There Is Still Justice In The World.

It is Thursday, a.k.a. "Monday Morning". Recent discrepancies as a direct result of my carelessness and inattention to detail while filling out my paperwork as a direct result of my complete disinterest in the unvarying routine of my job have directly resulted in a mandatory retraining on this fine morning. I. Do. Not. Give. A. Fuck. So what if I didn't mark that they had their eyes ripped out by the donor bank? Take a look. See those bloody wads of gauze stuffed into the eye sockets there, the ones with wide X's of cloth tape holding them in? That means their fucking eyes are gone. Just as the middle finger is the universal sign for, "Hey friend, welcome!", the universal sign for, "I DON'T HAVE ANY FUCKING EYES" is two (2) bloody wads of gauze with wide cloth tape X's over them. Take a look, it's in a book, of Bleeding Rainbow.

So here I am. My manager is really trying to mask his disappointment in me not being a "company" man, and is trying to give me a real pep talk to get me back on the winning team. Please refer to Article 35, Paragraph 1, Line 5. I. Do. Not. Give. A. Fuck.

The volume of calls stacking up one on top of another lately has caused me to abandon my routine of careful inspection and adopt a new policy of hasty removal.

Paperwork.
Bag.
Zip.
Go.
Oh, and by the way, sorry, uh, whatever their name is dead. Ok, see ya.

I'm sorry, but if you want to run a funeral service like an understaffed fast food restaurant, including equivalent pay, then by all means, do it. But be prepared to suffer the consequences. That is, after all, why you have insurance.

So today I am to stay at the office and assist the cremationist in checking bodies prior to interment. This entails locating the paperwork in the "TO CREMATE" bin, locate the body in the cooler, match the tag, the paperwork and the name in our cooler log up, log the body out, erase it from the dry erase board next to the cooler, inspect the body for any personal belongings such as jewelry or other effects, review the paperwork notes to determine whether or not to cremate the items with the individual, prepare a cremation tray, roll the body into the retort, set to 450 degrees for approximately 20 minutes and apply direct flame until crisp.

There are four bodies for cremation this morning. Two wrapped in plastic on the shelf in the cooler, two more on "Church Trucks" in cremation caskets. One casket is grey, the other is brown wood-print cardboard. This one is going first.

Name: Patrick Sunter
D.O.D.: 4-29-10
Weight: 285
Disposition: Cremation
Notes: Do not return to family
Funeral Establishment: (Omitted)
Received From: Oregon State Penitentiary

Stop.

Now my interest is piqued. It could be anything in that brown box. Anyone. With new interest in this training session, I wheel the brown wood-print box into the loading and push it over to the first empty retort. I remove the lid and take inventory. The man inside the box is obese. Caucasian male. Mid to late 40's. I look for tattoos. There are none. No group affiliation. I look the body over. No earrings. Holy sweet mother of God, what have we here? On the left side of his face there is a laceration about 3/8" wide, 1/2" deep and approximately 6" long. Severe bruising. Disfigurement. Cha-ching. I continue to inspect the body. Next I look under the shirt. Holy sweet mother of God, what have we here again? Large bruises on the abdomen and rib cage. Footprints. Boot prints rather, very distinct. The waffle pattern is clearly visible. My gears are turning. Having spent some fair amount of time in three separate institutions myself, I know that overweight, middle-aged to elderly white males with no group affiliation usually do not die of natural causes behind bars. In fact, they are usually murdered because they're fucking pedophiles. I do not realize I'm staring at the dead body in front of me until my manager comes in. "Hey," he says, "I know what you're thinking, but it's not our job to pass judgment. We have to reserve our biases and give everyone the same dignity." A cigarette would be great right now. "It's not that," I say. There is long silence. I think about what this man may have done to have earned this departure. I can see it in my head as though I am right there.

Papers are easy to come by in any institution. Every decent convict will check up on everyone that rolls through the gate. I can see him coming in. Probably not into general population. No, scum like this would have gone to protective custody. Maybe he never made it. Maybe someone got to him there. Either way, everyone on the tier saw it coming. It's amazing how much people don't see when things need to be taken care of. Books become more interesting. Art is more important. Sinks get cleaned, beds get made, letters get sorted and push-ups suddenly become priority numero uno. While this happens, one or two will catch the individual in a blind spot, in the toilet, in the shower or in their own cell. In instances when a certain target refuses to leave their house or is in another unit you can push a med kite and have the person sent to the infirmary. You can catch them on the way there. Wherever, whenever, however it happens, nobody sees anything. Even if they're watching, nobody sees.

"It's not that," I say. There is long silence. "It's just good to see that there is still justice in the world." "I know what you mean," says my manager as he nods his head. He turns and leaves and I continue to stand there for a moment looking on. Not everyone in the world gets what they deserve, but when they do, it's something to celebrate.

There is still justice in the world.