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.
