team. We're currently out of the office on a job. If you have an emergency we can help you with, please call 1 -888-256-8326. That's 1-888-CLN-TEAM. We'll be there for you.

Beeeeeep.

– Urn, hi, this is, uh, this is Soledad Nye. The woman in Malibu. You cleaned my dad's mess? I mean, oh fuck, that was horrible. You cleaned the house. Anyway. I was hoping I could get in touch with one of your employees. Web. I wanted to talk to him about… anyway. My number, well, he should call me on my cell. The number. Hang on.

I didn't quite kill myself when I jerked out of sleep and slammed my already damaged head into the shelf that hung too low over the bed, but I came close enough that I had to crawl across the floor to answer the phone on the office desk.

– Hello? Hello? Crap! Crap!

– Uh, Web?

– Yeah, yeah, it's me. Oh fucking crap! Jesus.

– Are you OK?

– Yeah, I just kind of, crap, banged my head really hard.

I sat on the floor, back against the side of the desk, phone to my ear, hand clapped over the brand-new lump rising from my head.

– Do you need some ice?

– Sure, yeah, that would be great.

There was some silence.

She cleared her throat.

– Web, you know I'm not there to actually get you the ice, right?

I blinked my eyes a few times, tried to bring the face of the liquid crystal clock on the wall into focus.

– Yeah, I know that. I was being funny.

– Or not.

– Yes, well, being not funny is more my forte.

– I noticed.

The clock straightened out for me. 12:32 AM.

– Yes, it's good of you to call my place of work to leave a message that, I can only assume, would have been meant to make clear my lack of humor-ousness. I'm flattered by the attention. Is there anything else I can do for you now that you have not laughed at me.

– Oh, I've laughed at you.

I took my hand from my head and looked at it. No blood. What luck.

– At me. Just not with me.

– You never know, stranger things have happened.

– Indeed.

I sat there and held the phone. She, I imagine, did the same. I have, I also imagine, less patience than she. Less patience, it's safe to say, than most normal people. Therefore, I cracked first.

– So, Soledad.

Note that the first time I spoke her name out loud I did it without stuttering or squeaking into a register higher than Tiny Tim's. A memory I treasure with some pride. A lesser man would have embarrassed himself with some verbal tic. Not I.

– So, Soledad. Why the fuck are you calling?

– Urn, right. Well, I'd like to say I'm calling to ask if you want to go grab a coffee or something traditionally ambiguous and noncommittal.

Observe how I remain aloof and calm.

– But that's not the case?

– Nooo.

– The case is?

– The case is. I need a favor.

A favor? She's in need? And yet, not a tremor in my voice.

– The favor is?

– The favor is, well, I need something cleaned.

But of course. Was there ever any doubt. My janitorial expertise is required. L.L. would be so proud.

But I'm no woman's flunky.

– What needs to be cleaned, when?

– A room. Now.

I looked at the clock again. 12:35 AM. Clean a room? At 12:35 AM. I S she out of her fucking mind? Does she think I'm an absolute tool?

– Where are you?

Where she was, of course, was that motel. What was in the room, of course, was that blood. Who was with her, of course, was the guy trying to out-asshole me.

A title I was ready to relinquish in light of the butterfly knife he flashed at me.

If that all rings a bell.

The guy with the fauxhawk showed me his blade, a slight crust of dry blood gummed at the hilt.

– Say that again? Say it. About to go Bruce Lee on your ass here, you keep talking about my moms.

I put my back to the door and shifted the carrier of cleaning gear so that I held it in front of me.

– Hey no, all done, I'm not saying anything.

He took a step, twirled the knife.

– I fucking thought not, asshole.

– Did it hurt?

He stopped walking, the knife stopped twirling.

– What?

I spoke very slowly.

– When. You. Thought. Did it hurt? Like because you're not good at it, I mean.

He slammed his forearm across my throat, pinning me to the door, the point of the knife poking my cheek.

– Asshole! I said shut the fuck up! I said it was a wrap!

I thought about bringing up the carrier and shoving it into his gut, but the last time I'd fought anyone other than Chev was in junior high. And that was scrawny Dillard Hayes who'd made some lame joke about Chev not having a mom and I'd gone whacko about it. And I got the shit kicked out of me. And Dillard didn't have a knife.

So I tried diplomacy instead.

– No, you didn't actually tell me to shut the fuck up. And you certainly didn't say anything as lame as-GAH!

No, he didn't say GAH! I said GAH! Or, rather, I kind of barked GAH when he drove his knee into what was meant to be my balls, but was actually the carrier, which then hit my balls.

– GAH! GAH!

He did it twice more. If that didn't communicate.

The bathroom door swung open and Soledad came out toweling her hands dry.

– Jaime!

This seemingly directed at the fauxhawk dude about to put his knee on the money for the fourth time.