• The Unknown

    I wake up every single weekday at 8:00 with the knowledge that I'm going to see about six or so dead bodies. As I brush my teeth, I come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be moving these bodies around on steel carts supported by wheels. As I'm preparing my morning coffee, I understand that within an hour, I am going to be hefting these sacks of used flesh and bone into a small incinerator, and after I turn a knob, these bodies will turn into hollow shells of ash that I am responsible for breaking apart.
    I'm the guy you go to for this kind of thing. If you happen to die an unfortunate death, so unfortunate that noone is around to identify you and you are ill equipped to do so yourself, that's where I come into play. If it just so happens that you've been left sans identity, I step in to finish the job of making you seem like you've never happened. My family asks how I cope with having such a macabre job. They tell me that I can't possibly be well adjusted mentally after seeing so many corpses. If you see something as frequently as I do, you become desensitized. Of course I occasionally come across something that I wasn't quite ready to see, and for a brief moment before the cremation is over, my world is jostled. I recover with relative ease, and make my services worth the mortuary's time. Its a job, and it needs to get done.
    While in the car on my way to work, I turn on the cassette player. For some reason, Schubert's "Ave Maria" puts me in the mood to earn my wage. I've had to purchase this tape multiple times because I've been listening to it every weekday for the 30 years that I've had this job. Eventually the tape becomes so decapitated and warbly that I have to go to the record store and buy another.
    I pull into the parking lot of the mortuary at 9:00, nodding in acknowledgment to my coworkers smoking by the entrance. I always wonder why these medical examiners, after seeing countless tarred up lungs would do such a thing. I'm not one to speak up about such things, though.
    I walk in through the double doors, and after walking a great distance to the crematorium, I check a clipboard hanging up by the doorframe. A chart tells me which bodies need to go today, as well as some other information that I don't really need. Sex, approximate age, cause of death, etc. They're here to burn, not to go on a date with me. The only information I need is a number. One letter followed by 5 digits. The nameless, numbered individuals are stored in chilled shelves in the morgue. I make my way in and pull out my first body. An emaciated, elderly man slides out. This is a relatively easy process, but I've been known to mess up on occasion. A slip of my hand causes the body to slide downward, collapsing in a heap on the floor. The room is overwhelmed with the sound of flesh slapping on the concrete. I move the pale mass up onto my shoulders, and then heft it onto the cart. He is completely exposed, with a huge Y incision from his autopsy across his abdomen. I do a quick overview of the corpse, and notice something I haven't seen in a while. On his left forearm, bears a shoddy black tattoo. “J4567”
    It isn't often that I get to fully grasp the background of the deceased in such a quick evaluation. His sickly, frail frame is indicative of someone who wasn't able to care for himself in the end, and of someone who had no one to care for him. In short, he had no family. “I guess they never made it out.” I think. The corpse of “Caucasian male, approximately 96 years old” had undergone mild decompensation. When the circulatory system doesn't function, blood follows the orders given to it by gravity. When I first got my job, I was eager to pick up and pass on any medical facts or terminology picked up in the field. My family was too squeamish, and frequently yelled at me to stop saying such things. They didn't care to know.
    “This is a damn shame” I think to myself as I wheel the body down the hallway and into the crematorium. Its a mostly desolate room with three furnaces and a control switch. I saunter over to the furnaces and open the cast iron door. With relative ease, the body goes from on the cart to in the furnace. The door slams shut loudly, and I lock it in place. I man the control switch, and within seconds comes the dull roar of the gas powered flames. I glance at the clock, and make my way towards the door which has a small window that I open. I poke the flames with a metal rod, breaking apart singed bone and hair. The smell alone makes me wish that I studied to become an english teacher, or even a pilot.
    One lesser known fact about human immolation is that it has been known to smell like pig meat. Pigs and humans have a lot in common, biologically. Firefighters frequently abstain from pig meat, because it reminds them too much of the burned people they drag from houses. Many religions including Islam and Judaism have strict rules against eating it. It can be argued that these rules stem from the biological similarities that pigs and humans share. I find this fact very interesting, but my friends and family don't share the same morbid fascination. They don't care to know.
    I collect the ashes and scoop them into a small cardboard box, using a metal bar attached to a rod. I seal the box with a company label, and write the identification number on it. It goes on the shelf, and I move onto the next sorry fellow. I continue my routine systematically, and repeat the process 2 more times. For the most part, I am unfeeling and matter-of-fact in my work. I don't cringe at the sight of a naked cadaver, or at the mortal wounds that adorn them. I like to think that I respect the dead, but I try not to let my relationship between myself and the dead extend past that.
    At 12:00, I take a 30 minute lunch break with my coworkers. We gather outside on the green, because eating inside the mortuary is something we all agreed against at one point or another. I listen in on the conversations of the medical examiners. Words like “exsanguiantion” and “clots” are thrown around. This is one of the only times where we can talk about our professions over a meal without turning anyone off. We all care to know what went on, and don't lose our lunch over it.
    I get back to work at 12:30, and its business as usual. 4 more cremations, and I'm done for the night. I learned how to “get my mind off of work” very early on, but today seems different. All I can think about is “J4567”, and the life he must have lived. An entire survival story was written, and there isn't any record of its existence. The only tangible evidence of his life sits in a cardboard box on a shelf.
    I stand in front of the doorway to my apartment, and jiggle the key to get the knob to turn. I step inside and change out of my work clothes. I reflect over a glass of scotch and an overwhelming feeling of guilt. I want to feel empathy for the people who remain faceless in a world of faces, but empathy isn't healthy when you have a job like mine. Its especially hard when things remain unknown and you genuinely care to know, and nothing can be done about it.