—Just made me drink milk ’till I puked, made me puke again, made me keep drinking milk. She thought that’d get rid of the burning inside my mouth, and I guess she was right; I remember I was all swollen up for a week after, though. I mean, I could breathe, but I couldn’t eat for shit. (Pause) And I still hate fucking milk.
—So you’re working as a cleaner . . .
—Yeah. And I started my own service, right, ’cause I thought why not? I’m bonded, got a good record, so getting the licenses was easy enough. So, my third or fourth appointment, when I’m just settling into it—this guy was a lawyer, and he used to drink 24/7. Never a hair out of place, but you could smell it on him the minute you walked in, like he slept in a bathtub full’a vodka. Now, his regular day was Thursday, but when I come in, first thing I find out is he’d shot himself sometime the previous Friday.
So I call the cops, call the family; the M.E. comes and fixes time of death, means and method. It’s not a crime scene, ’cause no crime’s been committed; guy just checked out with this big-ass hunting rifle he kept in the closet, and the force of the thing was so heavy his whole skull sort of exploded, shot like ninety percent of his brain out the top of his head onto the carpet he was lying on and the wall behind. And he stinks. And the family are freaking out, A) ’cause they loved the guy and oh my God how could he do a thing like this, we never knew and blah blah blah, but B) ’cause they own the building, and they think they’re never gonna rent the place out after this.
So I said: “I could do it.” And they let me. And I did.
—How?
—Dumb fuckin’ luck, mainly, ’cause I did not know what I was getting into. First off, you got brain dried hard on everything, and when brain dries it’s just like epoxy or shit. Didn’t have time to find someplace to buy the kind of disposable haz-mat suits we wear now, with a breather and everything, so I did the whole thing in about three layers of clothes—some sweats, a pair of overalls, a big jogging suit over that, plus rubber boots and dishwashing gloves and a big scarf wrapped around my head. Thought I was gonna melt away in the heat, and I had to burn it all afterwards, anyway.
So I went at the brain with a snow scraper I had out in the truck, and I got most of it that way; used a bristle-brush on the rest, and about ten bottles of industrial bleach. I had to sand the floor and varnish it over, but the fact he did it on the rug made it a little better than if he’d done it, say, in bed, or what have you. Bed’s a motherfucker to clean if you even can, which most times you just can’t.
When I was done, though, it was the craziest thing, ’cause it basically looked exactly like it’d always been supposed to look that way. Like he was never there at all.
—Was that why you kept doing it?
—A hundred to five hundred an hour is why I keep doing it. You get me?
—Absolutely. (Pause) Pretty high equipment costs, I guess, though.
—Eh. Not when you buy in bulk, so much: Suits, chemicals, what have you. Or the brain machine.
—The “brain machine”?
—Oh yeah, it’s cool: This big truck-mounted steam-injector thingie. Whenever we have a job that looks like it’s gonna take all day, we bring the brain machine in and it just melts all the crap up and sucks it into a tank, like gettin’ dirt out of a rug. And that’s a real fuckin’ life-saver.
No, the all-star pain in the ass is paying for time on the medical waste incinerator, because the guys running that thing make you pay a big extra fee unless you’ve got at least a hundred pounds of shit to burn, minimum. So these days, we have to keep the waste on ice out at the warehouse ’till we’ve got enough for a trip—and that can get seriously disgusting. (Pause) You’re not using my name, right?
—No, just like we discussed. Total anonymity.
—Then I’ll tell you this much: First year or so, I used to take it down the dump, torch it myself. To keep us in the black ‘till we built up a regular client-base. I remember one time, this serious de-comp job—chick was so slimy, she was practically jelly. So I spent about two hours out there throwing plastic bags full of maggots on the fire, and those things, when they go up? They sound just like . . . popcorn.
—Uh-huh. (Pause) You started out using bleach—what kind of chemicals do you use now? Special stuff?
—Ancient Chinese Secret, buddy ruff. No, look, seriously—we’re selling that information over the website now, in Start Your Own Business FAQ-packs that go fifty bucks a pop. So what do you think: Am I gonna give it away to you for free? Please. We’re doin’ fine; I don’t need the PR that much.
—Granted.
—It’s a going concern, crime-scene cleanup. You know? And there’s two reasons for that—well, three. Number one: Firepower. Number two: Drugs, ’cause drugs’ll make you think and do some crazy fuckin’ things. And number three . . . people are just a lot more alone than they used to be. No family, no friends. Nobody to give a shit. Even in the same building, the people you see every day—you think they’re gonna give a shit if you go missing? Most they’ll be doing is sitting around going: Jeez, haven’t seen Mrs. So-and-so for a while. ’Till the bugs start comin’ down through their ceiling. (Pause) And then they’ll call me.
So. That it?
—Um, no . . . (Pause) What—what would be the weirdest job you ever did, in your opinion?
—You mean messiest?
—I mean weirdest.
—It’s all weird. (Pause) But you’re talkin’, like . . . “psychic fragments”-type weird. Right?
(Pause)
— . . . well, yes.
(Pause)