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jack_babalonMade a little walking around money walking around the cemetery today. An old friend managed to swing me a one day temp gig down around Panthersville, right off US 23, just south of the old Starlight Drive-In. Woke up before dawn. Drove for an hour longer than I needed to having missed my exit by several miles. Arrived late but no one seemed to care. My first assignment was picking up trash around the perimeter of the grounds. Convict work but I'm not complaining. I like convict work... just not the convict anything else. I was given a pair of gloves, a roll of yard bags, chauffeured in a John Deere Gator down a winding road and assigned to work with two brothers from another staffing agency. Dived straight into it. Filled my first two bags within ten minutes when the oldest of my two coworkers told me to slow down: "Don't know about you, but we're getting paid by the hour... not the job. So what's your rush?" Around us the wind roared through the grounds, cutting through my hoodie's meager protection and sending a vicious chill to whip through my body. Over the trees the milky gray dawn rose indifferent above the dead and living alike.
We took a quick smoke break in the shed. Our supervisor, a former professional rugby player down in Bermuda, tossed me a set of keys and told me to take the truck and meet him down by the dumpster. I told him I've never driven one before, much less any vehicle with six wheels and a hydraulic bed in the back. I was told that today was as good a day as any to learn. I felt like a little kid who shrunk down and got to play with his first Tonka Toy. I cranked that fucker up and drove her straight down to the dumpster following my boss in his Gator. An hour of hauling planks of element rotted wood and massive branches followed. After that I was assigned back with my coworkers who I dubbed 'Rosencrantz & Guildenstern' for no other reason than it amused me greatly to do so. We were told to patrol the grounds and round up any stray flowers that might've blown off the graves. There was something not just depressing but psychically charged about those flowers. Their petals were the sepia of old photographs found in your grandmother's scrapbook, the blue of sun bleached posters left to hang in windows for years too long, the white of a wedding dress found in the attic of an old house. The plots all had names like - "Silent Garden", "Reflecting Garden" and "Love Garden". As I hustled up the rows with my trash bag the names of the deceased crackled in my thoughts with the sound of the leaves rustling around us. A name. A date of birth. A date of death. A few with a beloved so and so etched into the marble. A few with a Masonic symbol or ankh or prayer inscribed. Some had died in their teens, some in their nineties. There was no pattern, no indication of their moral character, nothing except the fact that they were or are missed greatly. But it was the children's graves that got to me. Marked with stuffed animals, baby shoes and the occasional wind chime. If it wasn't for Rosencrantz & Guildenstern's joking around with each other I would've lost it. I would've wept. Especially at the little action figure sitting on a ten year old's tomb.
We broke for lunch. Pizza courtesy of the Cemetery and we got to eat in the employee's conference room. Later cigarettes and I got to drive around in the Gator some. Guildenstern rode copilot. I asked Guildenstern if he dug zombie movies. Guildenstern dug them very much. I asked him what we'd do if the dead started walking around the joint. He confessed he'd have to get out of the Gator and run on ahead. We arrive at the back of the cemetery. I was given a chainsaw of some type. Rosencrantz a gas powered weed eater and Guildenstern a blower. From there we were given a swath of brush to clear. I went at it with a fury. Occasionally I had to bust out an Evil Dead worthy - 'Groovy!' - whenever I revved her up. We busted ass there along the road until the boss man called quits and my forearm was numb from the sawing my way through what felt like hell and back. I went up to the office. Checked in that it was cool to check out. Got the good to go and hopped in the car. This was another first for me. Actually driving to work instead of schlepping on the MARTA. Traffic was already getting crazy and the Google Maps directions I printed out wanted me to take 285 to Moreland to 20 to 85 S. It estimated it would only take me 20 minutes to make the trip. Which was true - had I been driving at 7:30 in the morning on a Sunday. Instead I bopped off 285 hit Moreland and stayed there. Smooth sailing actually. Once the traffic started to congest after Memorial I hung a left down Wylie and took a rather scenic route through Kirkwood. The radio had some awesome surf guitar on, I had a cigarette dangling from my lips and my muscles were sore but so exhausted it was like a massage. I arrived home three minutes later than the Google Maps path.
This was a good day. A satisfying day. Again, I have no idea why this work leaves me feeling content while office work just makes me want to strangle the incompetent with the entrails of the small men who mistake cruelty for a modicum of power. I limped out of my car. I limped up the stairs. I limped to the computer and then limped to bed. I didn't sleep. I just laid there smiling. Well, back to the dead beat life tomorrow.
We took a quick smoke break in the shed. Our supervisor, a former professional rugby player down in Bermuda, tossed me a set of keys and told me to take the truck and meet him down by the dumpster. I told him I've never driven one before, much less any vehicle with six wheels and a hydraulic bed in the back. I was told that today was as good a day as any to learn. I felt like a little kid who shrunk down and got to play with his first Tonka Toy. I cranked that fucker up and drove her straight down to the dumpster following my boss in his Gator. An hour of hauling planks of element rotted wood and massive branches followed. After that I was assigned back with my coworkers who I dubbed 'Rosencrantz & Guildenstern' for no other reason than it amused me greatly to do so. We were told to patrol the grounds and round up any stray flowers that might've blown off the graves. There was something not just depressing but psychically charged about those flowers. Their petals were the sepia of old photographs found in your grandmother's scrapbook, the blue of sun bleached posters left to hang in windows for years too long, the white of a wedding dress found in the attic of an old house. The plots all had names like - "Silent Garden", "Reflecting Garden" and "Love Garden". As I hustled up the rows with my trash bag the names of the deceased crackled in my thoughts with the sound of the leaves rustling around us. A name. A date of birth. A date of death. A few with a beloved so and so etched into the marble. A few with a Masonic symbol or ankh or prayer inscribed. Some had died in their teens, some in their nineties. There was no pattern, no indication of their moral character, nothing except the fact that they were or are missed greatly. But it was the children's graves that got to me. Marked with stuffed animals, baby shoes and the occasional wind chime. If it wasn't for Rosencrantz & Guildenstern's joking around with each other I would've lost it. I would've wept. Especially at the little action figure sitting on a ten year old's tomb.
We broke for lunch. Pizza courtesy of the Cemetery and we got to eat in the employee's conference room. Later cigarettes and I got to drive around in the Gator some. Guildenstern rode copilot. I asked Guildenstern if he dug zombie movies. Guildenstern dug them very much. I asked him what we'd do if the dead started walking around the joint. He confessed he'd have to get out of the Gator and run on ahead. We arrive at the back of the cemetery. I was given a chainsaw of some type. Rosencrantz a gas powered weed eater and Guildenstern a blower. From there we were given a swath of brush to clear. I went at it with a fury. Occasionally I had to bust out an Evil Dead worthy - 'Groovy!' - whenever I revved her up. We busted ass there along the road until the boss man called quits and my forearm was numb from the sawing my way through what felt like hell and back. I went up to the office. Checked in that it was cool to check out. Got the good to go and hopped in the car. This was another first for me. Actually driving to work instead of schlepping on the MARTA. Traffic was already getting crazy and the Google Maps directions I printed out wanted me to take 285 to Moreland to 20 to 85 S. It estimated it would only take me 20 minutes to make the trip. Which was true - had I been driving at 7:30 in the morning on a Sunday. Instead I bopped off 285 hit Moreland and stayed there. Smooth sailing actually. Once the traffic started to congest after Memorial I hung a left down Wylie and took a rather scenic route through Kirkwood. The radio had some awesome surf guitar on, I had a cigarette dangling from my lips and my muscles were sore but so exhausted it was like a massage. I arrived home three minutes later than the Google Maps path.
This was a good day. A satisfying day. Again, I have no idea why this work leaves me feeling content while office work just makes me want to strangle the incompetent with the entrails of the small men who mistake cruelty for a modicum of power. I limped out of my car. I limped up the stairs. I limped to the computer and then limped to bed. I didn't sleep. I just laid there smiling. Well, back to the dead beat life tomorrow.