The Graveyard Worker

Daniel Pino

		On first hire, labor came across a weathered fellow. Worn and apparently old, who in all good advice told my novice this is no real job, and to go back to school. He might’ve been a sailor in the back of the eighteenth century. After seven years, he still looks the same. A cohort of his admitted, matter of fact, that they were both going downhill fast. But one item of eerie talent which no age or health could wrestle away—his ability to look at weights and pickups and know how all tangibles should be correctly loaded.
The winter’s dead concrete slab occasionally sweats and is solid reminder to those walking here … of safety, dry warmth, and the importance of a day’s sleep. Unmentioned proof, that this nocturnal style, and every year worked along these drab lines may shave another two off a long lost life, a clean cut of hung meat.
	At 130 pounds per tombstone, you watch your back. Combine whenever possible, and work whatever lay available until last, when everything else is done. Move them in slow care to and from the same addresses and sic-codes. Avoid claims and breakage, since these aren’t items to be ordered twice, or waited upon for delivery two weeks past due. So the next time you’re handed a book of toys, portal publications, or windward silks, remember what’s worse, and go grab a cart or two to get busy.
	A couple of old signs hang on the entryway fence. One claimer, that smoking is known to cause cancer in or to California, or something like that. Another advertises that sleeper teams are always needed. Lately, numbers are written down if anything enters and leaves the yard. Along the west end runs a flimsy fence, barbed wire up high, some brick and leaning planks. On the other side is a black spread of land, watershed, dirt ecology, and bottles. Owls, mice, snakes, and cats wander under and over this tine and mortared vault. They change the topic of conversation. Some here rumor to have overheard those of corporate will one day also use this land. But for now, it is still only held as investment/asset, insurance for future needs, perhaps expansion.
	Del Paso Road is a quiet, infrequent street, a corridor dark and ugly, outlet to ticketed events or challenge to adolescents with new cars. A lit and well-traversed northgate isn’t any better. 
	Prattle floats about the well-placement of work on graves. One quick lesson is to tune out surrounding issues, mixes of unnatural habitations, those who hold in earnest to skeletons in coffins.

Lamplight, cocktails in the morning.