Three Feet Under

Today I was pulled off burial duty to help Frog with the headstones. Darrell is cheap, and won't secure any contracts for lawn care or stone setting, so the 6 man crew has more work on their hands than any 20 men can comfortably handle. Since there is no contract for stone-setters, Frog has taken the responsibility, since he's the only guy with any masonry experience. Since the stones weigh about 260 lbs. a piece, I'm there for support.

Frog is an interesting guy. He's a former US Army Special Forces guy, and now he rides with an unnamed motorcycle gang (probably Hell's Angels or the Pagans, I'm not sure which). Although most of the stuff that comes out of Frog's mouth is more than likely fabricated, I'm beginning to think he's the most honorable and trustworthy guy here. This isn't an insult, he is a genuinely good person.

During my first few days with Frog, I was unable to figure him out. Now I know that he is in his mid-to-late forties, is about 260 lbs, has a 16 year old son, larger than him, who can bench-press 420 lbs, and does not get along with his wife much anymore. I can tell this bothers him; he told me how she plans on leaving after his son graduates from highschool. He talks about the people he killed during his duty (not in any major wars), and he has PTSD. He has chronic sleep apnea, night terrors as a result of PTSD, his back was broken in 16 places, he had a nail pierce his eyeball, double knee replacement, he allows strangers to live in his home out of the kindness of his heart (one lived with him for three years and then stole $3,000 and he never saw the guy again), he put three children through college (they don't appreciate him, they only send him cards on his birthday and for the holidays), he is an "enforcer" in whatever club he is a member, he can "fight 5 guys at a time," he snorts Jack Daniels through his nose for a quicker buzz, he's been shot at on the job twice, and shot once during active duty, he once fell from a helicopter and snapped his tibia, only to tie the leg to a stick and finish out the mission, and, no shit, he claims to have killed a man with a toothpick. I'm sure I'm missing countless other little facts on the renaissance man known as "Frog."

Today we had an unusual amount of bikers ride by the cemetery, met by Frog's suspicious eyes. One biker parked in the front lot, by the cremation section where we were working. As he walked up Frog leaned on his shovel and let it be known that "if he starts shootin', get down." The man approached us and kindly asked where his dead father was buried. Frog pointed him in the direction of the stone with designated ID number and the nice older gentleman was on his way. Frog informed me that the way the man was walking gave away the fact that he was packing heat. I think the man was just old, but I'll never know.

We miscalculated the measurements of our holes today. The headstones are supposed to be placed a few inches behind the already buried Urns, but Hank mistakenly drove the 5 foot drill through Benjamin Davis's ashes. The Urn is supposed to be three feet under ground, and the headstone holes are supposed to be drilled down 24 inches, which should prevent this from happening, but whoever buried the Urn (Steve-o) may have been a bit lazy that day. We quickly filled the hole back up and re-dug where it belonged. As far as I'm concerned, it never happened.

Tomorrow I'll be back in the burial section, where we have a disinterment arriving from another cemetery. I assume that it is being moved so that it is closer and more convenient for the family. The foreman, Tom, advised me that the casket has been in the ground for more than 5 years, and if there is any "seepage," to not go near the unearthed casket. Otherwise, if the body is still un-thawed, we'll be good to go.

One Way Out

Some mornings seem to be more slow-going than others; the crew arrives by 8am, but sometimes we don't get going until 8:30. I've been here for a few weeks now, so I'm getting acquainted with the way things work a bit better. After sitting in the breakroom for 5-20 minutes, Brock and I usually head down to the Interment Shelter to set up for the day.

The shelter is where the services take place for the deceased vets' families. If it's a cremation, the van will take the Urn after the service to Steve-o, who takes care of the cremation section (section 1). If there is a casket, I drive the van down to the shelter with Spavetta to pick it up and transport it to section 6 (full burials), where we drop the casket into its designated, pre-dug cement crypt. Mike O, or "O" for short, is the funeral "rep." He leads the funeral procession to the shelter, and after the service uses a plastic tie wrap to attach an ID marker to the Urn/Casket. The ID marker contains the Name of the deceased, burial section, and four digit ID number which matches up with the designated cement crypt in which the casket will reside within the next 15-20 minutes.

The cemetery only contains two sections, 1 and 6, because it is newly opened. We are rapidly expanding.

I drive the van, with Spavetta in the passenger seat. Spavetta isn't allowed to drive because a few days ago he put the large metal claw of a back-hoe through the glass windshield of the forklift. Spavetta, who I mentioned in my previous post as a possible borderline autistic, turns out to be former muscle for the Italian mafia. The more I find out about Spavetta, the more sorry I feel for him. First impression, he's slow mentally and physically, looking for any excuse to get out of work. He takes two hours spraying off metal temporary ID markers and sweeping floors, or will take an entire day washing vehicles that will only be filled with dirt the very next day.

It turns out Spavetta, now 50, was a former hitman for the mob. What he lacks between the ears, he more than makes up for in brute strength. He's solid as an ox. About 6'3'' and powerful. I saw him move a 500 lb. casket by himself because he stubbed his toe and became angry. He lifted the casket and easily did what 4 people were attempting. He is slow. Apparently, right before he left the mafia, for whatever reason, he was beaten so badly that his head was never the same. He's on countless medications for diabetes and most likely to keep his mood repressed. And seeing the way the rest of the guys pick on him, I would be far away on the day Spavetta misses a pill and kills Frog with a shovel.

But I'll get to the rest of the guys as time goes on. One thing I noticed during my few weeks is the disconnect between the cemetery's administration and the grounds crew. Darrell, the cemetery director, is infamous, as in not one person has a nice thing to say about him. It seems that he is oblivious to this, because he still shows his ignorant smiling face every day. He is oddly shaped, with a turkey neck that seems to wobble even when he's standing still, which I know must just be my eyes playing tricks on me. He has hair plugs which are gelled back across his still very visible scalp and a clean mustache. He wears nice silk shirts and tells me that he "knows" because he's worked "in the field" too. He's never done a real day's manual labor in his life. He has a degree in horticulture. And now he's the director of a national cemetery. He asks impossible things of us, demands that we set 12 headstones a day, when he denied funding for a machine that digs the holes for the headstones. We have to dig those holes by hand, which takes a day in itself. We are backed up beyond belief with people crying because there is a little plastic marker, clumsily pushed into the earth where their patriotic, God-fearing relative now rests in peace. Darrell refused to turn the sprinklers off at section 1, which is still under construction, and now looks like a swamp or mud pit even on sunny days. My boots sink into the ground, we slip as we try to carry dead bodies, trudging through inch thick mud.

So far my time here has been eye-opening. More tomorrow.

Welcome to the Boneyard

"Welcome to the boneyard, kid."

Hank wears a devilish grin, and stares straight through me. First impression, he's a crazy sonofabitch. Older, 63, and covered in tattoos. He's bald and wears a white goatee, and he's not a big guy by any means; he's 5'9'' or 8'' even, and there's a kindness in his looks that likely came with age and experience.

I come to "the boneyard," which in this case refers to a certain National Cemetery, as a student looking for some extra money. Being a government employee has some great benefits, namely 20/hr with plenty of overtime at time and a half. Working at a cemetery is not something I'd ever figured I'd be doing, but I must say, it's an experience. The business of death is one not unlike most other businesses.

The first day at the boneyard is symoblic; it is gray and raining lightly, enough for us to don our full rain gear. My first burial is typical for the rest of the crew, obviously, as they're chatting about their weekends, the engines in their trucks, and illustrating in great detail the things they'd do to the woman in the white sweatshirt and tight black pants across the field, about 300 feet away. I can't really even make her out very well from this distance, but Frog still seems to, flowers in hand, looking down at a white marble slab set in fresh mud.

The van arrives at the gravesite. We set up the lowering device before its arrival. We help roll the casket out of the van and place it on the straps, centered above the open crypt, in which James McCallister's lifeless body will rest for eternity (or at least the foreseeable future). Hank flips the clutch and farts as the casket begins to slowly, very slowly, descend. The process requires four of us, as there needs to be two at the head of the casket and two at the feet, and we handle straps to direct the casket as it falls. Hank, Brock and Frog talk about the Phillies as I look out across 200 acres of grass, under which lies empty cement tombs ready for the bodies of people whom have not died yet. I watch as we clumsily center the casket, lifting it at the bottom of the cement crypt with our straps, bumping and scraping it against the walls and I almost see through the wooden door, the body bouncing left and right before the casket finally settles. I wonder if the body is still in an "agreeable" position.

The rest of the day goes by slowly. We bury a few more dead people. I meet the guys I'll be working with, though I don't really know them yet. Frog is former Army special forces. He's got PTSD, and crazy eyes... Brock is short and has about 5 teeth. He's a recovered drug addict, and he's recently had a stroke. The guys don't like him very much, from what I see, it's because he keeps mostly to himself. Spavetta may be borderline retarded. The guys say it's due to his medication. All I know is that he referred to me as a sweet potato, and I can't understand half the things he says. Steve-o is about 26. He worked on a submarine in the Navy as a cook for 5 years, and now he's here. He's addicted to pain medication.

There's a few other guys with whom I've not yet had the pleasure of getting acquainted. But there's plenty of time for that, and I have a feeling not one of them will be uninteresting.