The 110 freeway runs through the heart of L.A.
It's one of the best places in town
to get cut off or yelled at or tailgated
or flipped "the bird".
Competition is fierce.
I was an insurance adjuster once,
a truly unremarkable job.
I was driving along the 110
on my way to an assignment, a burglary
at a business with a very generic name,
something like "Acme Industrial" when
just like clockwork,
some guy is right up my ass,
yelling, face all twisted up.
I don't speed up.
I don't move over.
Screw him.
I'm not in his hurry.
The tailgater drove past me
and, as expected,
flipped me the bird.
I flipped him one back.
We exchanged F.U.'s
and he was on his way,
tailgating someone else up ahead.
I reached the jobsite and parked.
Still a little frazzled from the freeway,
I entered through the back door.
I stopped in the doorway,
my eyes adjusting to the darkness.
Three grim-faced men in white smocks looked at me.
One was rolling out a corpse on a stainless steel gurney.
The second was transferring another body
from a gurney to a platform
which slid into an oven,
the interior glowing
a searing an angry orange
like a portal to hell.
The third was sifting ashes
in what looked like a cookie pan
near the side door of the furnace,
chopping it up into a fine powder.
Other corpses were lined up,
half a dozen or so,
at the rear of the room,
waiting their turn.
It dawned on me that I was in a crematorium.
I felt an impulse to turn and go back outside
when one of the men spoke.
"Can I help you?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm here about . . . the burglary.”
“Oh, you need to talk to George. I'll get him for you."
He left me alone with the corpses
and the other two men
who solemnly returned to their work.
An old woman with wispy, gray hair
lay naked several feet away.
Her pale blue eyes were dry and vacant
like dusty glass ornaments.
Somebody's mother, I thought,
somebody's wife.
I turned away and asked the other two men,
"Do you guys ever get used to this?"
"Yeah," one of them said,
“After a while, it's just another job."
The man came back and said "George will be right out"
then rolled the wispy-haired woman to the oven door.
I’d seen enough.
I went outside and stood in the sunlight.
George came out and we talked business.
When we were done,
I asked him about his job,
if it ever bothered him.
He told me the same thing -
"You get used to it."
I asked him how.
I had to know.
I had a feeling I might need to.
He said, "It's not really a matter of how.
It's like being a cop or a soldier.
You either turn your mind off or you go nuts."
A few minutes later, I was back on the 110,
heading back to the office when
just like clockwork,
some guy is right up my ass,
yelling, face all twisted up.
I sped up,
moved over,
and let him drive on past.
Adding your comment:
anyway... thanks for this
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