The station

I woke up today. My room was dark, but for small lines in the form of cheap blinds letting the sun in. My ceiling still had dust on it. My blanket still smelled like shit. When I woke up, I knew my place, and what was expected.

I got dressed. My shirt was black, a frilly handout my work gave all girls. Standard slacks complimented my bottom. The outfit shrilly exclaimed "Don't look at me, unless you really, really, really, need help." Otherwise, ignore me.

When I get there, I see the men. They're overweight, wearing the cheery getup work gave to them. Black button-downs, and slacks.

9:30 = clock in. I gave the old Shirley at the desk my ID, and she gave me a list of assignments for the day. The paper she printed them on was a strange yellow. Or maybe it was just the light.

I walked into the locker room. 16-17-18 Ah, old locker, smelling of formaldehyde, and pickled cleaning agents. I took out a plastic suit, complete with head covering. Don't want to get an STD do we? I look at item number one on the paper. "Street 15 D, 3540 Stone Rock train station".

My company car is blue. It's a small Taurus, with a tape deck. Which is okay by me. Some Old scratchy Pearl Jam gets me in the mood. I smelled more cleaning agents, neutralizing bases and acids. Things that can really Cut the grime.

I arrive at the train station, with the conductor nervously awaiting me. They always wait. Take a good look at the "maintenance man". But it doesn't bother me. I'd wait too, if I'd never seen something like me. "What do you need done?" I try to sound light, because a lacking sense of humor doesn't bode well with my job. The conductor didn't look like your normal ole'-man-conductah. He had a brown goatee, where as his eyebrows were red. Strange. "I spoke to the man on the phone about the- the situation." He said, feeling uncomfortable as he whispered it. I could feel the sweat coming down his neck. "Which train car is it?" I asked, helping him along. I can understand not wanting to re-visit a situation. "43" He looked down as he said it. I put my hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't your fault." Mandatory words. True words.

It's interesting, to be underneath a train. You can see the inner workings, and you can get a scare from the chance of it starting up while under it. I always start jobs like this underneath, because it tells the story. As I put on my glove, and my plastic head covering, I piece it together.

His name was Mark. He was frustrated with life. I don't know the details, I never do. He jumps from the train platform. He didn't plan on jumping. He was on his way somewhere. To his grandmother's, somewhere relaxing. If he had made it there alive, he would have resolved his crisis enough to live the rest of his life. But he jumped instead. He must have had short legs, because he got caught underneath. The workings of the train were scalding hot, melting his skin. Let me get that scraper. The wheels of the train were pleasantly choo-cooing; if he screamed, no one heard him. They pinched off his jeans. Evidence= bonus check. The forward motion of the train must have kept him pinned up. Because that's were most of him is. His head isn't there, though. The fuzz must have removed that already.

There's puss on the bottom, or is it vomit? Where's the good cleaner...? Yes, vomit, and I can see he was conscious most of the way. There are some nail scratches. Can't get that off. His hand was there, something the coppers must have missed. The index finger was pinched between those friendly choo-chooing wheels. I got the hand in a bag, all except for the index. It just wouldn't go.

When I clean things like this, I give myself 2 minutes to think about the person who died. Then, I think of everything else. Anything else. Cleaning things like this is real. It's necessary, and not one person I've ever met has ever thought about it. Who will clean me up if I blow my head off? Well, the body goes to the PD, those assholes. I have to clean the wood. I have to incinerate your brains. The blood, the family, is all put into my care. The Family. When the family sees me, they think I'm cold. But they don't see how vital that is to my job. I must be cold. Be cold, or be cleaned.